The Manhattan Project II

[Five_X]

And more feels here - this chapter was also hard to write, just because there's no happiness in it. Th-there's going to be some happiness soon, r-right? ;__;

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CHAPTER CXXVI

March 13^th, 1963


The drive down to Richmond was long and silent, but for James those three hours passed in the blink of an eye.


James and his uncle Eli rattled down the road in the old truck, stalked the whole way by a hearse they had hired. James kept his eyes on the road, not once falling asleep, not once looking back. It all felt so surreal to him, like he was being brought to a whole different world entirely - for the span of a few months, James felt that his whole life had been nothing but Washington, those months stretching on into countless years. When he came to Richmond he was an old man, weary of everything.


Though he had grown up in and around the state of Virginia, the scenery that passed him by was foreign, like the landscape and monuments of another country entirely. None of it seemed familiar to him, and he had no recollection of having ever been on this road before.


He wanted to go back - this wasn't where he belonged; he should be in Washington, because his mind was still in the war. It would always be in the war.


Eventually they reached Richmond, James having experienced the whole journey as though in a dream. He had to convince himself that this was real, that he was living this very moment in time. Perhaps this and the day before had all been some trick Assassin had brought on him, just like before; a ploy to confuse him, to weaken his resolve, to get him to abandon his convictions. What was real, and what was not? In some ways, he could barely tell anymore. Things he had taken for granted in his childhood - cities, the countryside, the streets he walked along - all bore no resemblance to anything he could recall, as if the city itself had been torn away and rebuilt from the very ground up.


He wondered, too, if there were any Servants or Masters here. Surely if he left Washington, then so could they – if he stepped out of the truck, who would truly be waiting for him?


He pictured Assassin, and Ardem, and Francois; he shivered as the door opened.


It was nothing he had noticed, but the truck had come to a full stop, right at the foot of a long, sloping hill. He leaned over in his seat and glanced out the window, seeing at the top of that hill rows of trees, and a white estate. It was nothing like Eleanor's mansion, but the acreage was vast, covering fields and forests for as far as James could see.


This was his family's estate, a fine building scratching the edge of modesty.


Not a summer home, yet not a permanent residence, James remembered one thing: his mother had been living here for the past few months, their home near Arlington too dangerous during the war.


That was the precaution they had taken - a smart one, but it didn't take into account the true reason why the war was so dangerous, so devastating.


That reason became apparent when four men strolled solemnly up the pavement, carrying the coffin along. It was just a plain, polished wooden box - there was little to distinguish it save for something carved on the face of it that looked to be a crest or symbol of some kind. When James saw that, he didn't even need to think for a moment to know who was in that coffin, and it struck him again, nearly paralysing him as he tried to step down from the truck.


His uncle had opened the door for him, and was waiting to help him out, just as though he was still a kid. It had been years since they last saw each other; James felt the weight of all those years, realizing that most of his relatives had last seen him when he was still years away from being a man, not yet out of school.


The air here on the outskirts of Richmond was warmer than Washington, and the sky less full of clouds; some snow had brushed the landscape here, but patches of green grass could be seen sprouting up amidst the blanket of uneven white.


At once James didn't want to be here, but his heart told him that he had to see his mother; it felt like years since he had seen her, too.


In front of him at the foot of the hill, was a long, trimmed hedgerow; carved into it was an archway through which the pallbearers had walked, then James' uncle, then James himself, following the small procession. Up the hill went the paved path, lined with cobblestones and planted gardens, offering a more breathtaking view of the fields and vales below when James paused and looked back.


As he trudged further up the hill, his legs aching as though he had run for miles, he could see the black crowd growing. Dresses and suits, all seeming tailored to this one day, were interspersed amongst round tables set out for some kind of reception.


It was astonishing, in a way, how quickly this had been put together; James knew his family had money and relatives and connections, but it had been barely more than three hours since his uncle had called the estate to tell the family of the tragic news. To have a gathering of this size, all catered for, set up as though it had been prepared days in advance, perhaps spoke to the importance of Abraham Hawthorne amongst his friends and his community. However, it was still clear that most of the people here had only recently arrived, their cars and trucks parked all the way down the long country road.


James was awed in his own way, but as he walked through the scattered groups of people he felt more and more alienated. This was not where he belonged.


Even in his current state he felt criminally under-dressed, only wearing a black button-up shirt and matching dress pants; he had no proper shoes to speak of, instead wearing black sneakers, and had borrowed a wrinkled tie from his uncle. It was shameful to him, but at the same time he wasn't here to make a point. His father had died, and he had all of fifteen minutes to get ready and leave. Was he expected to find closure in a single day?


The crowd had respectfully split into halves as the pallbearers passed. Conversations of all sorts had been alive between the assorted guests, but now there was not even a murmur.


Everyone stood, organized and stiff like chess pieces along either side of the pathway as the coffin was taken past them, as though to remind them all of why they were here.


James wasn't interested in them, and he had seen enough reminders of his father's death; he glanced left and right, looking only for his mother, now. Unfortunately for him, once the coffin and its attendants had passed by into the field behind the house, everyone's attention turned to him, starting with just one man - some distant relation James couldn't even recognize - spotting him and saying his name. Then, the rest of the crowd followed, surrounding him like some celebrity. This was true, in a sense: he was the man of the house now, the head of the whole Hawthorne family, his father's own born-and-raised successor.


"I hope the war is going well, you're a brave boy," said one elderly woman, a grand-aunt who had likely last seen James before he could even walk or talk.


"James, you're a soldier now, just like your pa. We're all proud of you." This in particular was said, with a few variations, by at least a few people, their voices all unfamiliar and indistinct.


How many dozens of relatives and friends were here? James didn't know, and he didn't want to know. The crowd around him made the air stale and hot, his tie putting pressure on his neck as though it was constantly tightening, choking him. His face was turning pale, his head light, nausea rising deep in his stomach up to his throat.


"Who have you met so far? Trust me, boy, this is an experience like no other - make every moment of it count!" That irritated James even more, but he had to keep his composure, knowing that these people expected him to talk and act in a very specific way; he was the head of the family, and he couldn't show himself to lack composure, despite any thoughts that were running through his head.


One man, a few inches taller than James and with a thick, grey-streaked beard, held him by the shoulders, wearing a great big grin on his lips.


"Now James, my boy, you're becoming a man! You've got to give all those other bastards a what-for, and show them why we've got the greatest damned country there is! They're Europeans, most of them, and they've got to learn there's nothing left over there. The future's with the United States of America, my boy, and I tell you there can be no wrong in loving your country like we in this family always have. I hope you'll be a proud American like your father was, rest his soul."


Perhaps less than to mourn Abraham, they were here to celebrate James. To them, his father's death was an opportunity for new things, the start of a whole new generation. After the funeral, when the war was over, there would be his confirmation as the head of the family - there would be another celebration for that - and eventually James would be expected to get married - bringing with it yet another ceremony, with yet more celebration. And then children would come along.


This was the life James was saddled with, knowing full well that everyone around him had all these expectations for him, despite not knowing who he really was and what he had gone through.


As he smiled and mouthed 'thank you' to the heavyset man, stepping past him, another seemed considerate enough to console James, offering his condolences for his father's death.


"It's sad your father died when he did," the man said. "You had better get revenge on the Reds for this, because you know how they are. And if you come across an Englishman, make sure he knows we still remember 1812, you hear?"


"I sure will," responded James, trying to sound proud of himself.


A woman, a family friend's wife, asked him, "Have you met any Russians yet?" And then she added, suggestively, "You know, I have a daughter around your age, and she'd be thrilled to meet you."


"Not yet," James said to her, smiling and pretending she hadn't said anything about a daughter.


At the funeral there was the unrelenting crowd, and then there was James; it seemed only he understood what had gone on during the war. To everyone else it was some kind of festivity, a trial, like a coming of age. James had to pass through it in order to be a man, and he frowned every time someone called him 'son' or 'my boy' before seguing into a question about what it was like fighting in the war – though they could never truly understand the vastness of it.


This was a funeral, yet no one seemed to remember that, making this about James and his experiences. Maybe this was to be expected, just as he'd shown up, as they'd had plenty of time to talk about his father.


Now he was starting to feel glad he hadn't brought Saber along to this.


Questions barraged him from either side, from all around, as he tried to get to the front door of the house, wanting only to see his mother. He had taken Abraham's death hard; he could only imagine what kind of state his mother was in. James didn't deserve this day to be about him - it was his father's day, to remember the life he had lived, and how everyone could learn a little from him.


Yet, for what seemed like hours, James trudged through the crowd, feeling more disconnected from these people than he ever knew he could.


None of this seemed half as real as the war did; in the war everyone and everything happened genuinely, yet here the people seemed so unaware of things that to James it all felt fake. How could they not understand what he had gone through? Why did they think it was right to ask him about how many people he'd fought, looking at him with stern eyes as they asked him what they thought would be 'serious' questions, and then laughing as they quipped about communists and Europeans, like they were some vast, broad groups that could be referred to with a few common bywords.


To James the people he had met in the war, even those he had fought so hard against, felt closer to him than anyone at this funeral.


He could not relate to these people, completely disconnected from everything they said and asked. They could not understand, and unless they were there in the war, they would never understand, looking in at James' life from the outside, not seeing things from his perspective, considering what he had experienced. They talked about what they believed to be true, what they wanted to hope for, not knowing how complicated the truth of the war was.


And most of all, they could not grasp the depth of tragedy and misery that it involved.


James reached out to open the door just as the crowd dispersed back into their previous conversations; it fell open before him, and standing there he saw his mother, holding back tears.


He collapsed into her arms, and she closed the door.


This whole house stirred up old memories of the time he had spent here in the summers when he was young, but now it seemed so strange - it was like looking at a childhood home that a new family had since moved into and made their own. His heart tensed up when he looked at the sofa and the kitchen, remembering that they were the same as he recalled, but the colour of the wallpaper, the new shelves, a smaller table; all of that and more was different, and the little things stood out to him, making this entire place very much not his own.


He could never forget his mother, however, and he held her tight, his big arms wrapping all around her. He was tall enough now that he had to lean over to hug her properly, and especially now she seemed so weak, missing all the life that she used to have.


No one else knew him as she did - if no one else could feel his pain, if no one else knew what he was going through, then she would understand.


"We'll remember him always," James said, his voice a faltering whisper as tears came to his face once again.


Now he could hear his mother sobbing, too, and her slender fingers rubbed his back, consoling him while also trying to assuage her own feelings. She wished she had been there, to defend her husband; the only sliver of hope she had left was that James was still living, still the son she loved and remembered and would always be proud of.


"When I saw him off last month when he went to New York, I was already missing him. The last thing I said to him was goodbye, but... not like this," said James' mother in a hushed tone, keeping this moment between them, not letting anyone else have it.


All James had left was his mother, and all she had left was her son; with Abraham's passing there was so much missing that they both wondered if they could continue on.


Nothing could be the same as it was, and desperately James wished he could turn time backwards, saving his father - he didn't know how, but he would do it somehow.


"He told me just last night that I'd see him soon." James continued crying, feeling the warmth of his mother's tears on his shoulder. He imagined he looked just like she did, a red-faced mess of tears and emotion. So many times had he cried lately, from joy, from sadness, and from pain. Could his tears dry up, leaving no more to be shed? This morning when he saw his father he thought that they could, but now he knew that so long as life struck him with these tragedies, he would always weep over them.


Saber had spoken to him about something, once, that struck him now.


He had shut himself away, and told her hesitantly of his worries, that he wasn't a good person, that this war was making him coldhearted, cruel, and cynical of the world he lived in. They exchanged words for a while, getting nowhere as James fell further into his own despair, and then Saber said something that had stuck with him, something he couldn't forget, because at the time it was the only thing giving him hope.


She had told him that because he was so distraught, that he was crying over a woman he didn't even know and yet killed, that he was still a good person at heart. As long as he still held the capacity for that unselfish sorrow, then he could never become the man he so feared to be.


It almost made him smile, and he wondered for just a moment if he should tell his mother that he had met a woman and fallen in love; he decided not to.


This day was for mourning the loss of an incomparable man, not for James to show that he had grown as a person. He would have his own day for celebration and for happiness, but today was for sorrow and catharsis.


He remembered all the things that his father had told him, and he felt a pain in his heart, hoping that the lessons he learned from him would stay and not be forgotten.


So many times he had believed that he had grown past his flaws and become a better person, only to find it too difficult to change, regressing into who he used to be, the life he was trying to run away from. It was so easy to repent one's sins in a time of struggle and emotion, but that penitence could too easily be washed away when the good times came back again.


James' mother stepped back, looking up at him while holding his hand, as if to marvel at how he'd grown.


"You're just like he was," she said, something James had heard before, but only now could properly understand.


"I've got a lot of growing left to do, though," said James with a sigh, remembering how his father had helped him through the hard times. If he hadn't been there, where would James be now? He didn't want to think of that, not on a day like this.


His mother smiled warmly. "Most people don't realize that about themselves until it's too late."


Then, she held his hand between hers, gripping him tightly. Her expression was more stern now, the look in her eyes harder, more fierce than James had ever known it. He only saw her like this when she reprimanded him as a child, but now he curiously wondered what she had to say, silently listening.


"Part of me doesn't want you to go back to that war," she said, almost in a whisper, and James' heart jumped at this admission - he felt hope, if only for a moment. "Your father gave everything he had for you, James, and because of that you need to fight to the bitter end - it's what he would do. He's watching over you even now, you know, and you need to show him the man our son has become. It doesn't matter who tries to stop you; you need to win that war, and I know you can. No one else has suffered what you have, and because of that you deserve to win. Let them all know you're not just a man fighting for his country - you're a man fighting to honour his father's sacrifice."


James had been so hopeful, but all of that was for nothing, now. His heart fell, as though weighed down by every word his mother spoke.


He knew, now, that she was no different from the people who had done nothing but ask him questions, the guests to the funeral who had so little respect for the dead that they spoke of war and revenge before the body had even been buried.


His father wouldn't want revenge. No one should want revenge, James believed, because that could only lead to more sadness in the world. A loss is to be grieved, no matter how long it takes, but the immediate temptation of vengeance was never right. An eye for an eye would make everyone suffer eventually, because revenge truly was blind and thoughtless; James never wanted to become a thoughtless man, because if he did, then he would have learned nothing through all the trials life had tested him with.


In that moment he wished that he could explain this to his mother, and to everyone outside who had come for the funeral, but from the pride etched into her face, he could tell that she would never be swayed.


In her mind - in the minds of the relatives and friends who had gathered here - if he did not try to live up to his father's sacrifice by seeking revenge, if he did not return to the war with a senseless hatred of those who opposed him and his goals, then he was weak and unworthy of being his father's son and heir.


James wanted them to understand – he wanted this desperately, but he did not want to be weak.


Yet, this was not their war. They could never understand, not unless they were there, not unless they had to kneel in the mud and kill someone while looking them in the eyes, seeing the horror in them, that expression burned forever into his conscience. What he had seen and done in the war would never leave him for as long as he lived.


Now he felt like a far more broken man than when he had left Washington - he felt more broken because now he knew with certainty that normal life would not accept him, not as he was.


The war would end someday, however, and so he would have to settle down and live out the rest of his life. The war gave him an outlet for his feelings, and let him believe that everything he did was for some purpose. If that all slipped into the past, then how could he continue justifying what he had done to stay alive? There was nothing he deserved anymore, least of all victory in a war that had taught him all of the worst things about the world as a whole, and the people who lived in it.


It had taught him that even good people can be killers and liars if they need to be, and that trust can only lead to pain.


Despite all that, the war still beckoned to him; for within all of its cynicism and all of its hatred for life, it had a morality all its own, in which nothing could be considered good or bad. The war made all the suffering easier, because its very existence required discord and unhappiness, and it always could be relied upon to bring out the very best and very worst in everyone.


More than anything else, the war was honest - it needed no mask to cover up its ugliness.


James smiled half-heartedly at his mother, a silent promise that he would do as she asked, as all the others asked; it was a promise that he broke as soon as he made it.


Shortly thereafter the funeral began, and there was sad music and mourning as the coffin was lowered into the ground beneath a vast, sprawling oak, leaves having barely begun to return to its branches. His father would rest there forever, his grave as simple and unadorned as he would like it, having only a plain headstone with his name and the years of his birth and his death - and a small epitaph, just as simple.


James stood there after most others had left. He clutched his arm, feeling hot strikes of pain in his chest; now, however, despite everything, he did not cry. He couldn't stay long, because he knew he would have to return home as soon as he was allowed to – home to Washington, where he belonged.


He looked at the grave as though it was his own, and read the memorial on it aloud to himself, as though to engrave it into his memory.


"In loving memory of Abraham Jacob Hawthorne, devoted husband and caring father."


It made no mention of his service in the war.

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This is the 'youngest' scene in the whole story; I came up with it only a month or so ago, whereas the rest of these scenes and the general flow of the last chapters has been set in stone for years already. I realized that, to truly get across the situation James was in, I had to bring the scope of the story outside of the war, to present that perspective on things. While all kinds of horrible things can happen in the war, to really drive these things home, James himself has to be driven home. James feels alienated from the world itself, because now he fully understands that there's a real world outside of the relative fiction of the war. In the literal sense of no one believing that he fought a war with magic and heroes, there's also the metaphorical sense of him being a soldier returning from the war who does not know how to explain his feelings to people who did not experience what he went through.

One of the ideas here that's been brought up several other times in the story is that even though one person might find victory in the war, so many others lost, because there can't be two winners - but there can be far more losers, and in a war like this, to lose is simply to die. Is victory - even survival - worth that price? Anyone who wins this war will have to live with that fact, and that they were complicit with it.

[Five_X]

And here - have another! I'll post this and one more chapter today; there are only four chapters left in the whole story.

This chapter is intense, I feel, but it has a slowness to it that fits the gradual ending of things. If you think I've at all let up on you after that last chapter, then think again - this is one of the hardest, and it took me a while to write. I had half of it finished a good month or two ago, but only recently did I manage to get it all done. I'm happy that MPII is ending, but at the same time it's often very hard to let go.

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CHAPTER CXXVII

"I was hoping we would meet before this war's end," El Cid called out, pointing his single blade down towards Rostam, who stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the Lincoln Memorial.

Rostam, in turn, drew his scimitar; its edge gleamed in the midnight light, the moon illuminating the scene presented before him: the legendary Spanish knight, peerless in his virtue and his swordsmanship, challenging Persia's greatest champion to a duel, perhaps the last that either would fight. It was reminiscent of the old days, when they were free from the legacies they had yet to build.

After all, there was once a time when even heroes like Rostam and El Cid were nothing more than simple men.

Stepping up to accept the challenge, El Cid unexpectedly moved back, and Rostam cocked an eyebrow, watching him carefully. As honourable and fair as their duel might be, victory was on the line, and so neither could accept anything less than the best from themselves. Yet, one thing in particular was missing, and El Cid smiled as he recalled the last requirement of a true duel.

"My name is Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, knight of Spain, forever loyal. Tell me, what is yours?"

Rostam laughed, stroking his fingers through the thick, black hair of his beard. In Persia, anyone would recognize him with his tiger-skin cloak, and the horned helm he typically wore. Things in Christian lands, he supposed, must be vastly different.

"You should know me already," he bellowed, raising his sword up high. "I am Rostam, son of Zal, servant to the king Kay Kavus."

He bowed deeply, the wind making his cape billow in the wind. Dust kicked up around them as though brought from the deserts of Spain and Persia, so far away.

They shared a laugh, staring into each others' eyes, each waiting for their foe to make the first move. This would be a duel that would have made history, had it happened while they were alive; now it was only for their own satisfaction, but that was as good a reason as any. To die in battle was a death any knight wished for, remembering the romance of old wars. The world had changed much since then.

"Now, enough talk! Let our blades sing!" Rostam cut the air, and without any more hesitation he lunged up the marble steps of the memorial, cutting at El Cid.

Rostam was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his figure casting a dark shadow over El Cid as he manoeuvred closer to him - but El Cid was nimble and lithe, his muscles toned and sleek, more like a dancer than the warrior that was Rostam. He had strength, but against this mountain of a man, it was his mind that would win the day.

Bringing his sword down hard, El Cid struck Rostam's curved blade, and the steel rang out; both men stopped to listen to the sound, echoing across the city.

Their last duel had begun.

"If only I had my horse Babieca with me; we could take up spears and joust until the dawn!" El Cid ducked under a broad swing from Rostam, cutting upwards in retaliation, but only catching his thick cape, slashing right across it.

Smiling, Rostam nodded as fond memories returned to him. "And I my Rakhsh! Though, I fear your steed could not match the divinity of my stallion."

"Could he not?" El Cid could only laugh, knocking aside an uneven blow Rostam struck out at him. "Babieca is as strong as any Sultan's horse, and as stubborn as a German mule - don't let him fool you. That was the last mistake of too many who thought they could challenge me."

Now they were are the top of the steps, their swords almost continuously clashing and sounding out in perfect unison, as though this had all been practised beforehand, a rehearsal for the greatest act any theatre could hope for. In truth, El Cid knew how Rostam would fight; yet Rostam knew, as well, how El Cid would seek to counter him. Each step one swordsman took would be mirrored by the other, not one of them gaining ground.

"Ah... such a disappointment, then, that we're here only with swords!"

In his heart, however, Rostam was more than pleased by this, seeing how his own speed and strength were matched by El Cid - the Spaniard's tunic was turning dark and damp with sweat, his hair matted and his face slick and glistening; Rostam, too, felt beads of sweat trickle down his arms, and he was starting to feel his muscles ache from exertion.

Never before had El Cid faced such a powerful foe, a man who commanded such skill - in another time, perhaps, El Cid could have learned much from him, and grown to become an even better swordsman.

But every story that has ever been told could have ended differently; this story, too, was nearing the end that was written for it, as only one of these men could walk away alive.

Both cried out with every swing of their swords, making their way down the steps of the memorial. Sweat streamed down their faces and into their hair, but they kept on fighting, knowing that there was nothing they could find more fulfilling. This is what they dreamed of: a return to the old legends, imagining for a time that there was nothing but this. When there were so many cruelties to be found in the world, when life was full of so much tragedy, it was good to set all that aside for as long as one duel could last.

They fought for themselves, and for their lords. El Cid had Enrico, who wished to be a knight like the figures who inspired him; Rostam had Alexei, whose dreams for the world surpassed idealism, yet were so close to coming true.

They believed wholeheartedly in the missions these men struggled for, taking up their lords' causes as though they were their own, and never were they more proud to serve.

El Cid's foot scraped backwards against the ground as he touched the grass, almost slipping, but keeping himself steady.

His breaths now were shallow and ragged, like a man who had suffered a lifetime's worth of wounds, yet he had not been touched once. Rostam, too, had yet to bleed, his muscled arms bare and marked by scars from forgotten wounds, each one having its own story to tell. El Cid had not nearly so many scars, but he remembered how he got every single one.

In this duel, however, both men knew that one cut would mean death - a single thrust that clattered past a perfect defence would only lead to another, and another, until their blood spilled in a widening pool around their feet.

This was their last good fight, but neither El Cid nor Rostam knew how it might end.

El Cid was not as great a swordsman as Rostam, who had lived for hundreds of years to perfect his art. The way he wielded his scimitar was elegant despite his size and muscle; it was direct and precise, like a needle sewing thread, methodical yet flawless.

His next slash nearly cut El Cid's neck, but the man leaped back, landing with a splash in the reflecting pool that lay before the Washington Monument.

Dusk had barely settled on them when they began their duel, and now it was even darker; the light of the moon was overshadowed by the glittering obelisk standing hundreds of feet tall. Looking up at its peak was dizzying, and it made the perfect backdrop to their duel as it neared its inevitable close. The monument gleamed like ivory in the night, its silhouette rippling about in the pool's clear, motionless water, as dark as the sky above.

Now that water was being cast as El Cid danced from side to side, his footwork elegant and practised regardless of how exhausted he was becoming.

Yet each strike he tried to land was weaker than the last; the same could be said of Rostam, whose legendary strength was failing him even now. Neither man knew for how long they had been fighting; with the intensity of their clash as it was, they could have been duelling for mere minutes, or even hours. No one could be sure, and in the end it did not matter, because in the heat of the moment it felt as though the whole of their lives were passing before them - it was like nothing else in the world mattered, save for this one last duel.

With a heavy breath, El Cid brought his sword down; sparks flew out into the air, and then scattered away as he held his blade against Rostam's.

The Persian took in a deep breath, gripping his scimitar's ornate handle with both hands, lifting it up and easily pushing El Cid's sword aside as though he was barely holding it at all anymore. Both knew the end would come soon, but they were overcome with fatigue, barely able to manage a single slash or thrust or parry more.

El Cid could feel his body covered in sweat, feeling a chill overcome him as the night breezes passed him by. He felt like he would fall to his knees at any moment, but he doggedly resisted the urge.

He held Tizona up proudly, its tip aimed for Rostam's heart. In the light, it looked almost as though the sword's edge was wreathed in a white flame.

-- --

He crouched behind a tombstone, just the twin ends of his shotgun's barrels visible over the grave's marker – hardly a sterling place to hide and take cover.

The name “HENRY” was all that was etched on the weathered stone's face.

For at least an hour Nigel had been stuck like that, his breaths barely a whisper, as he kept up this stealth so that he might end the war with some self-respect left. It reminded him so much of those years he spent in Spain, hunting mages up in the Pyrenees and down in Andalusia and Melilla, his mind and his senses subconsciously returning to those days. There were memories from back then that he had wished for ages that he could bury away, but that was his family's gift and curse: memory like the proverbial elephant, knowing all, forgetting nothing.

His ears were tuned to any noise, hearing even the lightest scuffle of new spring leaves as a squirrel danced amongst a tree's branches overhead; he could hear the warm breeze that gently touched his skin, like the breaths of the earth he knelt upon.

Then there was one noise, blocking out all the others, of knocks on smooth cobblestone.

Morning was here, with the sun orange in the cloudless sky, so who would visit the chapel now, and in such a rush? Nigel almost lurched up to his feet, but stayed still and silent, waiting.

His arms felt weak, feeling the night's exhaustion, but he had to go on, just as he had for years in his father's footsteps. The man would be proud, so proud, that his son watched with a wrinkle in his brow as someone behind him – his foe – reached the chapel's door. A crack like a breaking branch resounded in the dark morning air.

Then, a lingering creak of wood interrupted the following silence as the footsteps faded away.

Just seconds later, those white doors slammed shut – perhaps too loudly – and Nigel's heart beat faster and faster as he knew now he had to move. No one ordinary was slipping into that building. Someone was there who needed something, wanted something, and was going to get it. With so many now dead, only a handful of people remained who could have any interest in who and what resided in that chapel. The war was so close to its conclusion that desperate action was only to be expected, now the rule rather than the exception.

“Damn it,” Nigel muttered aloud, the only sound he let himself make.

His back pressing against the cold stone, he lifted himself up, his old legs feeling like they'd give way beneath his weight. Those old hunting days in Spain, he'd thought, were behind him. He certainly wasn't as fit as he used to be.

Boots pressing into the soft grass, Nigel kept a low profile, watching the profile of those closed doors, as well as the windows in the walls of the chapel – anywhere someone could get through if they were in a hurry. Again, there was desperation in the air, and nothing could be ruled out as impossible any longer.

Breathing heavily, Nigel crept towards the heavy doors, knowing that he couldn't stay undetected for long. The chapel was old; it was full of groaning wood and any noise would echo.

It had to be done quick – not a moment's delay was allowable.

Nigel's whole body shuddered as he reached out and touched the cold, layered stone, so close to the door that he felt he could almost see beyond it. A similar chill came over him, and he knew this feeling all too well, pulling back at once, yet unable to look away from the chapel. He'd felt the exact same way, years ago, this anticipation building inside him. It was always the same, back when he was a hunter in Spain, keeping the peace of the magi in the region.

It was too much. He clenched a fist, wanting to beat it against the wall, trying to force himself to go back and ignore all this, to end the war.

But as much as he wanted to, this is what his life had become. He had nothing else. What if it was Enrico? That thought wouldn't leave his mind, as much as he tried, and as much as he tried he could not get away from that door. His feet wouldn't move, his arms stone-stiff, his whole body not budging from that spot.

Like years ago, he had no choice. This was the path he'd been set on.

The handles looked as though something had bound them, so tightly that the black iron was bent and scuffed - the doors had been locked, Nigel imagined, and he shook his head. Enrico was a man who would do nearly anything to achieve his goals, believing all the while that goodness would come out of it all. Even if what he did was immoral and caused so much sorrow for others, if it would ultimately make Spain great once more, then it would be worth it all.

Could he have killed James' father? Nigel shuddered as he imagined that, a thought that would not leave him. Enrico had no qualms about killing, and his kidnapping of Amelie, an innocent woman, marked a new paradigm for him.

If he could go through with that just in order to lure out Francois, then what else was he capable of in the last, desperate days of this war?

Swallowing what worries he had, he closed his eyes and pushed the battered doors open with his shoulder, holding up his shotgun with one hesitant finger resting by the trigger.

Whatever awaited him, he swore to himself that he would act immediately and decisively. He hoped, deep in his heart, that George would be waiting there as he always had, and that he could settle this all and return home, putting the war behind him as a relic of a regretful past. There were many things he wanted to forget, but he knew he would remember them forever; this time, he wanted to leave his past with some satisfaction.

He knew, though, that luck was never on his side. Something told him that there was nothing good behind these doors, but still he went forward, needing closure at last.

The lights in the chapel were all extinguished, but the barest streams of sunrise filtered through the window, filling the whole building with colour. It was a scene like out of a painting, and Nigel wanted to capture it in his mind, forever.

This was his last act of the war, and he stepped forward, confident, striding at last into a future he could be proud of, away from a past he could never return to.

He wondered if his father, in his last days, felt something similar.

The image that greeted him now, as the sun's orange light passed between the pews, was of Enrico standing over the body of a man dressed in black - George, Jourdain, the old priest.

Enrico was holding a rifle in his trembling hands, just a few short metres away from where Nigel stood. He looked over, his eyes going wide, and he began to turn to face Nigel as he stared into his eyes, the grip he had on his rifle tightening.

In that moment, myriad thoughts passed through Nigel's mind. The whole scene before him seemed to flow in slow motion, every single second an hour long. There was no sound, like a silent film stuttering in colour before him, the whole world itself suddenly muted, surreal. Nigel felt light, as though a weight was lifted from him, and he pressed the stock of his shotgun tight against his shoulder, bringing its double barrels to bear right over Enrico's heart.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled both triggers at once; two cracks, louder than anything Nigel had ever heard, rocked the chapel – and its whispered echo sounded out across the hill. His shoulder was numb, now, and his vision was clouded as though smoke had filled the building.

He smelled gunpowder on the air, breathing it in deeply, and then could see clearly once more.

Enrico stared at him, unblinking, his hand clutched to his chest where a deep, red stain had formed on the front of his white shirt.

His rifle fell from his loosening grip, clattering on the ground, useless to him now. Yet, he didn't make a move to grasp it again as he tried to step towards Nigel, sputtering out blood. With every beat of his heart he could feel the life draining from him, blood pouring out onto the hardwood; he moved forward, and then stumbled down, his body striking the floor with a dull thud that seemed to barely make a noise, drowned out by the continuing echo of the gunshots.

Nigel began walking towards him at a steady pace, shivering.

Enrico rolled onto his side, crying silently out at the pain. He stared blankly out at some point far away, reaching out to it with his bloodied hand as though it was close enough to touch. Yet, before he could stretch his arm out far enough, his heart beat its last, and he let out a final, gasping breath.

By the time Nigel reached him, there was no life left in his eyes.

Blood still flowed out from the wound in his chest, his face turning pale as warmth slowly left him. All of his dreams faded away in those last moments, and perhaps it was not the gunshots that had killed him, but rather the understanding that, bleeding out on the chapel's cold floor, he would never save his country. That was all he had ever lived for; he asked for nothing more in life.

Breathing deeply, Nigel stepped over his body and looked over George, seeing the old priest's gaunt, wrinkled face, fixed in horror and pain. He had been shot in the back; Nigel narrowed his eyes, and then he felt his skin crawl, a chill coming over him.

He knew the wound that had killed George - pistol rounds, and it couldn't be anything other than the same Colt he himself had favoured his whole life. Only one person had that gun now, and it wasn't Enrico. Nigel turned to look into Enrico's glassy eyes, falling to knees and burying his head in his hands, shame and regret overcoming him. Fortune never favoured him, not once in his life, and today was no different.

Enrico had never killed George; the idea that he killed James' father, too, slipped from Nigel's mind. None of that could made sense, but in the moment it did. In that fateful moment, Nigel let himself believe that Enrico was the culprit behind these killings, that he had become too merciless for his own good, that there was nothing honourable left in him anymore.

The truth was, Nigel had only wanted to believe that.

He beat his fist against the hardwood floor, faint traces of tears making their way down his chin to drip down, mixing with the wet blood he wallowed in. All that talk about making amends with Enrico, about not hating him, about making peace with what had happened in Spain, it was all for nothing. He thought he had become a better man, but his failures still haunted him. Perhaps they always would, right to the end.

Part of him had always wanted to kill Enrico, but he knew himself as a better man than that – he thought he had changed, and that his past could be forgotten. When he looked at Enrico, a man who loved his country more than anything else, who swore to make the world a better place, his conscience wouldn't let him pull the trigger.

It had just taken one lapse in that morality to end the life of a good man.

Nigel had come to this chapel to settle things with George, and to put his past behind him before he left for England again. Now, he was only saddled with more regrets, with shame that he could never wash away.

He had entered this war hoping to save himself and his family from the ghosts of the past that had haunted him, and to fix the mistakes that his father had left for him. He accomplished none of that. Instead, he was to leave the war a more broken man, having lost even more than what he came here with. He had lost his chance to make up for his father's failures, he had lost his only true friend, and in the end had lost his very sense of self-worth. There had never been any value in this war to begin with.

Years ago, it was all he sought in life to kill either of these good men, and now that he had tried to free himself from that past - here they were, both dead before him. Such was the irony of life.

Yet in that moment in the chapel, only one thing saved him, and that was the memory of Hannibal, his greatest friend.

What would Hannibal want him to do? Nigel wondered, rising to his feet.

He knew in his heart what his friend would tell him: he would tell him to go on and live life. No one deserved or did not deserve happiness, but if he lived with regrets weighing him down, then he would never have any happiness at all. He had many years left, and they were best used doing what good he could still manage, because if he ended it all here, then regardless of what suffering might continue to come to him, he would lose any chance at making himself happy, and making the world itself a better place.

He wore a faint, yet bitter smile. Gingerly slipping off his coat, he laid it over Enrico's body, closing the man's eyes as he covered him up.

He would bury these two men, letting them have the peace and the rest they truly deserved. He would find a shovel and give George a small funeral on the hill behind the chapel, amidst the trees and the gardens, but he could not do the same for Enrico.

It would be the greatest disrespect to bury Enrico de Seville in this foreign land so far away from home.

No matter how much effort it took him, Nigel would not let his body be so desecrated. He would return him to Spain, to his homeland, the country he struggled to save until his very last breath. Never had Nigel known a man who so genuinely loved his country and his countrymen; Enrico was the truest sign that there were good, selfless people in the world - that life, despite all its sorrows and shortcomings, was worth living.

He looked through the window to see if there was anyone walking up the path to the hill, and saw his own reflection in the glass.

His hair was greyer than he remembered, his wrinkles deeper, but there was no weariness yet in his eyes.

-- --

At once, as the sun rose proudly over the horizon, filling the city with its brilliant light, El Cid could feel an emptiness in his heart.

Enrico was no more, having failed in his duty to save Spain - but that was nothing to mourn.

"I concede," he said to Rostam, and weakly pushed his sword back into its sheath. Not a moment later he fell to one knee, clutching at his heart, feeling exhaustion overcome him, beckoning him to slip away into a deep slumber.

His voice was faint and rasping, but it did not lack confidence. In fact, he was smiling as he looked up at his foe. It was a good duel they had; he would remember it forever.

In the end, Enrico had died, but he died not as a man, but as a hero. To his death he had fought for Spain, just as El Cid himself had done the very same. No more could be asked of anyone; Enrico passed into history, known or unknown, as a good man, a true knight who had dedicated his life to the hope that someday, the world could be made a better place. El Cid knew that those ambitions would bear fruit eventually, long after Enrico had been buried, at rest at last, no longer having to bear the weight of his knightly duty.

Rostam bowed once more, and stayed with El Cid in his proud last moments.

As the sun's warmth kissed his face, El Cid closed his eyes, imagining that he was on the beaches of Valencia, feeling the cool Mediterranean breeze blowing through his hair. He looked forward to seeing Enrico in heaven, and so he fell to the ground in contentment at last.

With no blood marring his figure, he looked as though he had simply fallen asleep - and then, without a sound, he faded away into the sky above.

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

And so a man who fought only for the betterment of his country has passed into the forgotten pages of history. Enrico will never get to see a free Spain, and everything he struggled to achieve is ultimately for nothing. And yet for all Enrico must have been feeling in his last moments, Nigel has it worse, in some ways. He has to live knowing what he did, letting himself believe for a moment that he was doing the right thing. I guess this just goes to show that even if you believe you've changed as a person and become better, you can still go back to your old failures in the end.

[The Green Flame]

Movin at breakneck speeds to the final confrontation. Gettin a bit of whiplash I must say.

[Five_X]

Movin at breakneck speeds to the final confrontation. Gettin a bit of whiplash I must say.

I'm sorry ;__;

If only I hadn't missed that day or two last week! Ah, well - the two final chapters go together, more or less, and if not for the way I wanted to organize the story, they'd be together in one chapter. Hold on tight!

[Five_X]

Speaking of, here's the very last chapter for today - and tomorrow I post the last two, which technically go perfectly well together as one, but I'm not so fond of that myself; I want to end this story on a good, solid even number!

And now, we continue with the cutting away of loose ends. This is the third-last chapter, and in terms of word count it's pretty hefty compared to earlier ones, being just a tad over 6000 words. These last few chapters will be longer than most of the bunch I've posted up until now, considering how short and evenly paced they've been.

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CHAPTER CXXVIII

James' head was pounding as he gently pushed open the door to his apartment. He wanted to arrive in secrecy, but that was ruined as soon as the door's hinges started creaking as they always had.


The light were on, and that brought a weak smile to his face; while Saber was nowhere to be seen, it was clear that she hadn't figured out what to do with her night. To say that James had come home late would be an understatement. Shaking his head, he slipped off his sneakers and set them aside, trying not to strain himself too much. His chest was still hurting, not yet fully healed, and he could only wonder if that would hamper him in these last days of the war.


Even as relief washed over him, knowing he was home, he couldn't take his mind off of the war.


"Saber? he called in a low voice, almost a whisper. He couldn't be sure if she was asleep or not - but he had a feeling she wasn't.


A few moments later, he saw her stepping out from the hallway, turning to face him, her smile brightening up the room. It had been too long since James had seen anyone genuinely happy that he was there - anyone, at least, who knew the true nature of this war. His mother had missed him so much, but even she believed that this war was still good and just and worth even the death of James' father.

What could ever be worth that?


For a while, though, his worries melted away as Saber opened her arms and held him tightly, not ever wanting to let him go again.


"Sorry I'm late," he said, managing a soft laugh. "I had to take the bus all the way back here. I at least got some sleep along the way, though."


Saber laughed along with him, but hesitantly, looking into his eyes. She could see through him, knowing that the strong face he put up for the world was just a facade, and that deep inside he was weak and sad - but in spite of that, he still held on to some courage, some confidence that life would be better someday.


He had bags under his eyes, his face looking far more lean than it did two months ago, like a starved man. James had grown only more haggard as they days passed him by, but it was only happiness he had been starved of.


"I did not sleep at all, myself," said Saber, resting close against James' shoulder, not wanting him to see how exhausted she looked.


Holding her, he stroked her hair, feeling her warmth against his chest, his fingers running through her soft blonde locks. He was almost trembling as he wrapped his arm about her waist, worry overtaking him. Every moment they shared like this, peaceful and calm, made him wonder how long this would last. How long it it be before he lost her, too? If they both survived the war, would their shared happiness ever be enough to drown away the sorrow James had suffered through? He had seen to much, and yet he knew too little. He was young still, and unlike his father he didn't have a firm grasp on the world around him, not having enough years behind him to know if things would get better.


His father, he was sure, would tell him that they would; he'd ruffle his hair and smile, and tell him to get some rest. James could picture that scene in his head, and it only made the weight on his heart ever heavier.


Even if life got better as the years passed, James could never forget the war.


"I'm never going to let you go, Julia," he said to himself, staring not at her but out the window, where he could see the night lights of the city.


She frowned, hearing his words, confirming the suspicions she'd had that he still worried - and it was only natural that he would. Anyone would, and the feelings they shared for each other only made those suspicions run deeper.


"I've got so much left to lose, still." His hand, trembling, moved to her cheek, brushing his fingers along her skin, wanting to feel her still – wanting to have something to remember. "I think this war is going to take everything from me, before it's over. With you... with you I'm happy, and I should be so glad for this, but it only makes me think of how hard it would be to lose you."


Her body felt weak and lifeless as she tried to come up with a response, passively standing there with nothing optimistic to say. She wanted desperately to promise to him that she would never leave him, no mattered what happened, but that would be a lie, and she had sworn to herself that she would not lie to him, not again. The guilt of his father's death was forever on her conscience, and she couldn't let that weight grow, or else her very spirit would be crushed utterly - here she was, on the precipice, feeling just as James did, having found some happiness in a cruel world, a world that threatened every day to end that happiness, standing like a flower in a field of ash.


"I found in you friendship, and I found in you love. I will defend that to my last breath, because James, I have known no one else who has made me happy as you do. You are cultured, intelligent, caring, and utterly handsome, and I wish I had met a man like you so many years ago - but I have you now, and at long last I can be satisfied with the life I have lived. I want more than anything to be with you, James, for as long as I can, but I can never promise that I will never leave you, because life is a fickle thing. If I die, then remember this: your love made another person's life happier, if only for a while. Happiness, whether it lasts a lifetime or a single day, should be cherished."


James stared into her dark eyes, feeling the emotion welling up in his heart. It was hard to face the truth as she said it, but he couldn't find anything wrong in her words. He could only smile despite his sadness, knowing that she was being honest - he preferred that to a lie told to satisfy him.


He shivered, nearly on the edge of tears as he felt Saber now so close to him, yet so far away. They had fallen in love, but it was an insecure love, strong yet fleeting, like a flash of lightning - it was a more powerful feeling than James had ever felt.


His smile falling away, he let himself succumb to worry one more time, his shoulders slumping as he only thought of what unhappiness his life could lead him to.


"Then please, promise me that-"


All at once he was silenced; Saber had pressed her lips to his, with more passion in this one act than either of them could put into words. His eyes went wide, but only for a moment - soon he sank into this feeling, wrapping his arms around his lover, pressing her against him, having never known anything like this before. It took over him, and for a few, happy moments, he only knew this one feeling, nothing else. He tried to remember it all: her soft, warm skin, the beat of her heart, the rich smell of her hair falling about her shoulders. If he lost everything, then he could at least have this one good memory.


Breathing in softly, Saber pulled away, looking up into James' eyes.


"No promises," she whispered, before he could say anything at all. She, too, wanted to remember that kiss, even if it was the only memory she could ever recall of him. It, alone, encapsulated everything they felt for each other, and one thing above all: a sense that, for once in their lives, that they belonged somewhere, with someone.


Neither of them could figure out what to say next, lost in their thoughts, not wanting to change the mood of the moment, hoping that it would last forever - and their memories with it.


No longer did they think of the future, because now the future they both envisioned was taken over by sorrow and loss as they thought of all that they could lose. If they stayed, instead, simply in the moment in which they lived, then there was nothing to fear. Right now they had each other - that was all that mattered to them, regardless of the war, regardless of what might happen tomorrow, or the day after. They couldn't know if they would be together in a week's time, so they let that fade away into obscurity where it belonged.


"Tomorrow," James said at last, drawing a few strands of Saber's hair behind her ear, "Tomorrow I want to spend the day with you. Let's pretend that there isn't any war, that we're just living together, free to do whatever we want. Just give me that, and we won't have to worry about anything else, alright?"


One more day - that was all they needed. In one day, they could imagine themselves living a lifetime. Parting at the end of it could only be sad, they both knew, but sadness was a part of life. Sadness existed only to make the happiness in life shine brighter.


"Even if we were together for one hour, I would make the most of it," she said in response, and kissed James just once more - a peck on his lips, a simple reminder.


His smile was broad and genuine, reflected in his eyes, his face seeming to light up at the thought of one day - any day - spent away from everything, pretending that they had a life to live together without any worries to hold them back.


"Is that a promise?" he asked, a mischievous curl to his lips now.


Saber smiled back at him, letting herself laugh; they had been through so much together that they deserved truly lighthearted happiness for once.


Giving him a wink, she let him imagine exactly what she would say.


No longer were they weighed down by worry; for now, and for as long as they could manage it, they would live like this without the war to make them think of all that they had suffered. There was a brighter side to everything, James though, and looked out through the window once more, imagining that his father was looking down on them both right now, smiling right along with them.

-- --

March 14^th, 1963


There was no order to the war, now: it was an honest conflict, with all ambitions and strategies out for everyone to see. It was so close to its end that no one needed to follow what rules had been set out, but there were some left who followed them even now.


Alexei was not one of those people.


He grimaced as he slammed his shoulder into the wooden door; it gave way, shaking and opening with a crash, slamming heavily against the wall. The lights in this house were still on, and everything within was in its expected place. There was even a set of shoes by the doorway, set out as though someone had just come home. Alexei, holding his shashka in one hand, stepped forward, Rostam following him closely behind. This old house, creaking with every footfall on its hardwood floor, was as eerie as any building could be - and that feeling was only intensified by the fact that it was daytime.


At night, Alexei had come to have his expectations for the war, knowing that a life-or-death conflict was raging in the city. Now that George was gone and the rules were crumbling away like artifacts from distant history, nothing at all was assured.


"Ardem Minassian, I know you want to end this war," called Alexei in a deep, growling voice, gritting his teeth as he turned to the kitchen.


A breakfast was set out on a small, round table, simply furnished with toast, eggs and a glass of tea. Alexei continued to frown, not trusting anything in this whole house, suspecting traps around every corner. If he didn't suspect everything then he knew he would die, and that thought terrified him.


He pressed his palm to the edge of the mug - the tea was still warm, freshly made.


Looking back, he saw only Rostam, no one else. Paranoid seeped into his thoughts, and he nearly knocked the tea over as he moved past the table to the window, pulling the curtains open to reveal a quiet residential street. This neighbourhood was down in Arlington, nearer to the edge of the city, the streets all lined with newly built homes that already seemed that they had been around for fifty years. This was where Ardem had chosen to stay during the war, but the war as they had known it was over - it had been over for days now.


Alexei sighed, and then that sigh turned into a grumble, disgusted with what he'd found here. He wanted to be calm and patient, but at the end of the war, those two virtues were too hard to find in anyone anymore.


The stakes were far higher than before; one mistake could mean death, as others had sadly found in the days leading up to now. Alexei would not make any mistakes; he couldn't let himself become a victim of circumstance. He would forge his own future, the future of the whole world. Nothing else would satisfy him.


Though he wished that the ending of the war would only nurture his hopes, the truth was that it lead to nothing but fear. Fear that he would fail, fear that none of this would be enough, fear that he would die just short of achieving his lifelong goals. So much rested on his shoulders now, and that burden grew with every day that passed.


He combed through the whole house, wondering when Ardem would appear as though from nowhere to ambush him - yet he rifled through the drawers and desks and cabinets, and nothing was out of place. He couldn't hear a sound from outside save for the rumbling of the occasional car, and when he walked down the stairs from the second floor, breathed deeply, smelling the fresh air wafting in from the front door. There was little that could be done during daytime, as even he wouldn't dare kill someone in broad daylight, even if it would win him the war.


For a long time now he had known and accepted that, even if he did manage to inspire a generation of people to change the world, he would be unknown in the end.


Alexei would be forgotten by history, perhaps just known for his family ties and his minor involvement with Soviet politics. He was no one, and he was everyone; there was no one more suited to making the world better than him.


Sheathing his blade, he covered it up with his heavy parka and stepped out of Ardem's old house into the morning cold.


The war was ending, he thought, and let out a sigh, his lips creasing into a smile.

-- --

With clumsy jabs James eventually managed to push the key into the lock on the door, then walked right in, his arm around Saber's waist, bringing her along with him. They laughed, stumbling into the apartment, then just looked at each other, neither knowing what to say - not yet.


It was almost night now, the sky fading to purple as it gradually darkened, but that didn't matter to them. While the sun was out they enjoyed their time together, forgetting about the war. They didn't think about the rest of their lives; instead, they focused on this one day, not letting anything ruin it. When they had woken up in the morning they both wondered if they could let the war go, even just for a day, but by the time they had stepped outside, their boots crunching on the icy snow, there was no question about it - their worries melted away.


"I've never spent a whole day in a library, you know," James said, smiling ear to ear.


Holding his hand, Saber slipped the keys away from him and tossed them onto the counter, looking up into his eyes almost coyly.


"I thought reading was something you loved more than anything," she said with another laugh, wrapping her arms around James' neck, letting him hold her tight and close now that they were home. She felt secure with him, like she could do anything at all, and he felt the same with her - no matter what, they could face the world together, and they would be unstoppable.


"And I did," James laughed, kissing her forehead, "Until you came along! I've never seen anyone read a book so... voraciously before. I'm amazed."


They hadn't brought anything back with them, but the memories of the library, its sights and smells, and even its sounds - or lack thereof, thankfully - were unforgettable. The library had always been the one place in the city where James could always be at peace, no matter what was ailing him. When he was younger, whenever he needed to just be alone and think, he didn't stay in his bedroom as he had done in the war - instead, he would go to the library, pick up any book off the shelf, and read it. The very act of turning the page calmed him, and when he felt like his emotions had settled, he would put his book down, close his eyes, and simply think.


Today, however, he hardly had any time at all to think - Saber was there with them, and they had spoken almost constantly, back-and-forth, in whispers loud enough to garner a few stern hushes from those reading elsewhere in the library.


Saber winked. "I was reading about myself, James. Of course I would find the material so very engrossing, even more so when you consider that I wrote the book. If I tried my hand at it again, though, I imagine I could do better. Those were hardly good years for me, from a literary perspective; all that war made it difficult to keep up on my own reading, sadly - except for letters, some of which could be very exquisite in their prose... though not always for good reason."


Breathing deeply, James smelled her soft hair, the scent of the old library still on her. From her kindness to her ego, he loved everything about her, and it took every effort for him to not think about the future he could have with her.


But then, not thinking about it consciously brought it into his mind, and then his smile fell away, his laughter silenced.


"I'm going to miss you," he said, staring into her eyes, his hands on her hips.


"Why do you say that?" she asked, curiously, her own smile fading as she saw the emotion drain away from James in both his face and his words. The way he spoke betrayed his pain, but now he did not shed a tear.


James breathed a sigh, shaking his head as he looked away from Saber, not knowing if he could say what was on his mind while looking at her, while knowing that she was there in front of him - and not knowing when, exactly, he would lose her.


"I don't want to think of all the happiness we could have together," he said sadly, bringing his hand up to stroke through her hair. "If I think about that, then when this ends I don't know if I'll be able to make it. I need to be able to keep on living no matter what, Julia, so I have to believe that we're not going to get to be together. I have to imagine that tomorrow will be our last day."


Saber nodded quietly, her eyes closed - their conversation now had no joy in it, being so focused on what could be lost rather than what could be gained.


She was saddened, in a way, by one simple thing: that James no was such a pessimist, if only to avoid the harm that could come to his spirit later on. He'd been through so much suffering already that he was willing to do anything to avoid anymore, and now he believed avoiding it could not be done. Now he focused on making sure the pain didn't hurt him so much, because losing his father had already been too much.


"I thought I was supposed to be the cynical one," she wondered with a bitter smile. "And yet you speak of loss as though it has already happened. I have suffered enough, too, and I choose to believe that this will end well. If I die disappointed, then so be it - there will be sorrow either way, but at least the end of my life until that point will have been happy. There is no sense waiting for something if you believe it to be inevitable - and trust me when I say that /nothing/ is inevitable."


It surprised him that she could be so optimistic, and that raised his spirits again, if only a little. Yet now he couldn't even force himself to smile, just resting in Saber's embrace, feeling exhaustion overtake him.


"I want to believe that, Julia."


More than anything, he wanted to be happy - but now he had good memories with Julia, with the woman he loved, and he would never lose those memories. If he was going to feel the pain of her death, too, then he wanted today to be their last good memory.


"And I want you to always remember this, James," she said, holding his hand, slipping out of his embrace and guiding him away. It was night, now - tomorrow they would be forced to think only of the war, because the war was the only thing left in either of their lives that could be considered absolute in any way. Emotion and satisfaction both could vary from day to day, but the war - the war could end, but it would persist forever in the minds of those who lived through it.


The door to her bedroom was open, and she sat on the side of her mattress, pulling up the sheets and blankets. She gestured for James to sit beside her, showing him one last smile before it was time for them both to rest.


They held hands, still; James stroked Saber's fingers, feeling the warmth of her palm, seeing the flush of her cheeks under the light.


She traced a slender finger along his jaw, marvelling at every part of him, her eyes searching over his handsome face, a smile fixed on her full lips. Once, he met her gaze, and then looked to her mouth. His heart was pounding, as though there was something he knew - but it was something he did not want to admit. Shivering at Saber's touch, she lightly pressed a finger to his lips, almost to shush him, and he stared into her eyes with confusion.


Without words, Saber expressed exactly what he was feeling. Embracing him in one more kiss, James let himself fall into the feeling now as though it was the most natural thing in the world. He slipped his arms around her, the palpitations of his heart heavy, telling him instinctively not to do this, that all of this was wrong - but his heart only knew the sorrow this had brought him in the past.


He felt her breath on his cheek, then met her lips again. Her hands stroked his bare back under his shirt, then came back around to the buttons that hid his body from her.


In moments she was caressing his chest, feeling his sleek, firm muscles, the heat of his body almost unbearable for her. She could feel his hands, too, exploring her back, until they reached a few strings near her waist - they loosened more quickly than she could notice, her dress starting to fall away just as she pulled James' shirt up and over his head. She stroked his neck with her lips, kissing him and letting her red dress fall to the floor on top of his unbuttoned shirt.


The winter cold was long gone, flushed away by each other's honest, loving warmth, letting their passion give them one last, beautiful memory before the war could force them to part ways.

-- --

“Why?”


The young man's arm collapsed at his side, settling in a pile of snow and ash. How long had it been? It felt like years since everything had tumbled down, since his whole life buckled at its foundations, fell, and was struck to dust. He felt like an old man reminiscing on a life, a long life, coming to an end.


There was nothing more for him. He could barely move his arms; sitting down against this half-broken, fully burnt wall hadn't been a choice for him. Like a natural progression of things his body was breaking down, unable to support the weight of all his emotions. He wondered, then, if he could have survived this, if someone stronger than him in will could have managed to break through, alive if not unscathed? Right now he looked down at himself.


His old dress pants, the same he wore when he came to this city, were torn up to the knee, covered in mud, or in blood – he couldn't tell anymore. There was just too much.


His eyes wandered about the room he'd crumbled down in: there were stairs to his right, going up to open sky, since the whole second floor and above had been shattered by that relentless cannonade. Everything was burnt, ruined, laid to waste. He thought he could figure out what this room he lay in was: half a table stood, cracked inwards, in front of him, and just past that there was what could've once been a fireplace, but now was a pile of dead, black bricks.


A chair to his side could have provided him some support, but when he reached out to it he found his vision had failed him: it was just beyond his grasp. The whole futility of that nearly made him fall to his side. Why didn't he just give up?


His fingers lightly brushed along the metal of a gun that had slipped from his hand when he sat here. Shifting his outstretched legs a bit on the ashen floor he sighed, letting his hand rest on the pistol.


A cough made its way past his lips, unexpected. “Where it began, and where it ends, huh?”


He would've stretched his neck left and right to get a personal view of the destruction about him, but he winced in pain when he even tried at looking to the side. Every muscle and every bone in his body cried out, aching with a pain he'd never quite known before. Part of him wished that he'd known such pain before, just to toughen himself up. Death was like that; it made people consider the smallest things they hadn't done.


Instead of a cough, he breathed out a small, uncharacteristic chuckle. “I wish I would get to have this moment maybe in a bed of flowers, or somewhere back home.” He sighed gently, closing his eyes to enjoy what had become a peaceful moment for him. “It's like being under a tree on a big hill, looking out, and there's nothing there but plain grass, and a blue sky above.”


In truth the morning sky was a pale grey, but a gust of wind kicking up some remnant ash smoothed across his cheek, calming him. He didn't look up to the sky.


A couple droplets of rain fell on that same cheek, then on his hand. He lifted it up to wipe it against his shirt, but couldn't even force his muscles to go to so much effort. It was all useless, and he then felt rain creasing through the matted folds of his hair, running down his face.


He hung his head.


“It's... warm.” A breath of cool air detailed the sensation of warmth on his cheeks. “Why's it so warm, now?” Mustering all his effort he stroked the side of his face against his shoulder, and with that let out a sharp cry of pain. It was too much for him, too soon, and the warmth wouldn't go away even as it began to trail down his chin, slipping along his neck.


“Why?” His hand curled into a fist, and beat the dusty floor beside him. The pain this time was numbed. A daze of lightheadedness overcame him, and his vision blurred for some moments as he found himself opening his eyes again, looking far up to the sky.


Clouds still rolled up above him, not making a sound. The only noise was his own breath, and the beating of his weak heart. Did he even have much time left?


His hand again touched the deathly cold barrel of the pistol at his side. He jerked that hand back, as if he didn't even remember the object had been put there in the first place. It was getting hard for him to remember why he'd needed that, now... but it felt oddly comforting beside him, like an old friend, like the only thing he could trust anymore.


“You told me to ignore her, Master. She has no purpose, as we are trying to win this war.”


The voice came back to him like a hand gripping at his mind, forcing him to recall memories buried deep over the last few days. Had it only been a few days? Closing his eyes again, he hung his head, turning it from the sky above. Still, the warmth trickled down his face, contrasting so greatly with the cold all around that it seemed as though it was trying to tell him something. What was it? Why? What use are these memories?


Every attempt to think forward was met with utter failure. Really, what did he have to look forward to? His reason for fighting, for entering this horrific war, had been wiped away by so many careless actions. Couldn't that mean he should make his own future?


No. How can one make a future out of not rubble but simply... nothing?


“You don't need to help me anymore. I understand what you're doing, but I don't want it.”


Regrets gnawed at him further. His fist beat the damp ground again. Pain surged through his limbs, the only kind of revitalization he could really feel anymore. The only way forward was through causing more death, more pain. Was that really what he had chosen?


“They all... they betrayed me.” he said, his voice breathy, his words almost getting caught up in his throat as he had to force them out as though vomiting. “I was right... can I only trust myself? Can I shoulder all of this?” His shoulders both slumped, and for the first time in his entire life he let out a weak, helpless sob.


He gasped. “I... didn't even mourn her.” He remembered the day, the night, the very hour and minute in which his whole life had changed again and for the worse. Blasts of hot air ripped through the night's cool, lights splitting a vision of a calm midnight. Spring rains silently dotted the concrete with their moisture, pattering down harmlessly, emotionlessly. Suddenly, he hated spring and all it stood for: the rebirth of life, the uplifting of nature, a return to love and life and bright skies and cool, rainy mornings like this one.


He wanted to shout out and curse it all, but his voice was rapidly getting hoarse.


At the last, he decided to swallow what was left of his pride. “I'll do it, then!” His fingers wrapped around the grip of the pistol laying on its side by his side. Lines of dirt caked the end that had been facing the ruined floor of this unwanted home.


“My family started this all...” He could feel the pressure of the weapon's trigger under his finger, and its raw barrel cold as death on his temple. One shot could end this.


That's what he wanted: death. An end to things, to finally get rid of the curse he'd been inflicted with, this horror of life that had stripped his own sister of a loving home and family. They could have just killed her or sold her off somewhere, but they decided to torture her, to keep her around as their true child grew up, as some testament. An icon showing his glory, and how he was supposed to view those without his gift – even as they couldn't feel the weight of his responsibility.


They said they were passing wisdom on to him, ancient wisdom from a time forgotten by all too many. But really, was wisdom what that was, or just some lie to whet the palates of potential heirs, and those who would investigate the family, marry into it – those who wanted a share of the immense power that this dying boy held.


If he so wanted, he could lay the final blow... he could end his family, ruining them, and that very idea made him all the more eager to squeeze the trigger, hearing a slight click as it came ever nearer to firing.


It was the most perfect death: a death, delivered to himself, by himself.


“He didn't do anything to you! Why... why kill him? Why not kill me, huh? Come on, do it!”


A shock, a true and horrific shudder ran down his spine, through his body, a whole jolt of some kind of understanding. The gun fell from his grip, and he buried his face in his hands in a show of disgust for himself. Memories were now eating at him as aphids to a leaf, and it made him let out even more sickly, pathetic sobs.


“I actually killed his father...” He reiterated that fact to himself, trying to realize just what he had done. Everything was so... blurred, and vague, and he couldn't comprehend any of it.


A lightness assailed his mind again. “Why... why did I do that?”


Betrayal. That word slipped into his thoughts and he recognized it. For so long, he let that word guide him, and now... so much grief had been caused, and none of it could be repaired. So many people were left dead and estranged from this one man because of his actions, his petty, self-centred actions made without judgement or emotion. He had let himself go too far.


“How... how could I have done that?” Tears rolled down his cheek, curving down the edges of his lips like a rivulet of sorrow expressed so purely. Never had he understood something with such clarity, and it wrenched at his heart like a merciless sword. It was nearly enough to make his own blurred vision nearly black.


His face, his arms and his legs were a pale reflection of what he used to be: a healthy young man, strong, smart, and caring, too. He'd lost all that when he'd started down the wrong path, made with just one decision to serve himself rather than respect others. He couldn't accept views that opposed his own, he had become too entrenched in his belief, and ultimately that was what betrayed him to his present state:


Francois himself was to blame for all that had occurred, and he shouldered it now gladly.


Once again he took up the pistol, weighing it in his hand, which had now taken on the colour and the warmth of death. In the rain and the cool winds, only his dripping tears gave this scene any warmth, and truly it was bitter beyond compare.


That metal pressed to his wet skin, feeling it down to the bone, and he didn't even shiver. For once, he was completely still, having been overcome by his own grief and guilt that to him in his twisted way, this was happy.


A muffled crack rang out through the dead, blackened house, and with a dull thud a body fell against the ashen floor.

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

And now Francois, too, is gone. Maybe he deserved it, maybe he didn't, but he did realize what he had done wrong, in the end. No one in this story is perfect, and certainly not Francois of all of them. I like the placing of that scene there; it takes place right at the culmination of the relationship between Saber and James, a moment of caring and trust that the story doesn't show very often, save for maybe a couple other times. Much like Hannibal's death scene, I wrote out Francois' death about three years ago; I'm still surprised that it holds up, even now, despite the relatively poor quality of my writing from back then. Diamonds in the rough and all, I guess.

Tomorrow is the big day - it's going to be a tough one, but I'm going to finish this, and I hope it's as good as everyone might be anticipating!

[The Green Flame]

Well this is embarrassing but...who's Ardem again? His name seems familiar and yet I remember nothing about him.

Also Francois a shit, did everything wrong, everyone mourns Amelie but not him, Napoleon Archer of the Decade.

[Five_X]

Ardem Minassian! The Armenian Master of the war, with his mysterious Archer. He decided to lay low for most of the conflict, though he made an "alliance" with Nigel and James early on. Also, his Archer ended up killing Gilgamesh after Moctezuma did most of the work.

[Five_X]

Here's the first part of the ending of MPII! For those of you who have waited for a good fight scene, this one's got quite a big one - I hope it lives up to the hype! Soon, everything will be over... hopefully everyone's ready.

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

CHAPTER CXXIX

March 15^th, 1963


A cool wind blew through the bedroom window, fluttering the curtains.


James shivered as he woke so unwillingly, feeling the breeze on his bare skin. He jerked up the bedsheets, covering himself up, but the damage had been done: the cold and the dawn had awoken him, and now even when he closed his eyes and smothered himself in thick, warm blankets, he couldn't drift back to sleep. He knew he had to face the war today, no matter what it was that he truly wanted; there was nothing left for him but this, and he hoped that he would live to see the next morning.


Rolling over to move away from the edge of the bed, he could feel Saber's hot skin, his arm still lazily slung over her body. Her chest rose and fell peacefully, still enjoying what rest she could get, the chill somehow not bothering her.


Curiously, James looked at her, having never seen her sleeping before. Her mouth was partly open, letting in soft breaths. Like this, she hardly seemed as dignified as James had known her - when she was asleep, she was just like anyone else, simple and plain. Her hair was in a mess, and the curve of her body was resting at an awkward angle; she must have rolled around last night trying to get comfortable, and now she just looked uncharacteristically ridiculous.


There was such honesty in sleep, James wondered, and he wrapped his arm over her again, rubbing his hand up and down her stomach, up to her chest, then to her lips.


When he touched her mouth she shook her head unconsciously as though to shake something away, and James had to muffle a laugh. She was beautiful even like this, and he found himself admiring and appreciating her even more than he did before. Their relationship now was such a far cry from what it once had been.


He still remembered how he had hated her during the battles they fought against the other great generals, how she had tried to live up to the name of Caesar, yet wasn't being herself.


He remembered how she had become great despite that, understanding who she was and living up to her past, to her grandeur. He remembered, too, when he had first met her - how confused he'd been when he summoned this woman in full armour, so breathtaking, yet so cold and harsh as well. And even now he could never forget that one night she had nearly died, and he had to save her life - that night he had felt so disgusted with himself, and over the following weeks their relationship had twisted and turned, following unexpected directions to come to where it was now.


When he first met her, he could never have known that they would fall in love, that she would come to trust another person again, and that James could come to trust himself with another person's feelings.


She had made him a better person, and for that he would always be grateful.


Now, though, she was squirming around, finally stirring back to life, the day calling to her, hopefully with more willingness than James as he still frowned, groggy from his rude awakening.


He shook his head, still not believing that all of this had happened in the space of a month and a half - it felt like ages, but this war had only begun on the third of February. James racked his brain, trying to remember the exact date, and then it slipped into his mind: the 15th of March.


He knew that date, and it made him shudder, looking at Saber now with fear even as her bleary eyes opened to see him, smiling as she greeted the day at long last.


Today was the Ides of March.

-- --

They shared a small breakfast of sandwiches and talked about the war briefly before going outside, their conversations no longer light and casual.


The morning came and went, and then so too did the afternoon, slipping into the evening which, more quickly than James had hoped, gave way to the night.


The day had ended in what seemed like moments to him, and the memories he had of it played before him like slides of film, brief and scattered. There was nothing to remember about this last day, because it wasn't a day for James and Julia; it was a day for James and Saber, for Master and Servant. They had dedicated themselves to the war, discussing battle plans and strategies, escape routes and tricks to play, going over old fights and struggles, replaying them in their minds and coming up with new solutions.


James smiled as Saber had talked with him over the dinner table, a map of the city in front of her. She brought her fist down on it triumphantly, and in that moment he imagined he was seeing her just as she had been in her life as the unmatched general of her age, figuring out strategies to win her even the most impossible of battles.


She was dedicated to this, and when they looked at each other, they shared a glimpse of utter confidence.


James had wondered, as the hours ticked by, if he should tell her what day it was, and that perhaps she should wait, but the words had always stuck in his throat and he ended up saying nothing come night-time. It was the Ides of March, but that was so long ago. Today was a new day, with new destinies, and new beginnings.


They left James' apartment one last time, after going through the plans they had concocted for the final stage of the war. James' mind was filled with only tactics and ideas now, pushing away all of his worries.


Still, as he stared up at the vast Washington Monument, jutting out from the earth around it like ivory, he couldn't help but find the task before them imposing.


There was a feeling rising in his heart of utter dread, feeling like water filling up his lungs, drowning him in anticipation. Everything hinged on this last day, and the pressure only kept on building, minute by minute. He and Saber walked through Washington, late at night, not encountering anyone or anything - the entire city was quiet enough to be eerie, and not even a single car could be heard roaming the rain-slicked streets far in the distance.


They took up a position on the Arlington Memorial Bridge, staring out over the river, seeing the moonlight reflected in its smoothly flowing waters, the air icy again, as though the winter was hanging on for one last night. Even so, spring with its rains had shown up the night before, soaking the earth.


Without warning, James felt a tightness in his chest, and he couldn't move at all anymore.


Turning around, facing Arlington in the distance, James saw two figures approaching - but in a moment they were gone, silhouettes vanished into the night, as though they had never been there at all. He breathed out, his every move made with caution, as though the slightest noise could kill him. There was no room now for mistakes or accidents; anything could end this for him, and he knew that too well. The war was in its last, desperate stage.


Those far-off figures grew gradually more distinct, illuminated by the streetlights along the bridge. They walked towards James with some determination, yet they held no weapons, not yet ready for a fight. In fact, as he began to be able to make out the details in their faces, he realized that he'd never seen either of them before at all – he mulled that over, considering how much of the war might have happened without him knowing about it at all.


“I haven't met you before, have I?” spoke the man, echoing James' own thoughts. He smiled beneath his thick beard, offering James his hand; James crossed his arms, staring at this stranger with no small amount of suspicion.


His accent was Russian; a month ago, James would have sneered at that, stereotypes and insults running through his mind, but now he couldn't bring himself to imagine any of that.


No matter who this man was, ultimately he was just a man, just like James – no different at all.


“Ah, I respect that fear of yours,” he said with a laugh, staring relentlessly into James' eyes. No matter how kind his words sounded, he was James' foe, just by virtue of being in this war. Whatever his motivation or his dream in life, he would have to be killed. James gulped, realizing what needed to be done, but still barely able to move, not wanting to admit that he was in this situation. He didn't want to kill another person, but now he didn't do this for his country – he did this so that he could have a future worth living.


The man, his face hung with weariness, patted the hilt of a sword he carried on his belt, hidden away in a reddish sheath. In his other hand was a mace, looking far more ornate and ceremonial.


“We want this war to end,” Saber interjected, staring hard at the Russian, and his Servant. “I trust you wish for only the same, so let us cut down this farce and get to business.”


James smiled, glad that he could trust Saber to say exactly what he was thinking. He felt a momentary urge to pat her shoulder, or even draw her into an embrace, but then remembered that he couldn't – not tonight. He had made himself promise that he would only let himself love her again if they were both alive and safe in the morning. No matter what she said, he didn't want more suffering than was necessary. His life had been ruined enough as it was.


Clenching his fist, James met the Russian man's gaze, daring him to speak any more.


“You're very right,” he agreed, shrugging his shoulders. “My name is Alexei Skobelev, and I assure you that I am not the man you may think I am. But now... let's put an end to this war at last.”


Both sides wondered if there would be any more talking, or if the war would start on its conclusion here and now; James wanted, if only for a few minutes, to speak with Alexei, to know him, but then he forced himself away from that idea. It was easier to kill this man if he didn't know anything about him. His name alone was a curse, as now James knew that if he was ever about to kill him, landing the final blow, he would only be able to hear his voice and think of that name. It would only make this all so much more difficult than it needed to be.


Touching Saber's arm gently, James nodded, giving her the signal that she had been waiting for.


Slowly she drew Crocea Mors from its rough scabbard on her belt, letting its blade taste the air for the first time in many nights. The sword seemed to leap from its sheath, firm in Saber's grip as she lowered it, gripping the pommel with her other hand.


Rostam, seeing this, drew his scimitar – the thick, unwieldy-looking piece of ancient iron glimmered in the moonlight as though it had been forged from glass.


Despite his wild appearance, more like a beast than a man, he carried himself with dignity and composure, holding his scimitar at the ready like a knight preparing for honourable combat. It was something inherently alien to Saber herself, but she was always good at adapting to new circumstances. Rostam was the sort of foe she knew could easily overpower her, but that didn't matter; she had confidence, and if nothing else, she knew that she could put up a violent struggle before the end.


Death was nothing to fear, if only she could, for once, die as and when she wished to.


“Stand back, James,” she said, looking over her shoulder briefly, wearing a confident smile. “I am going to set the night on fire.”


There was nothing but self-assurance in her voice, so much so that it was infectious, passing on to James as he watched her, biting his lip. There was little he could do; the smart move in any other situation would be to defeat Alexei, the Master, but given the width of the bridge, that simply couldn't be done – Rostam would hew James apart before he could take a single step too close to his Master.


Drawing her fingers through her hair, Saber slipped undone the ribbon that held it all together, letting her hair fall about her shoulders. Along with her hair, down her back descended her red cape, edged with glimmering gold, the cloth that she had worn during every battle she had fought. It brought her victory, she liked to imagine, and now she weighed heavily on that belief, feeling heat begin to swell inside her.


Behind her, exhaustion was beginning to overwhelm James; the whole war had been going on for too long; he still imagined himself as having been here for years. The pain in his chest resurged, making him wince, but that would prove to be the only time he took his eyes away from the fight atop the bridge.


This time, there was no exchange of names or pleasantries. Saber had brought her cape out, which sealed any chance for banter or conversation – this man, whoever he was, happened to be her foe. There was nothing more to it than that.


She had her emotions, however, and they flared up along with the fire that extended from her, summoned by her cape. Even the edges of Crocea Mors were wreathed in an unnatural flame.


Crashing forward, she grimaced and brought her sword down on Rostam's scimitar. He groaned, feeling a piercing pain through his arms as he severely underestimated Saber's strength. That was a mistake too may in the past had already made, but Rostam was not one of those people. He had faced too many challenges to think this impossible, and he let his scowl turn to a smile as Saber felt him begin to slowly turn the tables on her. He pushed down with his weight and his sheer strength, her arms starting to buckle under the pressure – so she let go.


Metal rang out in the otherwise silent night, the sound of brutal scraping as Saber pulled back, her sword tearing along the very edge of her foe's blade, cutting off the smallest shaving of iron.


The weight of the strike, however, nearly forced her down to one knee, and even now she could barely stand. Gritting her teeth, she watched Rostam, now a few metres away from her, and patiently waited. He was a foe she couldn't overwhelm with raw strength; cleverness, instead, would bring her victory, and she doubted that this warrior could match her mentally.


James stood near the stone railing of the bridge, looking on from a safe distance and wishing that he could do something. His shoulders slumped as he watched Saber stop another blow coming down from above, knowing the pain she felt.


She didn't make a sound, but in her eyes that unwavering confidence was starting to falter.


With his scimitar, Rostam had reach that Saber lacked; in order to properly cut him she would have to get close to him, bypassing his impeccable swordsmanship - a tall order, even for her, but she didn't let her strength of will succumb, no matter how slim her chances were. She fought for herself and for James, for the future that they could someday have - rather than letting that hope weaken her through fear, she let it be her strength. Nothing would stop her from winning this war, because she knew what happiness she stood to gain. That more than anything motivated her - but at the same time, she knew her reputation, and sneered at the thought of losing a battle. History remembered her as a victor, despite her fate; she would not prove that wrong.


A rivulet of sweat dripped down from her forehead, dripping down to the wet pavement.


As she blocked one more blow, her breath started to become ragged and weak, and she knew she wouldn't be able to keep fighting like this.


The flames that wreathed her cape flared up, and she frowned, knowing that this wasn't some honourable duel - there were no rules that bound her. She aimed for victory, and anything would be acceptable if it meant achieving that. Rostam, standing proud still, no sign of exertion in the way he moved and swung his scimitar, wanted a good fight, but Saber swore she wouldn't give it to him, not on her life.


When he swirled his sword about, lunging forward to slice at Saber's stomach, she stopped it with the flat side of her blade, holding Rostam in place for the few seconds that she needed.


He stepped forward, about to try to lock her in place and then force her down where he would have the advantage, but Saber had long anticipated that - he knew that strength alone was his greatest advantage, and so the only way to deal with him was to turn that strength around at him, using the leverage he offered.


Risking everything, Saber loosened her grip for just a moment, ducking under Rostam's sword.


She gasped, not closing her eyes even as the curved edge slid towards her neck, threatening to cut off her head.


However, she was just quick enough to slip away from that fate, and though her muscles ached from overuse, now she was by Rostam's side. Both of his hands were gripping his scimitar, leaving him with no defence to speak of unless he could react in an instant to Saber's presence, her little ploy having worked precisely as she intended it to, her sharp mind a far greater weapon than the one she held in her sword hand.


With little time to think about where to strike him, Saber stayed low and swung her blade into Rostam's muscled thigh, digging past the hide he called armour and sawing at his flesh, spilling blood down his leg. He let out a grisly scream, and Saber was forced to step back as he wildly sliced the air in her direction, not meaning to hit her, but knowing he could threaten her gravely enough to force her backwards. It was desperate, but this was a fight he wanted to win just as much as she did; despite the wound he'd suffered, he could walk normally, his teeth clenched as he bore the pain, his whole leg starting to feel weak and numb.


He knew full well - just as Saber did - that even a wound like this could spell his death, and so he continued to exert himself, fighting no differently that before. He could bleed for hours; it didn't matter to him. He would tire her out soon: already, after a few minutes of back and forth swordfighting, he could hear her heavy breaths, her arms hanging limp, but ready to parry or strike if necessary.


The pools of rain on the street began to run red as Rostam's blood flowed down his thigh, a reminder of where Saber's strength truly was: in her mind.


Her mind, however, could grow tired, just as did her body, and Rostam smiled.


He sliced and jabbed at her, keeping her just far enough away so that she couldn't counterattack, or even block his blows. If she tried, then he would swoop in from the side and slash at her arm, or her neck, or her thigh, just as she had.


Narrowing her eyes, Saber knew now that she had underestimated this man. He wasn't a brute by any means, and had his own expertise in combat that surprised even her. It made sense, however, as she thought about it: he had the look of an ancient legend about him, a man who had seen things only true heroes fought, like monsters and grand champions, and all those challenges had fallen before him. In his mind, Saber must have simply been another one of those challenges, one which he knew in his heart he could overcome.


Her underhanded tactics, however, didn't begin with trying to hamstring her foe: she could tell he wouldn't be incapacitated so easily.


Rostam cried out as the wound continued to burn, and to cover his moment of weakness he charged at Saber, forcing her to react - exactly as she had hoped. Now that he led the attack, she could react with a peerless defence, and raised her sword to parry the strike coming for her chest.


Rather than smacking his scimitar on the side and knocking it harmlessly away, Saber stepped back and did a quick pirouette, her cape raising off the ground, rippling in the wind that blew between them, its fire dismissing the late night chill.


The flames filled the air, smoke and heat rising up, the middle of the bridge streaked with red and yellow and orange lines of crackling fire, a brief inferno that soon dissipated into the darkness, the brief light nearly blinding Rostam, and the fiery burst forcing him to attack Saber before she could launch any counterattack. In the confusion, this would be a perfect time for her to rush out of the wall of flame before it vanished with the wind. His muscles tensing, Rostam held his scimitar close, and then raised it above his head to slam down on where he could see the silhouette of Saber behind a veil of heat and fire - her only protection now.


If she parried the incoming blow, she couldn't be sure if she would be able to sustain her endurance under the sheer strength of Rostam's mighty arms, his blade dragging her to the ground eventually - and if it didn't, she would at least be sore, her bones on the edge of cracking from the strain on them.


Instead she moved back barely half a step - and Rostam's sword swung dangerously near, coming close enough to her face that she could feel a rush of cool air on her skin for a moment.


Sweat streamed down her face and arms, and she glanced down with anticipation; the ground had shook when Rostam beat his sword against nothing but asphalt.


The upper edge of the blade was stuck in the street, and Rostam forced his weight against it, trying to wrench it free - not a hard task, but for just long enough he had no way of defending himself from Saber. He watched her blade, waiting for where she would choose to strike him now, knowing that he could take another scar on his flesh. She could wound him more and more, but he would keep fighting - it took far more to subdue him than merely this.


Yet, he didn't see her sword at all, looking briefly to either side, the fire growing ever hotter, the icy night cold gone entirely.


With a grunt he lifted his sword from the asphalt, feeling it far heavier than it once was - and then he stared up to see Saber, her foot on the tip of the blade, pinning it down, and not a moment later she ran up its length, bringing her foot up, slamming Rostam in the side of his head with a heavy kick, his weapon and only defence disabled, leaving him with nothing at all.


He reacted to this, twisting his sword up and aside, but not quickly enough - Saber's reflexes had been too quick, and he was in a daze, unsure of where she was even as the flames had already extinguished themselves.


The centre of the bridge was black, wicks of smoke drifting up from its surface, the asphalt and pavement indistinct, the hewn stone cracked and blackened beyond recognition; a streetlight above groaned, its metal body warped from the unbearable heat, and it collapsed like a sawed tree, crashing with a metallic cacophony as it slammed against the bridge.


Now Rostam, too, was breathing heavily, his skin slicked with sweat and his face marred with a long, peeling burn where Saber had struck him.


All those injuries, however, hardly seemed to slow him, while Saber struggled even now to retain a hold on her advantage.


She managed to parry his scimitar to the side time and time again, but still it wasn't enough, and Rostam kept lunging at her, staying close enough for her to hit him - but she couldn't, not with the flurry of slashes he unleashed with his sword, his strength just as incredible as it had been when their battle began.


Regardless of that, Saber laughed with newly inspired confidence, showing a brave and self-assured smile to James, who leaned on the bridge's balustrade, watching this all intently.


The heat of the flames had melted away into the night, and the wintry cool descended upon them again, their figures illuminated only by the pale white light of the moon high up in the clear sky.


It felt like they danced for hours, Saber knowing she hadn't the strength anymore to parry many more strikes from her powerful foe, even as blood still flowed from the gash in his thigh, gradually hampering him. Yet, she didn't know how long it would take before his injuries brought him down, and so they both came to the same conclusion: their fight would have to end with one fateful blow, and it would have to come soon.


Rostam shouted at Saber, the tip of his blade scraping against the asphalt as he ran at her; she wanted to escape but could not - at her back was the bridge's broad stone balustrade, preventing her from going anywhere but to the side... or forward.


Without hesitating, she lifted up her sword as though she was going to use Rostam's own momentum against him, pushing his scimitar aside as she had before; he lifted up his sword with both hands, heaving it forward, the sheer power behind the slash nearly tearing the weapon from his grip as he brought it down on Saber. He hoped that this time she would not be strong enough to hold out before her bones cracked and she fell helplessly to the ground, where he could land the killing blow.


"Crocea Mors!" she cried out, her voice clear over the din of metal clashing against metal.


Crocea Mors glowed with a pure white edge like heated steel, but Rostam didn't let up, trying to overpower Saber one more time so that he could end this battle before succumbing to so much pain and lost blood.


He felt something giving way, and smiled broadly, gritting his teeth.


However, what happened was something he could never have expected: Saber's blade was cutting straight through his own, tearing and melting the ancient iron that had served him faithfully for so many years. He had believed his scimitar unbreakable; it had pierced the armour of dragons and cut apart a demon's flesh, but now against Crocea Mors, a true sword of legend forged by divine hands, his scimitar could not begin to compare.


More than half of Rostam's trusted sword simply fell away unceremoniously, clattering against the stone, its tip cutting nothing any more.


He was left, now, with almost nothing: a broken blade, shards of it falling away still as the heat from Crocea Mors continued to warp the iron, rendering it no more than a twisted dagger, lacking any of its finesse and decoration. The blade itself was scorched black, and Rostam could barely feel his fingers anymore, either; a burst of flame from Saber's own sword had burnt off the skin on his hand, leaving him in searing, unbearable pain.


Rostam nearly doubled over, his whole body feeling weak, too weak to continue - but he had still faced worse.


In life, he had fallen into a pit of swords and poisoned lances, but still survived long enough to climb out and avenge his own death, killing his murderous half-brother with an arrow through the heart. For all the burns he had suffered, for all the blood he had lost, he could still fight on, and he swore that he would - he would serve his lord, Alexei, even if it meant his own death.


His vision blurred and his body wracked with pain that cut him even into his bones, Rostam raised his cleaved sword, holding it in his weak hand.


Saber, with fierce determination in her eyes, held up Crocea Mors, able to do little else as Rostam forced her against the edge of the bridge. There was little strength left in her enervated limbs, but she would end this struggle the only way she could: by digging her blade deep into Rostam's neck, ending him. She was surprised at how much he had survived, his tenacity like nothing she had ever known, but he was just a mortal man, and all men could be killed.


Yet before she could stab him one last time, Rostam grabbed her sword arm, twisting it roughly, breaking her bone apart with a raw crunch.


She couldn't move anymore, and stared at him with utter hatred, thoughts flowing desperately through her mind as to how she could survive this and kill him. A broken arm could heal, but now she was dangerously close to death, like standing on the edge of a knife.


As she raised her leg to push back against Rostam, he met her gaze, and then brought his blade forward, stabbing it deep into her heart. Wrenching it back out, stained red, he stabbed her again, and again, and again, until when he let go of her arm, she simply fell limply to the ground, unable to express the excruciating agony that lanced through her body, slowly starting to numb her.


The night started feeling colder to her, as though it was regressing back into winter, and she touched her hand to her chest, feeling damp blood everywhere.


She tried to stand, pushing against the asphalt with her one good hand, but it was to no avail; a shock of sudden pain made her scream, and she fell back to the ground.

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

I wonder if anyone saw this coming...

The story will end today at around half-past 10:00pm BST - be there, everyone! I will make this an MPII anniversary to remember.

[The Green Flame]

Oh gosh, game breaking injuries in the 11th hour!

[Five_X]

That's, ah... a bit more than an injury.

[dontpressenter]

I...finally caught up. And wow, that was a bit of a long marathon. Because you took up so much of my time with your excellent (if long) chapters, I only thought it fair to sign up to this place and express both my thanks for writing such a compelling story and anticipation for the very final conclusion, after which I will probably provide a more detailed review.

[Five_X]

I...finally caught up. And wow, that was a bit of a long marathon. Because you took up so much of my time with your excellent (if long) chapters, I only thought it fair to sign up to this place and express both my thanks for writing such a compelling story and anticipation for the very final conclusion, after which I will probably provide a more detailed review.

Haha, how long did it take you? You've basically just done the equivalent of reading the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy... twice.

But thanks for signing up and saying hi! I'm always happy when people read MPII and give me nice comments; it makes me imagine for a little bit that maybe someday I could be a real, proper author!

Funny enough, I know a few people have signed up after lurking reading MPII. Unfortunately, not everyone who started out reading the story has made it all the way here, though, because there's just so much. It does kind of amaze me that people manage it anyhow, so again, thank you! I look forward to reading any more thoughts you have once the story's finished - and thankfully that looks to be going ahead just fine, unless something horrible happens to me while I'm slogging through this final chapter. I always thought that I should have written it ages ago, since I knew from early on how it would go... I'm kinda kicking myself a bit now over that.

[Five_X]

CHAPTER CXXX

Rostam walked towards Saber as she writhed on the ground, and he cast his broken sword away.


“Julia!” cried James, running to her side, kneeling beside her – he would lie on the pavement with her if he could, but he wanted to hold her, cradling her in his lap, assuring her that she would be okay, that everything would be okay. He smiled even as tears ran down his cheeks, believing in the lies that he told himself.


“James? Thank you for believing in me,” she said, smiling back up at him, coughing up blood.


James held her closer, feeling her chest soaked with blood, her armour cut through with holes where she had been stabbed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Rostam approaching him, and his hand at once went to the dagger on Saber's belt, gripping it tightly and holding it up. It was a weak threat, but one he would go through with even if it cost him his life. Saber was all he had left.


“Not one step closer,” he breathed, staring with narrowed eyes at the man who had hurt the woman he loved.


All of a sudden, Alexei was standing beside his Servant. Holding out his arm to block Rostam from going any further, he nodded to James. He frowned bitterly, his expression betraying the empathy he had for the young man. He knew what it was like to go through this; no one deserved this kind of pain, least of all someone like James, who had should have had so many years ahead of him.


“Let them have their peace,” he quietly said, almost in a whisper, to Rostam, never taking his eyes off of James.


James held Saber gently, as though she was made of glass and any sudden move could break her; he knew how weak she was, and now that he felt her, the warmth of life within her fading away, he could not longer lie to himself and say that she wasn't dying.


She was dying, he knew, and he let his tears flow freely, burying his face in her chest, wishing that this was all just a dream.


With a kind smile, she stroked her bloodied hand through his hair, not yet ready to close her eyes. She, too, knew that she didn't have much time left. It was surprising, in a way, that she had survived so long with all of her wounds, but then again she was strong – her will alone kept her living, but that could not last forever. Looking at James, seeing his exasperated face, flushed red from his sobbing, she felt some warmth on her own cheeks.


“You have fought well, James,” she assured him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders to keep him close. “Many people could never be as strong as you, so strong that they could survive this war until now. It takes someone truly great to pass through suffering a better person, and you did that, James. You made me happy, and you made me proud.”


James looked up at her with wet, reddened eyes. “I might have survived, but how am I going to live past all this? I want to face life with you, Julia... I can't do this on my own.”


“You will live, James, and it may be hard, but you will find your place in the world, and you will find happiness and grow old. I have seen you become such a good man that it would only hurt me more to see you throw your life away because of me. Remember, you will always have your memories of me, so long as you live.”


He held her tightly, crying into her shoulder, not knowing what to say but hoping that his emotion could convey his thoughts better than any words could. He needed her more than anything, and he felt that if he lost her, his whole life would collapse, even after he had struggled for so long to find meaning and purpose. All the things he had seen, all the things he had done – they were all for nothing without Saber by his side. He desperately searched for some kind of reason to this war, but he could find nothing that he truly believed in, nothing other than the love he had found. That was the one bright spot in all the darkness this war had brought him, and now he'd lost even that.


“Do you want to die?” he asked, his voice straining as he continued trying to reason with her – as though he could reason with death. “I thought you wanted to be happy with me, for the rest of our lives. Please, please... stand up, and we can end this together. We're so close now to finishing this war, and I'm not going to let either of us suffer anymore. You were betrayed in the end, but that's not going to happen now. I'll be here with you no matter what, and if you're going to die, then I'll die with you.”


Struggling to breathe, she looked at him, scowling, her eyes narrowed. It took all of the effort she could muster to keep her eyes open, but she would do so until James understood.


“What would your mother think, losing her only son?”


No longer did she have a kind tone to her words; now she spoke as though accusing James, and would have shouted at him if she was so weak.


“There is so much happiness to be found in the world... why would you deny yourself that? There may be sorrow now, and loss, but that is only today – tomorrow is a new day, with new experiences and new loves. You will always find things that will make you sad, perhaps even sad enough to make you wonder if living is still worth living. Then you can look back on the happiness you once had, and strive to find that again. That, James, is the essence of being alive. I want to live, too, but that is long past me. I died ages ago, and getting this second chance is more than I could ever have asked for. I experienced triumph, and defeat, and love. Over the course of just this small war, I experienced all the emotions of a lifetime – right by your side. I would never give that up.”


Trying to hold back his tears so that he could speak to her coherently, James wiped his eyes on his sleeve, clenching his fist around her cape so that he could at least hold on to something that was hers. He could already feel her slipping away, and he wanted to do all he could to stop that, even if in the end it would be futile.


“You taught me to fight for something I truly believe in,” he said, breathing deeply. “I won't be satisfied until I've done all I can to save you, because I'm not going to live my life with regrets. I don't want to look back on today and imagine what I could have done, because I'll never forget that. I know this is selfish, but I can't let go of you, not now. You said that I should have a dream to fight for, and here it is. Do you still think I can accomplish anything?”


With a sigh, she resigned herself to this, knowing that James could not be argued with. She admired his passion; it had been many years since she felt something like that herself, and she thought that, perhaps, her words had been hypocritical.


“I do,” she said, and nothing else – for a while, she believed that she didn't need to say anything more, but then she looked again into James' eyes, seeing his pained smile.


The truth of it was simply that she couldn't speak much anymore. The only warmth she could feel now was James, as her skin became pallid and lifeless, her weary eyes barely able to see the man she loved. Yet there were so many things she wished to say, so many sentiments to share and memories to recall together. Her heart cried out for her to make their parting as easy for James as she could manage, but that was one thing she didn't know how to do.


“Perhaps someday this will all be a happy memory for you,” was all she could manage, her voice getting weak and almost indistinct.


James could tell by looking into her eyes that these were her last moments.


Rather than make them painful, then, he touched her cold lips with his finger, and then he kissed her. There was passion and emotion in that kiss, wordlessly saying all the things they had left unsaid. Saber could not speak anymore, her voice gone, but she smiled as she felt the heat of James' lips and the heavy beat of his heart – the strength of life he still had left, which she did not.


He, too, could feel her heartbeats – he held her close, tasting her blood as it dripped from the corner of her mouth and along her jaw. Red was her colour, he remembered, and smiled one final time along with her.


Slowly, those heartbeats faded, though James never felt the cold touch of death – all he could feel was life, abundant life, warm and sacred, happy like those memories they shared.


When he let her go at last, a smile still lingered on her pale lips.


James looked up from Saber's body, looking at the bridge and the river and the moon in the sky, wish that he had been dreaming – but he saw Alexei, and then he knew that this was all real. He had lost someone again, and the emptiness in his heart would have made him shed yet more tears, but his eyes were dry now, his emotions spent, his body exhausted. He had nothing left, now, but even if that was so, if he could see even the slightest glimmer of hope, he would fight for it.


All he strove for was a life worth living.


Now he stood back up, proud of himself, his fears washed away. Staring at Alexei, he gripped Saber's dagger, holding it close to his chest. Rostam was near him – too near – and James watched him with a scowl, not scared of the huge man. The broken haft of metal he called a sword only made him look pathetic, and James was ready to talk up to him and stab him through the heart, if it would end this. He still had something to gain from the war.


“Don't kill him yet – I want to speak to him,” said Alexei, a strange calmness in his voice.


He had been watching the whole scene as it played out, his heart tightening in his chest. What James and Saber had was something he'd wanted: one last moment together, just to talk. When Katalin died, and when his father died, it had been so sudden that he couldn't speak to them. He had always wanted to apologize, assuring them he would still live a good life, but he never got that chance, never getting the simple closure he wanted.


Rostam, however, had stepped too closely to James already, casting his shadow over the young man, raising his arm as though to strike at him. Perhaps he just wanted to throw him to the ground so that he wouldn't try to stab Alexei in a last act of desperation, but even Alexei himself couldn't be sure.


In an instant, an arrow struck through Rostam's back, stabbing his heart; another joined it, and more, until he fell weakly to the ground, crawling forward on his knees, dying.


Digging his blade into the pavement he tried, just as Saber had tried, to rise up again and fight, but he couldn't. His hand shook, a shiver running through his body as he felt the life flow out of him like a wind sweeping across his bloodied back. With what strength he still had in his failing body he turned his head, a pleading look in his eyes as he stared at Alexei as though to ask for forgiveness.


He died then, with that haunting expression on his face. Alexei felt lightheaded, his eyes wide as he tried to take in the scene before him.


When stared back at the buildings far off in Arlington, across the river, he could see atop one roof the figure of a man holding a bow, and at once he knew him, not wanting to speak his name.


There they were, then, Alexei and James: two soldiers in the war, forced to have each other as foe. This was the first time they had ever met, and it would be the last, if only because of the demands of the war. There could not be two victors, but whoever became the victor would only be able to see around them the bodies of those who had lost, giving their lives in pursuit of what they loved – just as James loved Saber.


“Before one of us puts an end to the other's suffering, tell me your name... please. I swear I won't ever forget it.” Alexei bowed before James, respecting him before he even had a chance to say anything in response.


James had never expected this, thinking that either he would be dead now, or Alexei would – he realized that up until now, he never had many chances to speak with anyone else who fought in the war in this sort of way, not so close to death. He could only remember Eleanor, but he was not trying to defeat her, to kill her. Alexei was different, a man he didn't know aside from his nationality, and what that could say about what type of person he was.


“You said to me that you're not the man I might think you are,” he said slowly, cautiously, watching the Russian's eyes. “What did you mean by that? Tell me, and you'll get my name.”


Alexei sighed as though relieved, glad to hear James talking to him reasonably.


“Do you know what I want to achieve in this war?”


James frowned. “Don't patronize me – I know what you're expecting me to say, and I'm not going to judge you. Just tell me what you want to say, because I'm not a typical 'American' either.”


“It makes me happy to hear that from you. I trust you can understand when I say that I want to change the world. I want to unite everyone, so that there is no need for hatred and conflict and nationalism anymore. Greed tears us apart, and society makes us believe that conflict is the way, that competition is the means by which we better ourselves. I don't want to live in a world where this is true, and so I want to change that – I want to inspire a whole generation to realize the power that they hold in their hearts and in their minds, a power for happiness.”


James was taken aback by those words, surprised at the man's passion. He wondered, how could he answer to that? Just as he himself loved Saber, Alexei loved his dream, a dream for a better world, something that had always been just outside his reach, yet now felt so possible, if only he won this final war. Yet, it was because of this that they could not be more different.


There was Alexei, who fought for everyone, and James, who fought for himself. He felt so selfish now, fighting against true progress, yet that selfishness didn't feel wrong in his heart.


“My name is James,” he said quietly, but Alexei heard him, and smiled. “I could never bring myself to care about so many people. I love individuals, and in my mind, the strife that surrounds us makes us all who we are. Someone wise told me once that it's the sadness and loss in life that makes happiness worthwhile; without that sadness, we could never appreciate happiness when we find it.”


“What I love is the world, James, because I have watched it for so long,” Alexei said, using his mace like a cane, walking to the balustrade that overlooked the river. “People will come and go, live and die, but the world is something we all share. My greatest fear is that oppression and injustice will become commonplace, just as in some parts of the world life itself is a conflict, from the moment a person is born. There are those out there who are impossibly rich, and those who have nothing at all, and it is the rich who control the world and, through that power, control the flow of history. But if the people of the world were to come to understand that there was more that they share in common than they have separating each other, then we could live in harmony, united towards the single, human goal of universal happiness. You may say that we need sorrow in order to make life what it is, and I know that no matter what I do, I could never get rid of strife entirely; but I will get rid of nations, and I will get rid of ideologies, until there is only one nation left – Earth – and one ideology – kindness. Everyone deserves a good life, filled with moments of sorrow and moments of incredible joy. I swear, I will give that to them.”


There was something in Alexei's words that tore at James' heart. Part of him wanted to let go of the war, knowing that he could do one good thing with his life. He could be a good person in the eyes of the world, sacrificing what he believed in for the greater good of everyone, yet when he thought of that goal as Alexei thought of it, his heart was empty.


He didn't have Alexei's passion, and perhaps that was because he was young and he hadn't seen enough of the world and its ugliness yet – but he had seen the war and he saw what it had done to people, and it disgusted him.


The future Alexei strived for was what James wanted, too, but it was a world in which he could not find a way to be happy. It was not his way forward, and it never would be.


He threw away his dagger, letting it fall into the river's flowing waters, washed away somewhere to be forgotten.


“I wish I had your heart, Alexei. I wish I had that devotion in me to making the whole world better, but that's not what I believe in. I can't make any arguments; all I can say is that I'm selfish, and I care more than anything about what I love. I lost my father to this war, and I lost friends, and I lost someone I loved more than anyone I had ever known before. I have lost so much that all I can think about is how I can at least try to scrape something back from it so that I can be happy again. That's the only thing I want, but I'll find right to the end for it, no matter who tries to stop me. You believe in everyone's happiness, but I can only care about my own – that's what makes us different, Alexei, but I wish this had to be this way. I wish you could see the world you've dreamed about, but as long as I live, I can't let it happen.”


Somehow those words brought a smile to Alexei's face, and he wanted to embrace this young man. He felt happiness welling up in his heart, James' words confirming something that he had hoped for as long as he lived.


His mouth was dry as he tried to speak, knowing the words but not how to say them. He took in a deep breath, looking out across the river, and up to the moon hanging in the sky.


“Your generation will change the world,” he told James, simply, and he stared into his eyes with compassion and hope despite everything that had happened.


“You are right about one thing: sorrow makes us love the happiness in our lives. All the same, the injustice that thrives in every country, between people who have no reason to hate each other, is something that will someday pass. I had always believed that, perhaps, people would someday be numbed to oppression, accepting their lot in life for what it was, unwilling to change the status quo for fear that they would lose the happiness they had. Yet if even one other person in your generation, in this single decade, has the same kind of passion as you, then the world will be in good hands; one person's struggle for happiness can become kindness once they find what they have been striving for, and then they become a force to change the world. One person becomes ten, becomes a hundred, even a million, and then you have true change.”


He let out a long sigh, as if a weight had been lifted from his aged shoulders. He could be free now, free from his burdens, and he continued to smile.


There could only be more like James in the world, and now more than ever they could make a better world. It would be gradual, happening over years and years, but eventually people would stop caring about nations and cultures and races, and embrace each other as one, with no countries to force them all apart. There would always be resistance to such a world, but Alexei knew that, in due time, that resistance would fall away as people sought the one thing worth dying for in the world: happiness.


Staring up at the myriad stars in the sky, Alexei fell to one knee, holding his mace tightly, his knuckles turning white.


He would never see the world he dreamed of, but he could imagine it more clearly than anything, and when he closed his eyes for a moment he swore he could see a crowd of people all holding hands and laughing together, his father amongst them, and Katalin too.


James walked up to him, wanting to see whatever it was that he saw – but when he looked up, all he could see were stars, beautiful and distant.


Then he could feel the cool touch of Alexei's hand, and the handle of the mace he carried, the symbol of his family for generations. There was no more need for it, he thought, and he nodded at James, silently telling him to take it. If he truly wanted to embrace the world he sought, then he would have to let go of the past and accept that there would someday be peace on Earth. In the grand scheme of things, this little planet meant nothing, just a minuscule fragment of an impossibly vast universe, but to those who lived on it, it meant everything.


Reluctantly, James held the mace, feeling its weight in his hand dragging him down.


He glanced at it, admiring its craftsmanship, curious to know why Alexei would simply give it away if it was so beautiful. It was a treasure to keep, a memento even – James had his own mementoes in his memories of Saber, fresh in his mind. Those were things he would never forget, and so he imagined that perhaps Alexei, too, had some memories that he cherished, that made something like this gilded relic worth nothing in comparison.


On both knees, Alexei looked up at James like he was an executioner, and resigned himself to the joy of his fate, his final moments of life.


“Let me die now,” he said, a faint smile on his lips, no bitterness to be found in it. “Before I can find anything more to regret.”


James opened his mouth as if to ask him if he was sure, but he saw Alexei nod firmly, his gaze stern and self-assured – and perhaps proud of the young man he looked upon, who would be the last person he would ever see. If this was how he died, staring at the representation of all he had hoped for, then he could go with no more regrets in his life. That was something he never thought possible, though then again he had believed in so many incredible things as being very possible regardless – and he knew they would come to be, without fail.


His arm trembling, James lifted the weight of the mace up, hesitating before he swung it down.


Yet this was nothing like when he killed the Dutch woman. Now, he felt justified, he felt that he was doing only what was right to him and good in his heart. There was nothing now to be sad about, because at least he could know Alexei was dying with nothing to fear anymore.


“What does a man think, when he has nothing left to live for?” Alexei asked, looking deeply into James' eyes, paying no attention to the heavy mace that would end his life.


James thought about that, his arm loosening for a moment before the words came to him, as if someone had whispered them in his ear, not even his thoughts at all.


“He thinks, 'I'm satisfied.' That's all.”


Alexei smiled again, more broadly and honestly than ever before, letting out another relieved sigh. This was good, he knew – this was what he had always wanted: to live and die achieving his dreams. So few people could claim that, but he was one, and he promised himself that if there was a heaven, he would tell his father and Katalin that the world was going to be a better place, and that they didn't die for nothing.


“I'm satisfied,” he said at last, closing his eyes.


James took in a deep, long breath, and he brought the mace down hard, striking Alexei in the side of his head.


The man fell slowly to the ground, almost as though he was floating, his spirit free at last from the burdens he had made himself suffer under all his life. There was no sign of pain or regret on his face as he lie there dead; James could only see in him contentment in the end, and he hoped to himself that he, too, could feel something like that eventually. The war was not yet over, but he felt in his heart that he had the strength left to achieve victory.


Feeling exhausted, he let himself rest for a while beside Alexei, remembering their conversation. He was a good man, he thought, but he had a good death – it made him wonder if death could ever be noble, but then he brushed that idea away: death was unkind and unforgiving, and if it took someone easily and peacefully, then that was only out of sheer chance, not out of compassion.


Alexei had lived his life to his fullest, and finally achieved what he had lived for, just as Eleanor must have as well. They were fortunate enough to die with satisfaction, and James strove for that, too.


If he was killed for what he loved, then that, too, would be a good death, a beautiful death.


When he opened his eyes again, he saw standing before him a man, whose named escaped him – but his face seemed so familiar, as though they had been friends for years. His features were ragged yet heroic, sharp and defined, and every move he made seemed to have some eternal purpose behind it. His armour marked him as a Servant, and James felt his heart sink, wondering where this one's Master was hiding.


“Don't worry yourself: I have no Master,” he said without a smile, but he had no reason to lie.


James looked to his arm, and saw on his skin a set of faint scars where his command seals had been. There were still there, just barely, as if to forever remind him of the war he had suffered through.


“Who are you?” James asked, looking him over. This man wore a simple white tunic and a bronze breastplate overtop, carrying in his hand a finely carved bow, the kind only a hero would wield. It must have been him who killed Rostam, James thought, but he didn't know what his opinion of him ought to be, still suspicious, but allowing room for some hope.


The old, tired hero glanced towards the National Mall, then back to James.


Holding out his hand, palm upwards, he said, “I am Odysseus the archer, and king of Ithaca. We met once, before the footsteps of a memorial your countrymen built to a great man. That was long ago; I don't expect you to remember me or what I did, and to be truthful, it doesn't matter now. I seek the future, not the past... as do you, I can tell.”


Odysseus seemed so familiar with James, speaking to him like a friend, and James took a step back, watching the man's hand to make sure there wasn't a knife hidden there at all.


“And my name is-”


“James,” Odysseus finished, letting himself smile briefly, then returning to his stern mood. “I know you already, and what you fight for. It pains me to see anyone die in this war, but I have watched you, and others, for some time. You're an honest man, and I say that having known far too many dishonest men in my own time; a rarity, you are, and I can appreciate that. Alexei was a good man, but I spoke to him and came to realize the one thing he did not: that what he believed in was already happening before his eyes, but not until tonight with you did he accept that, and the truth that he wouldn't live to see people united by kindness and compassion.”


The mention of Alexei made James glance back to the man, as though he was still living and breathing and could stand up just as he had been not even an hour ago. Yet there he was, still, laying peacefully on the pavement.


“Help me lift him,” said James, grasping Alexei's hand and placing in it his mace, then putting his arm around his shoulder to support the man's weight.


Without a word, Odysseus understood, and took up Alexei's other side, raising him up with James' help, and setting his body on the bridge's edge, the wind fluttering through his hair. The night was still as cold as it had ever been, making James shiver. Spring would be here soon, he assured himself, and warmth and brightness with it.


He cast Alexei off of the Arlington Memorial Bridge, his feet brushing against the carved stone as he fell without a sound into the dark river below, its waters stirred by the breeze.


There was a splash, echoing far into the empty night, but eventually that sound faded away.


“I'm glad that even he found peace,” said Odysseus quietly, falling silent along with James as though they were standing in vigil for the loss of a good man – but perhaps to say that his death was a loss was wrong; he had achieved all he wanted in life, and so he accepted his fate. What he gained in dying was the satisfaction of having lived, a feeling that could only be had at the very end of things.


They waited there, seeing Alexei's body drift away, and then they turned to each other, the object of the war looming with deadly finality over them both.


Odysseus sighed as he looked again to the National Mall, the bright Washington Monument seeming to glitter even more vividly tonight, outshining even the moon and the stars up.


“Your last foe awaits you,” he told James, placing his free hand on his shoulder.


James nodded, no hesitation left in his heart, and his mind overtaken by certainty: certainty that he was fighting for what he believed in, that everything up to now was worth all the pain and loss only for this moment. He no longer needed to justify himself; he had a reason to fight on, a reason to live, and he let it guide him to the end.


“Be my Servant, Odysseus. Help me win this war so that the world can be better – not today, but someday in the future, a day we probably won't get to see.” He demanded this, speaking with unfaltering confidence, the kind of emotion and surety that would make Saber so proud.


Without hesitating for a moment, Odysseus held James' hand; James felt a spark of electricity striking his fingers, and in the darkness of the night there was a bright flash, enveloping the two. The wind picked up, billowing all about them, until the light finally faded away, subsiding into two glimmering marks on James' arm where the old ones had been. There was a new shape to these command seals, curiously, but James thought no more about that.


There was no time to waste; Odysseus guided him along, taking James towards the National Mall. The night was long, and there were many hours yet left in it. The war had to come to its conclusion, and James' heart was pounding in his chest as he fully came to realize that it would all be over soon – yet it was a war that never should have happened to begin with.


James ran across the street, until before him was the Washington Monument, the Capitol building in the distance.


He stood in awe before its massive height, seeing it glowing with unnatural energy – this was the very focal point of the city, the centre of everything here. This was where the winner would be chosen, their greatest wish granted.


Almost unnoticeable, a pure white arrow streaked over James' shoulder, striking the Lincoln Memorial behind him, embedding deep into the solid stone.


In its wake came rain and hail from the very air itself, and there was a great rumbling above like thunder, but with no clouds or lightning to accompany it – and then there was the wind, a gust strong enough to knock James on his back, flattening him. The whole world spun around him, black and indistinct like a deep hole in the earth he'd been thrown into, but it didn't faze him for long. With unbreakable resolve, he got back on his feet as though nothing had happened, rubbing the side of his head just as another arrow flew by above.


It made a sharp, screaming noise, nearly enough to deafen a person, but James ignored it, not even fearing for his own life.


“I know you're there, Ardem!”


He shouted out at the top of his lungs, wanting to face his last challenge, a test that life gave him that he would have to face before he he could find happiness again.


The man, however, didn't show his face, even as James was sure that he knew who he had to kill in order to win the war. Ardem Minassian, the enigmatic Armenian entrant into the war, had made an alliance with him on the first day, but that had always been for show. Such things had no place here anymore, and they both knew that well. Ardem had stalked the shadows, playing the long game, not letting his face be known, and only striking when he knew he had the absolute advantage. It was only to be expected that he would make it to the very end, yet now was when he was most vulnerable – he could not hide himself away any longer.


“His Archer is up ahead,” said Odysseus, his bow in hand, his own arrow nocked already. “Let me fight him for you, so that you can meet Ardem. I believe in you, James; he fights for his country, but you fight for something far deeper in your heart, something you've found only through loss and hardship. You have truly discovered yourself, but he only has an ideal that he's followed blindly to this day, not knowing the futility of fighting for a nation which will never remember him, a nation which will someday disappear. Let him know the strength of someone truly willing to die for what they love.”


This was his chance, James knew, to prove to Odysseus, and to Saber, and to everyone, that what he believed in, as selfish as it was, ultimately was right.


He wanted only kindness, even as others like Ardem held beliefs that would only bring about more strife and division amongst the people of the world. With kindness n his heart, and seeking true happiness, James worked for the betterment of all mankind; this was the belief he held, and his beliefs were steadfast, ironclad – no one could challenge them anymore, for he had no fear.


Odysseus gestured towards where the other Archer was: up atop the Capitol building. Another arrow tore through the night air with unbelievable speed, and Odysseus watched where it had come from, letting his own bolt loose into the dark sky.


Moments later, it erupted with fire, illuminating the whole of the National Mall in a great blaze far above; it had been thrown off-course, and it was then that Odysseus steeled himself, knowing the kind of legend he faced. In any other circumstance he may have been worried, wondering for his own safety and that of James, but as James ran to the Lincoln Memorial, he found himself only more sure: there was nothing to fear anymore, and with that thought in his mind he could be calm.


James crossed the reflecting pool that stood before the memorial, slogging through the water. Another fire lit up the night, and he could see a silhouette awaiting him at the top of the memorial's steps. Breathing deeply, he remembered Saber, his convictions not wavering in the slightest.


Both he and Ardem knew what they fought for, and they both believed that they were right – that was the only way they could still survive the cruelty of this war.


“I used to serve my country, once,” James shouted up to the man as he stood at the precipice of the end, symbolised in his mind by the steps leading up to the grand memorial, carved in marble to last forever. Someday this, too, would crumble away, forgotten, its message forgotten all the same. Conflict, too, was believed to last forever just like the great monuments of man, but conflict and violence and tragedy, the ugliness of the world that marred the whole earth like a stain, would someday fade away into history.


“And I would die for Armenia, and kill for her, no matter what end this brings me to,” came the response from above. James smiled, confidence flowing through him like blood.


The wind blew about them, and James tossed his scarf aside, unwrapping it from his neck and letting the wind take it away. Then he undid the buttons on his jacket, letting it fall to the ground, wearing only a simple dress shirt and his jeans. He didn't need or want anything to overburden him, regardless of whether he lived or died.


“You're wrong,” James said, pulling up his sleeve as he walked the long steps up to the memorial's floor. “You've always been wrong, but I'm not going to try to argue with you. You'll be convinced when I'm standing over your body, because I know what I love. I've gone through too much to fail here.”


To James, in that very moment Ardem represented the war itself, and all the tragedy and sorrow it had brought him. Ardem had taken away his father, and Eleanor, and Saber, and he could not forgive that, not even with his dying breaths.


Ardem stood passively, waiting for James, no weapons in his hands, his fists clenched. He shivered as he watched James approach, knowing just how close he was to victory.


His people had suffered, and that suffered was his own – he would repay the debts of centuries past, avenging the Armenian people who could not live to this day and see what triumph one of their own was about to achieve. He had no care for a great unity of people, of the world living for happiness and progress rather than greed; all he wanted was to make his country great, as great as it should have been, abandoned by the forces that had blessed other nations. He remembered a time, aeons ago, when Armenia was strong, when Armenia made history – and that time would come again. Even his Servant reinforced this, the great hero Hayk, the father of his nation, at his side. Nothing could stop him now, as everything depended on this final battle.


With that dedication in mind, he stepped forward, combing his fingers through his dark hair, frowning as he saw James' proud smile.


Regardless of everything, James was happy – he was happy to have lived and to have loved, and that was what set him apart from Ardem.


Ardem was unsatisfied, his goals having yet to be reached, his country still needing to be saved by his valiant efforts. James, however, had enjoyed his moments of happiness, having repaid his debt of kindness to the world. He still could recall, even now, those memories he shared with Saber, and the time he spent with Eleanor and his father, time that he cherished and would always cherish. There was no desperation in his eyes, but instead an acceptance of what he had lived through, knowing that everything had been worth it, the moments of true happiness he had experienced glimmering like the brightest stars amidst the vast darkness that was this war.


He raised his fists, blocking a jab from Ardem, and returned one of his own, hitting the man straight on the cheek.


Ardem's fist smashed into his stomach, but he didn't let himself feel the pain, instead returning the blow twice as hard as he smashed his last foe on his jaw, striking from below with all his strength. As tired as he was, then, an inhuman vigour filled him, instinct taking over, rather than logical thought. His heart guided his body to do what he knew it needed to do; even as an arrow struck him through his stomach, his blood splattering onto the polished marble, he fought on bravely.


He smiled still, his elbow striking Ardem in the nose, his fist into his chest, then his neck. James lived through Ardem punching him straight in the eye; he couldn't see anything out of it anymore, and his sweat was beading down his forehead, blurring the rest of his vision.


Heat filled his body even at the height of the midnight cold, the wind blowing against his back like into a ship's sails, pushing him onward to destiny.


Every blow he landed against Ardem, and every bruise that went with it, he gave a name, filling himself with purpose with each one: Abraham, Julia, Eleanor, Dietrich, Nigel, Ilse, Filippo , and then even one for the Dutch woman whose name he never learned. Ardem was moving stiffly about, suffering even as he blocked every heaving punch that came his way. He couldn't slip out of the way anymore, feeling weak, but he knew that he couldn't die yet. If he died then his whole struggle, the struggle of his people, would have all been for nothing.


Putting all that emotion into this fight, he threw a punch at James' face, wanting to end this at last, screaming out with anger and pain.


The only sound James made was that of his breathing, even as his heart beat and beat and beat in his chest, pounding loudly, the only thing he could hear anymore. He stepped to the side, seeing everything so slowly before him, Ardem's movements seeming to take forever, and his own barely less sluggish and crude.


There was no elegance to this battle, but the emotions behind it were pure, more pure than any struggle James knew before.


With a note of finality he slammed his bloodied fist into Ardem's chest, feeling a ripple of pain shoot through his arm. That did not distract him for even a moment, and he watched with a strange curiosity as Ardem stumbled backwards, having lost all balance.


Ardem's face was swollen, his body bruised all over, and James could only imagine that his own state wasn't so different; he tried to run to keep up with Ardem as he fell backwards, but the arrow stuck in his stomach forced him to trudge ahead, his every movement becoming full of agony.


The night was full of sound again, yet James could see only a little when he wiped the sweat out of his eyes; he heard the rush of the wind, and a clatter of steel in the distance. Then there was the echoing thud of footsteps on the floor, and he realized that sound was himself, inching closer to Ardem's fallen figure, struggling to stand up again.


Clenching his teeth, James bore the pain of exerting himself and kicked Ardem in the face, knocking him flat to the marble once more, a spray of blood from his nose staining the hewn stone.


In an instant James was atop him, kneeling over his chest, mindlessly slamming his fists into the man's beaten face. He couldn't remember how many times he had hit him, only that he had long since run out of names.


As he punched Ardem again and again, his hands numb and broken and battered, he simply whispered “Julia, Julia,” to himself, until his mouth was too dry to speak a single word.


Even breathing was a painful struggle, but regardless of the ache in his throat and his chest and kept himself alive for as long as he needed to be.


His body, however, gave in at last, his shoulders slumping as he could not muster enough energy to strike Ardem any more. His loose fist brushed against the man's coarse cheek, and it felt so cold. Ardem's head went slack, falling to the side, and there was no rise and fall of his chest – even James could still breathe, albeit barely, but past his own numbness James knew without any more doubt that Ardem was dead.


What he did not know was that Ardem had been dead already for minutes now – he had let out his last breath just as he had fallen to the marble floor, having exerted himself beyond what his body could ever be capable of.


Only James' will kept him alive, now, and he could see nothing anymore.


A bright, white glow filled what little sight he had left, and his body all of a sudden felt as though it was floating, like his soul was being brought up at last to heaven. He smiled, wondering under what circumstances he would meet Saber again. No matter what, he wished that he could just see her again, thinking of the future that they could have together. As consciousness slipped away from him, in those last moments of thought he recalled all the time they had spent together, flashing before his eyes far brighter than that shimmering light – the happiness that he had found with her, and the purpose he had found in kindness, was worth more than all the rest of his life.


He felt a hand on his shoulder, keeping him upright, and he fell backward into someone's arms, smiling still as he let himself sink away into that embrace.

– –

On one warm spring day, two people decided to take a stroll in the National Mall, walking amongst the great monuments that could be seen all around, a testament to civilization. Around them the cherry trees were all in bloom, their blossoms falling gently along the path as dozens of others like them enjoyed the sun and the beauty of the city.


One half of the couple, a woman wrapped in a cool red summer dress, raised her hand to her forehead to stare onwards at the Capitol Building, hazy in the distance.



“It's impressive, isn't it?” the man beside her asked, clasping her hand close to his body. “I don't think we had the chance to look at it in the daytime like this, did we?”


He turned to the woman and smiled. He could hardly believe what they had went through, what they had lost and gained. He knew it was worth it, and he let out a contented sigh. They both had their happiness, in the end.


She continued to gaze upwards, her eyes flicking left and right occasionally to the light clouds floating gently in the sky. “Such a grand building, and I had few opportunities to visit it beforehand? Pitiful, James.” She shook her head, gradually lowering it and then turning to face him. Her blonde hair fluttered just a little in the wind that passed through the Mall, and they continued to stand still, enjoying the simplicity of this venture.


“The seat of the country, right there... it makes me proud to be living here with you, Julia.” He smiled again, and their gazes met. They shared that knowing glance, and then James closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the breeze on his skin, just past the fabric of his light shirt. The cool winds briefly shook away the sensation of the day's prevailing heat, and he basked in that one moment, his heart sinking with the wind's gust as it finally passed him.


“Truly, an icon of civilization at its peak,” she said with an almost disappointed sigh, perhaps slightly jealous at this sight of something so powerful and so grand; it reminded her in a way of her old, long past life in Rome. Alas, she shook away that notion, preferring to leave it where it had been and belonged: in history.


James raised an eyebrow, rather curious, and bumped his shoulder against hers.


“But what about your plan to bring back Rome? I thought you'd see that as the ultimate image of human capability. You're being a little odd, I think.” He winked at Julia, and squeezed her hand. Even light conversation was fine, as merely having her by his side again was incredible. The war was over – never would they have to be apart, and though they might suffer from sadness from time to time, life would be as it always had been: kind and sad, beautiful and plain.


At his suggestion, Julia gave a simple shrug, peering ever upwards at what she felt was the grandest thing in the whole city: the mighty Washington Monument, a vast obelisk rising up into the sky, almost straining Julia's neck in her attempt to get a glimpse of its peak.


“In all honesty, James...” Julia admitted, letting her eyes gently shut, “I have reconsidered that truth. I love Rome, and I always shall, but in my heart and mind there is an urging... a pang that makes me realize that I am wrong. It is a feeling that all others are unlike, and it is certainly a recognition of what all of this-” she gestured with her arm to the whole Mall around, “-must truly represent.” A bitter smile was on her face when she turned her head to just barely be able to see the man she loved, and she lowered her arm lightly to her side.


James nodded slowly. “What's that, then?” He was surprised, in a way, that he took his joke so seriously; it reminded him of how she used to be sometimes, and he understood what this meant to her.


Releasing her hand from James', Julia stood on her own and raised an arm to present the Washington Monument to James, the eternal, endless sky as its backdrop.


“Civilization has existed in this Earth for nigh on ten thousand years in some form or another. In times that I could never have witnessed myself, before the city of Rome glistened on the Italian peninsula, there were humans much like us composing simple pieces of music, creating with their own cultured strokes works of art on the walls of caverns in which they dwelled. Then, pyramids rose in the sands of Egypt, cities of eternal stone stood, magnificent, along the banks of the Nile, glowing in its fertile blessings. The peoples of Sumer, of Persia, of India, and Egypt all grew amongst their own lands, their livelihoods shaping their cultures, their cultures shaping their identity, their own unique civilization.”


She no longer looked at James, instead staring up at the obelisk before her.


“What wonders those ancient men built! I look with eyes of centuries aged upon this monument as it stretches unto the sky, reaching for the heavens high above. The Greeks wrote plays, created philosophy, contemplated the world and life and all they could understand with their sciences and mathematics. The very Earth was opened to them, and they drank of its knowledge with untold reverence. Conquerors were born, who forged empires out of dust in their hands, and saw what they had made crumble before them – yet not shedding a tear as they knew that what they had done would last forever. They needed no monuments to show their grandeur, their own personalities being towers in the history of humankind, beacons to follow and gaze upon with awe.”


Taking a step forward, she breathed in, examining the stones that made up the Washington Monument, basking in its towering height. Were they truly any different than those same stones that made up the great obelisks in the temples of Egypt? No, she thought, and breathed a calm sigh, as if all of her worries had been cast aside at once.


“And then came Rome.” Her arms fell to her sides, her head raised up to acknowledge the structure that stood in front of her, so much greater in size but lesser in stature and history. It still awed her. “Rome, that beautiful tapestry of a determined civilization, that wondrous sculpture raised from seemingly nothing in the south of Europe, its imperial gaze stretching vast miles across the land and the sea. The people of Rome wished, collectively, to conquer the whole world, you know; that was our goal, our ideal. Each and every one of us was born and raised with the single thought that we, the Roman people, were to become the masters of the world, and all should be within our embrace. To us – no, to myself, Rome was the very pinnacle of civilization, the greatest point that humanity had reached in all its time on this Earth. I could dream of nothing more than leading the people of Rome, all of them, to the ends of the world and beyond, conquering new lands, our culture expanding as we experienced all that could be known of humanity's infinite diversity.”


Still she spoke not to James, but seemingly to herself, her hands folded behind her back now as she continued her tale.


“I witnessed war and change and the greatest and most horrific scenes that Rome could show to me, and still I love her. But long after I met my own mortal end Rome, too, fell, withering out after too much decay, like a corpse unburied. Its brilliant ashes spread across Europe and the world, and over the centuries humanity rebuilt themselves once more, making their own civilizations, their own cultures, out of what Rome had provided them. Even with the death of the greatest civilization since history had began, human life continued. Their new livelihoods birthed new cultures, and these new cultures created their own breathtaking pages in history. Even as Europe was plunged into chaos there were still great people willing to lead humanity on into the future, seeking that bright light of civilization that so long ago the cave-painters, too, had dreamed of.”


At long last, she turned to James, her back firmly to the Washington Monument. Her dress flitted about her ankles, brushed lightly by the wind. “And now, in the modern day as you know of it, humanity has prevailed, striving for industry and commerce and art and music and war and all permutations of civilization. Where I would look with wonder upon aqueducts and amphitheatres and grand columns, you have your Capitol Building, your Washington Monument and your memorials to those leaders now long past. You carve the faces of those you venerate into mountains, continuing the innately human ideal to leave our own marks upon the Earth.”


Though she was distant from him now, James could see a few tears trickling down Julia's cheeks as she turned her gaze up to the sky, and then back down to the man she loved.


“The time for Rome has passed, but I do not mourn her passing. When I was alive, never could I have imagined such incredible splendour, such technology, such diversity, such advancement from even the Rome that I remember with such fervent longing. I know now that though Rome has died it never shall be made unknown, and truly will live on forever more within the hearts of humankind. Just as my very life has made of me a hero known throughout the world – far farther than I could have reached two thousand years before – your sciences and your arithmetic have made even those ancient bygone Greeks seem shameful and pale, and what humanity, just as I once knew it, has now come to achieve... it far surpasses all that even Rome could claim to be heir to. Even now cultures live on, history prevails, and civilizations are born and die. I do not believe that Rome is eternal and should live on as an entity ever-present, but now should still remain a great and noble mark upon the history of man, a gilded sign upon the way that humanity has marched for so long. The time for ancient Rome has gone, and now your America must take its place. Legends will never be forgotten, but as legends are, they shall never again be alive as they once were.”


James clasped her hand again and they stood together; Julia took in a breath and gazed on at the tall and imposing obelisk, the great symbol of man's accomplishments in the modern world.


“Those artists in their ancient caves dreamed not of Rome – they dreamed of something much more grand, of an ideal that no one civilization or culture can encapsulate. That is what I have realized now. Always will humanity look to the past for guidance, and to the future for hope.”


The tears that slipped down her soft skin were perhaps in part of sorrow, but much more than that they were of joy: finally, she had come to understand what made humanity so perfect, and she could think of nothing greater. Though Rome would never see the light of life again, those legends as she had seen before – of Aeneas, Alexander and Hannibal, of Genghis Khan and Gilgamesh and Ramesses and Rostam, of so many like them – brought the truth to her, and it was a revelation so serene that it stirred her very soul. In the end, they had never been different.


Happiness, the only word she knew for what she felt with James at her side, was what united everyone throughout history – happiness, in success or love, was what all people sought.


Someday, she hoped, society would reach a point where the only civilization that was left was distinctly human civilization, a true unity of culture and of purpose that the world had not seen for thousands of years. Someday, there would be more to unite us than to divide us.


So the two looked on to the horizon, to the obelisk looking infinitely skyward and the domed capitol on the hill beyond, and to what men and women long ago had dreamed of, that shared ideal of humankind that would never forget, nor be forgotten.

They looked to a world where there was no war.

THE END

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And so the story, at last, comes to a close. I started it this time four years ago to the day - 820,000 words later, it's finally finished. It was really something, completing the Manhattan Project at last, but it was worth every word and every hour of effort. I don't at all regret the time I spent writing this story, and I'm happy; I'm glad so many people got to enjoy this, and I'm also glad that I dedicated myself to something and finished it in the end, despite how massive it all turned out to be. Four years ago, I never would have believed that MPII would grow into what it's become, but this is my great accomplishment. Like James, I've found happiness and satisfaction, having fought hard for something I truly believe in: my writing. It's no exaggeration to say that MPII changed my life; writing all this made me a better author and storyteller, and even more than that it, through a series of coincidences, brought to me EXiku, the woman I love more than anything. Even if the story had ended terribly, it's all worth it if only for the chance I was given to meet someone as incredible as her, and to fall in love and be happy.

Thank you, everyone who ever read MPII, even if you never made it to the end. Thank you so much, because without you I'd have never finished the story at all, and I wouldn't be where I am now. You give me hope, not only that I'm a good writer and that MPII was worth all the time I spent writing it, but also that someday I can become a true writer. This means more to me than I can express in words, but I suppose if I'm to be a great writer, I should have to learn how to express anything, even that. All I can say is, again: thank you.

I wanted to make this a special anniversary, especially since it's also the very final chapter in the story, and so I went all-out to bring you all the art I could muster. So, to send the story off, here's a collection of all the art I've commissioned for this one day - I hope you enjoy!

Lucina from Fire Emblem, dressed as Caesar, by Artee

A sketch of Caesar, by Phearo

A fancy shaded picture of Caesar, by Phearo

Nigel and Enrico's duel, by Jelly

Katalin, by RossC90

Scathach, by Huitante

Caesar in the End, by KAIZA

Tomorrow, when I get a chance, I'm going to post something interesting - just some facts about MPII and the writing of it, some things that were changes and ideas I used to have, and all that. It might be a bit of fun to see what I came up with as I ramble on about things that never were.

[SeiKeo]

Damn.

[The Green Flame]

What an ending.

[KAIZA]

Oh, hey guys, haven't been here in years; what have I missed? : D
Five, I left you a belated present, check your inbox.

[Mattias]

ODY!!!!!!

Motherfucking Odyseuss saves the goddamn story! WOOT!

Nice finish Five. I really liked the bit with Francois biting the bullet (heh), and the Saber Fight was really good too. A little bit disappointed we didn't get a final Saber/James lemon there. The final fistfight there was giving me Metal Gear vibes there, particularly the Ocelot/Snake fight in GotP.

I still want a final tally/roll call based on that power level list yo gave us at the start. Like Every Servant, their identity, cause of death/Chapter coupled with identity of Master with Nation affiliation and their exit from the story.

As a final note, I was watching this while the Kill la Kill dub was on, so here's the suspiciously apropos background music I coincidentally was hearing during

Saber's Final Farewell

Ardem and James' Fistfight for JUSTICE

Saber and James at the Mall

Oh yeah, And great story Five. It dragged in places *cough*GD*cough* Spend up to a fucking sprint in others, but it was really good overall. The biggest draw was also it's Achilles Heel. You had so goddamn many characters that keeping track of them needed 'pro sports at trade deadline' levels of flowcharts. Still as one of the two stories that got me to finally stop lurking here, I'm sad to see it come to an end.

I'm sure your next project is going to be going back to the start and touching up some of those early chapters you fell so embarrassed about. Although personally I'd enjoy a continuation of your other story that got me to de-lurk. So, Shiroko III: With a VengencePorn, When!?


Seriously though, Kudos Man.








But also seriously, get on that Porn.

[KAIZA]

Although personally I'd enjoy a continuation of your other story that got me to de-lurk. So, Shiroko III: With a VengencePorn, When!?

I second this notion; I'll never forget, Five! :3c

[Five_X]

Damn.

Leo-senpai, are you proud of me?

What an ending.

Hopefully a good one! I had to write out 12,000 words in one day to finish it... whew. It was worth it, I think.

Oh, hey guys, haven't been here in years; what have I missed? : D
Five, I left you a belated present, check your inbox.

Ehehehe~

You missed a hell of a lot, I think! But the picture is good (and timely!) either way.

ODY!!!!!!

Motherfucking Odyseuss saves the goddamn story! WOOT!

Nice finish Five. I really liked the bit with Francois biting the bullet (heh), and the Saber Fight was really good too. A little bit disappointed we didn't get a final Saber/James lemon there. The final fistfight there was giving me Metal Gear vibes there, particularly the Ocelot/Snake fight in GotP.

I still want a final tally/roll call based on that power level list yo gave us at the start. Like Every Servant, their identity, cause of death/Chapter coupled with identity of Master with Nation affiliation and their exit from the story.

As a final note, I was watching this while the Kill la Kill dub was on, so here's the suspiciously apropos background music I coincidentally was hearing during

Oh yeah, And great story Five. It dragged in places *cough*GD*cough* Spend up to a fucking sprint in others, but it was really good overall. The biggest draw was also it's Achilles Heel. You had so goddamn many characters that keeping track of them needed 'pro sports at trade deadline' levels of flowcharts. Still as one of the two stories that got me to finally stop lurking here, I'm sad to see it come to an end.

I'm sure your next project is going to be going back to the start and touching up some of those early chapters you fell so embarrassed about. Although personally I'd enjoy a continuation of your other story that got me to de-lurk. So, Shiroko III: With a VengencePorn, When!?

Seriously though, Kudos Man.

I'd always planned for Odysseus to be there at the end; in a way, he's one of the great symbols of the story: a man called to a war fought over honour and social principles that destroyed all those who took part, not least of all himself, though he survived. Just as Odysseus lost twenty-odd years to the war and his return home, so too did James, mentally and emotionally, age far more than he needed to.

All true fistfights, I think, are inspired by Guns of the Patriots! :3

Though this one was certainly more one-sided...

I have a list of every single character in a Google doc, but I don't mind fixing it up now and adjusting it to something like what you're after. Now that the story is over and there are no more spoilers to worry about, I can freely share it with everyone! Though, in my opinion, there aren't too many characters; they just weren't as well-defined as I would like in the start, and I got off with a bad foundation. Not to mention some characters just not showing up for a few chapters, which at my slowest posting rate turned out to be a good few months to half a year. As an actual book, I think it would work better. I mean, consider it this way: MPII is about twice as long as the Lord of the Rings trilogy all together, yet probably doesn't even have half as many characters to keep track of. MPII is set on a very, very small scale relative to other books of its... well, girth.

Sadly, I'm not going to be working on any fanfiction for a long while, not as far as I can see. I may have free time, but soon I'm going to have to start putting that towards a new novel project, a work of original fiction that I aim to get published! What I have planned is a grand, immense fantasy series, based around a fictionalization of the Diadochi Wars, the conflicts both martial and political between Alexander the Great's Successors.

[dontpressenter]

After finishing this, I went to check the date of the first post, which surprised me a great deal. You don't realise how long 'four years' is really, until one sees the 'August 22nd, 2011'. I can only imagine what it must have been like, traversing such a journey over that period of time.

Here's the perspective of someone who discovered the existence of this fic a couple of weeks (and some nights of 'I should sleep, but like hell is this a good stopping point') ago.

Obviously I liked it. If I hadn't stated it so plainly before, the fact that I did slog through its entirety is proof of how I believe it was worth slogging over. On the other hand, it was definitely a slog. There were many times where I did want to drop it and the feeling of 'I spent this much time on it, dammit, I'm not going to drop it now' was the strongest reason of me staying. If I had been reading this whilst it was still being written, there might have been a greater chance of me abandoning it entirely, especially if it felt that there was little to no chance of this having a conclusion.

Yet here I am, typing my thoughts after the end, and any regrets are too insignificant to mention.

To be perfectly honest the thing that made me decide to read this in the first place was Caesar. Genderflipped Caesar, but Caesar nonetheless. Throw in other seriously cool dudes like Hannibal and Napoleon? Sign me up. Those characters, their values, and how they interacted with each other was the selling point for me, and still one of my favourite elements of this, if not my outright favourite element. Another thing I liked was the relationships between Master and Servant, and how said relationships shift as the war goes on.

As I'm typing, I feel that this fic has two halves, and I can recall one half much more clearly than the other. A side effect of reading so much in a relatively short amount of time, I guess, but also I feel a lot of it had to do with 'The Invocations'. As stated before, I was drawn to this fic by the identity of many of the servants and was actually looking forward to the General Dialogue bit. However, much like the Generals themselves, the arc itself was very much a disappointment to my expectations. It was the start of the slog, if you will.

And then slap bang in the middle of the slog I was told to read Invocations, which involved multiple characters that I had not read about nor cared about.

So the fic kind of split in two; the 'West Half' involving James, Caesar, Nigel, Hannibal, etc. and the 'East Half' involving Demon-girl, some Russians, and Ilse, whose name I remember because she's hot. [Aside: I have no idea how you made Gil/Ilse as good as you did, but well done for writing a lemon between two characters I don't particularly care for that was compelling to me.]

Seriously though, it was far easier to read and care about the 'West Half' because those were the people I'd been reading about for a while. I can only imagine how much the effect would have been compounded if I had been reading along when it was posted. Maybe forcing me to be patient would have made me appreciate the 'East Half' more. I don't know.

Things did pick up considerably after the General Dialogue though, and Eleanor's death is quite possibly my favourite bit off the top of my head. Eleanor and Monty overall were extremely enjoyable. Eleanor is to Alexander as I am to Genghis; she, as a character, surpassed my expectations the most.

Francois' fall was also something I enjoyed. Well, maybe not enjoyed, but the tragedy was convincing to me. Fit the whole 'character with admirable traits brought down by his fatal flaws' to a tee.

Now to James and Caesar. I didn't enjoy them as much as I feel I should have, and I think it's because their falling out in the General Dialogue arc was long enough to make their making up and falling in love afterwards to seem rapid? Rushed? Maybe. Despite this, they were enjoyable characters in their own right.

Huh. Thought I had more to say. I guess the last thing I do have to type is well done. Congratulations for finishing such a large project where so many others have disappeared into the aether. It always is a bit depressing to be enjoying a story, only to end abruptly and finding out it hasn't been updated in years. But you've finished! If you haven't already, put your right hand on your left shoulder, your left hand on your right, and give yourself a big hug.

All the best on your future endeavors.