Prologue – A Wizard Did It
DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and TYPE-MOON, along with whomever they’ve happened to license them to, such as Geneon, Funimation, A-1 Pictures and Netflix.
This is a not-for-profit, just-for-fun project.
Century Hotel, Misaki City
“Fate/Kaleid Liner Prisma Illya” Universe
Disgusted, Zelretch stopped the DVD. Really, he’d had such high hopes for this; how often did he get the chance to view a parallel reality without using Kaleidoscope? And it had such potential: the scale, the ideas, some of the characters—but only some of them, sadly.
And that was without going into the way the mediocre storytelling couldn’t seem to decide who the protagonist even was . . .
Mordred was the “Saberface” of the series, therefore tradition dictated it ought to be her; and failing that, that Caules kid looked like the “typical” protagonist—going by his ex-apprentices’ choice in students, anyway. And instead . . . Honestly, even for a homunculus, that “Sieg” kid had less personality than a brick wall, and the way the plot kept giving him improbable abilities at the last second—
(An inner chuckle almost bubbled out of his chest at the irony and hypocrisy of that thought, being who he was and what he was considering, but Zelretch manfully suppressed it.)
“Fan fiction is supposed to be free, and more importantly, it's not supposed to be transformed into a big-budget anime series,” the ancient vampire grumbled, making a mental note to himself to figure out something amusing to the original scenario writer.
He couldn’t interfere in that world easily or very often—spoilers being the least of the problems involved—but a source of this much annoyance really warranted some personal attention.
“Honestly,” he muttered to himself, “I could’ve done a better—”
Zelretch paused, his inner “IDEA!” light springing to life.
“Hm . . .” Diving into the Kaleidoscope was one option, but the faster way, since he was already set up in this nice suite and didn’t want to move, was—there.
According to the Moon Cell’s database, it had a “dead-end” timeline about to go under quantum lock; no one would miss it if he messed up a little—
(Why yes, Zelretch did have administrator access; he may not have built the thing, but he’d dealt with it often enough over the span of centuries and the breadth of possibilities to wrangle that much out of it.)
. . . Huh. It looked like the source of the “bad end” in that particular timeline was actually some form of trans-universal incursion, which was the sort of thing he should probably do something about anyway . . . Ah, well; two birds, one stone, and all that, right?
Speaking of which, didn’t his current apprentice’s little crush have a “save-the-world” organisation? And she did need a bit more seasoning—couldn’t have her getting too comfortable on her laurels, after all . . .
Several universes away, a particular iteration of Rin Tohsaka suddenly got the most awful chill down her spine.
All he had to do, Zelretch figured, was tell the Clock Tower of that world that he’d take over responding to Yggdmillennia’s challenge. They’d hardly gainsay him after losing almost fifty Enforcers—and besides, if they were supposed to be the Red Faction, it was only logical that they’d be his choices, right? Right!
So, who could he bribe—ah, “convince”—to join the team? And what sort of fun could he have, in terms of choosing catalysts for them . . .?
Clock Tower
An Apocryphal Universe
The gathered Lords of the Clock Tower stared at the pages displayed on the table before them. These had been handed to them by the sole surviving Enforcer of the group dispatched to Romania, to put down the secession declared by the Yggdmillennia family.
There were two pages, specifically. The first was from Yggdmillennia themselves, declaring their intention to wage a “Grand Holy Grail War,” and an invitation for seven magi of the Association to serve as opposing Masters in the conflict—if they so dared.
The second page, the Enforcer had assured them, had not been put into the envelope when the message had been completed, sealed, and handed to him. The man had unquestionably been driven at least half-mad by the sudden and brutal slaughter of so many of his comrades, to say nothing of terror for his own life, but was absolutely insistent on this point.
It read:
Don’t worry, I’m handling it!
Z.
It was truly difficult to say which missive upset them more.
In the end, however, it was officially decided to let things proceed as the Wizard Marshall wished—and to be silently grateful that someone else was the focus of his attention, for once.
Unofficially, however, more than one of them would’ve liked access to a remote viewing device and some popcorn; Zelretch’s pranks tended to be hilarious to anyone not his target.
Cafe Ahnenerbe
Grail Works Universe
Despite its Japanese location, the coffee shop was done in a Western style, with more than a few touches that Rin recognised as being German, having spent the time she had with Ilya. It wasn’t that that made her nervous about it; it was who had made her the appointment to meet here.
There were, it had to be admitted, some serious perks to being the acknowledged apprentice of the Wizard Marshal; she had access to the Clock Tower’s resources without necessarily being answerable to them. Oh, she was expected to display the same discipline as any other student—even for fear of Zelretch, the Clock Tower’s administration was only willing to bend so far—but in terms of oversight, or responsibility to their rules, she had a remarkable amount of latitude. That same latitude, however, came with other costs. Not least among them being the storied history of how Zelretch treated his apprentices.
Magi in general were ruthless, amoral beings—but when one was a centuries-old Dead Apostle with access to the Second Magic and a low boredom threshold that description took on entirely new depths.
(The less said about that overblown glitter pen, for example, the better, so far as Rin was concerned.)
And, as if in proof of that description, Zelretch chose that precise moment to appear. Literally—one instant the seat in front of her was empty, and the next, a grinning old man with wine-red eyes was staring at her.
“Boo!” the ancient vampire snapped as he materialised, and Rin would forever deny her shriek of reactionary panic.
It took her several moments to calm her racing heart; however, this was not a bad thing—it also gave her several minutes to bite back her instinctive responses to his “prank,” which her rationality insisted would not end well for her.
“. . . Hello, Master Schweinorg,” she finally ground out.
The Dead Apostle chuckled. “Such a disappointing face you’re giving me, Rin-chan . . . But, never fear; I’ll get a reaction out of you yet.”
Rin was a magus, and to be a magus was to walk with death. She had participated in a Holy Grail War ritual—she’d even fought and killed that monster that Ilya had called a Berserker—not, admittedly that it had done her much good . . . As such, however, she liked to reasonably consider herself made of relatively strong stuff. Not quite as literally possessed of “nerves of steel” as Shirou might be, but difficult to scare, and accustomed to dealing with fear when it did arise.
That statement, however, sent an entirely new degree of chill down her spine.
She covered her reaction with a sip of the tea she’d ordered, and was proud to note that her hand only trembled slightly when she set the cup down.
Subtly taking a deep breath, the young magus made an effort to keep her voice level as she asked, “What can I do for you, Master?”
Still grinning, the vampire’s eyes closed, and his voice became incongruously serious when contrasted with his expression.
“. . . It’s been some time since I took you as my apprentice, Rin-chan. It’s been nearly as long since your boyfriend started his pet project—”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Rin sputtered reflexively, unsuccessfully willing her cheeks not to blush.
Even aside from the fearsomeness of his reputation, it said something about the force of Zelretch’s personality—and how he got that reputation—that merely opening his eyes a crack stopped her blustering rant before Rin even got warmed up.
“. . . That’s better,” he said. Still looking at her through that half-lidded gaze, like a sleepy lion that had not yet decided whether or not to attack, he continued, “Now, having had all this time, Rin-chan, have you noticed the incongruity?”
“You mean the lack of explanation for how the Grail, having been tainted in the Third War, and absolutely toxic in the Fourth, was free of any impurity by the time we got there?” Rin said acerbically. “It was kind of hard to miss . . . Which means, of course, that Shirou has no clue,” she added under her breath.
Zelretch grinned slightly wider. “Good. Observational skills and logic can be taught, of course, but it’s far less time-wasting if an apprentice has them already. So, have you come up with any reasons for it?”
Rin frowned. “Short of the contamination’s somehow flowing entirely into the Lesser Grail during the Fourth War—which would explain Sakura and the presence of Rider—not really. If the taint remained in the Greater Grail, it should’ve been present when we claimed it. But it was the Lesser Grail fragments from the previous War that displayed corruption. I suppose, if Angra Mainyu was sentient enough within the Grail, he might have flowed into the Lesser Grail of the Fourth War as the easiest way to manifest; it wouldn’t have done him any good, since the Lesser Grail would’ve merged with the Greater, but . . .”
“But?” the vampire prompted.
“But why destroy the Greater Grail at all if that was the case?” Rin asked rhetorically. “It would’ve made more sense to destroy the Lesser Grail, then—and done a lot less in terms of collateral damage. And while a wish might not have been possible without the Greater Grail, my father’s notes indicate that sacrificing a seventh Servant would punch a hole through to the Root . . .”
“Emiya Kiritsugu was a more skilled magus than his son, but no less unconventional,” Zelretch said noncommittally.
Rin snorted, but managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. “It would be impossible for him to have been less skilled . . .” Returning to the subject at hand, she concluded, “But that aside, it doesn’t answer your question, does it, Master?”
“No,” Zelretch agreed. “It does not. But that question does lead into why I called you here today.”
Rin straightened, bracing herself for the worst.
“I have a test for you, apprentice—”
Here it came . . .
“Under my sponsorship, as of tomorrow, you’re going to participate in the Great Holy Grail War.”
WHAT?!
It was only as she registered the stares of the serving staff that Rin realised she’d said that out loud . . .
Writer's Notes: Why yes, I am insane, and probably won't be taking this one too seriously - for better or worse . . .
Chapter 1 – Setting the Board
DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and TYPE-MOON, along with whomever they’ve happened to license them to, such as Geneon, Funimation, A-1 Pictures and Netflix.
This is a not-for-profit, just-for-fun project.
Avalon Castle, Phantasmagoria Island (Grail Works, Ltd. Headquarters)
Outside the boundaries of time and space
“Another Holy Grail War?” Shirou exclaimed in disbelief.
“Yes,” Rin affirmed, “and a really weird one, at that.”
She distributed the pamphlets Zelretch had given her for this purpose, which were entitled “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to the Great Holy Grail War.” Rin actually found it amusing that “Idiot” had been crossed out and replaced with “Shirou” scribbled above it, but she’d never tell Zelretch that.
Encouraging him, after all, could only lead to disaster.
“Huh,” said Ilya. “So I don’t exist at all, you’re some kind of martial arts magus, and Sakura . . .”
An embarrassed squeak suddenly came from her sister’s place at the discussion (actually, the dining room) table, and a quick glance in her direction showed that the youngest among them was making a nearly-flawless attempt to imitate a cherry’s colouring to go with her name. Apparently, she’d found the accompanying pictures of her counterpart.
Personally, Rin couldn’t blame her for being mortified. In addition to possessing a nearly-Amazonian physique—even in that universe, Sakura wasn’t tall enough to truly qualify for the title—her analogue was covered in some form of body oil, as evidenced by the way her skin positively glistened under the lighting . . .
Rin considered, for a moment, what she should be angrier about. Was it the fact that Sakura was apparently an Edelfelt in that universe—judging by the “helpfully”-labelled picture of the drill-tailed blonde next to her—given their families’ history, and the efforts she’d undergone in regaining her sister? Or was it the fact that Shirou was trying not to stare at them both, with mixed success?
After said moment of consideration, she went with her default option: the latter, of course.
“If we could get back on topic . . .?” the dark-haired magus said icily, fixing Shirou with her patented glare.
“In any case,” she continued. “Our altered lives mean that while my presence might not be questioned, Sakura showing up without Luvia would be. And your appearance might be even more problematic,” she added to Shirou, “because I’m apparently not the only Master already selected for this ‘Red Faction.’”
She tapped the page of the pamphlet which listed the Red Faction’s forces, in particular, one name:
Assassin of Red (True Identity: ???)
Master: Kotomine Shirou
Shirou choked. “KOTOMINE Shirou?!”
“It might be a coincidence,” Rin admitted, “but I doubt it—this is the sort of prank the Old Man would pull, just to unsettle me. And having two of you around, likely with different Servants, would just cause far too many problems.” She sighed. “Our only saving grace is that apparently this ‘Ruler’ Servant is the Administrator for the Great Holy Grail War—if it was Kotomine again, I’d kill him first and damn the consequences.”
Shirou looked like he really wanted to argue—lethal options were never something he liked to resort to, and the purpose of the Works was to save people—but with a visible effort, he held his tongue. That, right there, was a mark of how much Kirei Kotomine had infuriated him, Rin decided—or how well Shirou was taking to being housebroken. Either was a good sign, in her opinion.
“So if one or more of us tagging along as ‘extra’ Masters is out,” the redhead said instead, “we can still send Saber or Rider along with you, right? Or have one of them hiding in the background, at least?”
This time it was Ilya who shook her head. “If they’re defeated, they’ll be absorbed by the Grail system—it’s the one dimensional effect I can’t protect them against, because it’s part of what allows them to be here in the first place. And since the local Grail will be closer . . .”
Shirou scowled. “Damn it! There has to be something else we can do, besides just sending you off on your own!”
“I can do reconnaissance,” Ilya volunteered. “In theory, I should be able to know all that the local Grail does about the state of the War—Servant and Master identities, locations, who’s been defeated. . .”
“. . . That’s something, I suppose,” the redhead grumbled. “But it still doesn’t feel like enough.”
“. . . Well, there is at least one other Master candidate around,” Rin allowed, turning to Ilya. “That is, if you’ve managed to locate Kurai?”
The druid didn’t have Magic Circuits, being from an entirely foreign paradigm—and one closer to the Age of the Gods, at that—but he was still a potential source of prana for a Servant. And a massive one, at that; on the Servant scale, he was close to B-ranked. That was even leaving aside his not-inconsiderable physical skills, and other supernatural abilities. He could be a great help, admittedly; even just his ability to shape-shift would be invaluable, allowing him to gather information and largely manage to pass himself off as her familiar . . .
. . . Of course, that was if he was even still alive, after what had happened in Spira.
Ilya sighed. “No. There’s no sign of the druid, or his original persona, anywhere on Spira. If he died, then he probably got recycled by the Root—assuming that he’s subject to universe’s metaphysical laws at all, and not claimed by Spira’s afterlife, the afterlife of the Dungeons and Dragons world, or his own, instead. But since I felt the enchantment binding the character to the player break, I still think there’s a chance he’s alive . . . But unless or until he contacts us, there’s no way to confirm that.”
“So, basically, we’re waiting for him to walk through a Door?” Shirou asked, obviously exasperated. Not that Rin blamed Shirou for his frustration—with as much as the redhead “wore his heart on his sleeve,” as the Westerners said, it was easy to understand why.
Kurai was the first person the Works had helped, and he’d stayed on partly because he’d felt he owed them for that. The druid had been the logical choice to send to Spira—he knew the world, the environment, the players and the threats—and to be completely honest, he’d succeeded far beyond anyone’s expectations.
Spira had been saved from Sin, permanently. That had been the task, and while there’d been more than a few unexpected complications, it had been fulfilled. But in the process, Kurai had also managed to ensure that entirely new races had also been saved in the process, from what Ilya had discovered—and from worse than “mere” extinction, at that: from being entirely unmade from existence.
It was the sort of choice that Shirou would’ve made without hesitation—and still might make. Rin hoped that being on the receiving end, for once, made him reconsider that.
“I’m afraid so, Onii-chan,” the Grail spirit confirmed apologetically, glancing at Rin in commiseration. After all, she might playact at childishness, and be naïve about living in general, but Ilya wasn’t an idiot, and she knew her brother—she knew what was bothering him, too.
“It’s the only way we’ll find him,” Ilya continued, “Short of his doing something big that we can track—like, say, summoning a Servant. And since the original person that became Kurai wasn’t at all magical, that’s just not going to happen.”
Arvandor
The Olympian Glades of Arborea, the Outer Planes
Roughly an hour ago
The Seldarine gathered, to wield their powers as they had not for dozens of millennia, though they were mere shadows of what they’d once been. They gathered, to heal a world, to lay a foundation for that world’s future . . . And in so doing, save a race of their children that, until recently, had been thought long since lost: the Ssri-Tel’Quessir, the dark elves who had become the drow, redeemed by sacrifice to become dark elves once more.
Unfortunately, that “race” represented a very small fraction of the drow; most of them remained corrupted by the demonic blood that had created them, to say nothing of the influence of their goddess, Lloth the Spider Queen. As such, they were at terrible risk—Lloth had never been one to take challenges to her rule over the drow lightly, and the Ssri-Tel’Quessir had earned her wrath when they had been drow elves, merely by worshipping her daughter, Eilistraee, over herself. That they had now disassociated themselves from the drow—and thus, from her—entirely . . .
No, Lloth would see that as an insult she could never bear. She—and by extension, her followers—would not stop until all traces of the Ssri-Tel’Quessir’s very existence had been utterly eliminated from the face of Aber-Toril. And that was not a fate that Corellon Larethian was prepared to countenance. Not in his role as leader of the Seldarine, the gods of the elven peoples, and not in his role as the Father of All Elves . . . Nor would he tolerate it as Eilistraee’s father, either.
His brilliant, beautiful daughter was gone—a great and terrible loss to a mortal elf, much less an immortal one. All that remained of her were the elves she’d sacrificed herself to save. He would not allow them to fall before Lloth’s evil.
Labelas Enorath knew this, of course. The Lord of the Continuum was, if not omniscient, as close to it as any god could truly claim to be. He had to be: the realms of fate, time and history were his to shepherd. He knew more of the future, and the secret workings behind it, than even Corellon himself—it was why he had allowed the solar to respond to the summons of a mortal, and grant the wish that mortal made. Because he knew what would have been the fate of the dark elves, without that wish . . .
“. . . You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange this, Labelas,” Corellon remarked. “Are we now to find out why?”
The scholar winced. He had thought he was being rather subtle, actually—he had to be, as he was working in realms normally forbidden even to deities . . . Or at least, deities of his level. It was normally restricted to Lord Ao alone; thus, he’d had to be exceedingly careful in his actions, lest he draw the Overgod’s attention—or worse, alert others to the existence of the path he’d used to reach those places. Only chaos could come from that . . .
“I merely sought to fulfill my duties as a member of the Seldarine, Lord Coronal, and protect a tribe of the mortals we oversee,” Labelas replied lightly. “That they are a tribe previously lost to the memory of any mortal living, and barely recalled even in history, made it a duty I thought required any and all efforts I could exert.”
And because, the god did not add, very soon now, as elves and immortals would reckon such things, the great upheavals that had plagued their world would culminate in a truly mighty cataclysm. And in response to that chaos, Lord Ao, the Overgod, would rewrite the very Tablets of Fate, changing the history and very nature of the Seldarine, but restoring the Realms to much as they had been before. Dead deities, including Eilistraee, would be restored to life; and the Dark Maiden would take up her work of attempting to redeem the drow once more—because the dark elves which had already been restored would cease to be, in any significant fashion.
The drow would be all that remained of them once more.
His task was to ensure that history was neither forgotten, nor altered. Labelas would not have stopped the Overgod from performing the act he would, even if he had possessed the power to do so . . . But neither did he wish for such a momentous event as the restoration of the true dark elves (as opposed to the drow, who were often referred to by that name) to be lost. It was an impossible dilemma, even for a god . . .
And in confronting it, he had discovered the existence of a Door—and what lay beyond it.
The mortals there were not yet prepared to deal with the scale of the problem that lay before him; not in the time which remained. But through them, he might be able to allow someone who was to act. And so, Labelas had sought a cat’s-paw, and made his transgressions—and the result had been everything he could have hoped.
“It is a truly beautiful world,” remarked Deep Sashelas—and as a god of beauty, as well as knowledge, magic, and the sea, he ought to know. “Perhaps the Alu-Tel’Quessir could benefit from it, as well?”
Labelas nodded. The sea elves were, in their way, as isolated from most elves as the dark elves would be, should they be returned to Toril. While they had no love for the drow, they had less history of conflict with them, as well; and as the world of Spira was mostly oceanic, such a world potentially offered them vast new territories, away from their traditional enemies. Likewise, they too would be less affected by the coming cataclysm—though not unscathed—and have less effect on it. Entire tribes of them could disappear, and not be missed in the histories—mostly because they would disappear, anyway.
“. . . Do you truly intend to kill the mortal, Lord Coronal?” inquired a feminine voice, and hearing it drew all male attention towards its source.
Hanali Celanil was the goddess of love and beauty among elves—their answer to the humans’ Sune Firehair, and a rival of Aphrodite, on the rare occasions when the Seldarine and the Olympians contested with one another. Her most common features, as now, were those of a sun elf: golden hair and eyes alongside porcelain-delicate features. She paired these with a body built to draw the eye, as her voice drew the ear—though she was not above taking other appearances, where and when she deemed it necessary; or simply for fun. She would hardly be the goddess of desire, otherwise.
Labelas coughed lightly. “He hardly seems your type, Hanali.”
The frown that crossed her features somehow failed to mar them in the slightest as she shot back, “He isn’t . . . Well, that half-elven aspect is kind of attractive, in a rugged sort of way—but there’s a human under it, and he’s not pretty at all.”
“Does he have a lover, then? Or perhaps he possesses some especial talent for artisanship?”
She snorted delicately, her expression answer enough.
Now it was Corellon’s turn to frown, as he understood the point Labelas was making. “Then what is your interest, Hanali? Gentle though you are, it’s unusual for you to be so concerned over the fate of a mortal—and a human, at that.”
“I’m concerned because he does love,” she answered. “That is at the core of this: that he is willing to die because he loved Eilistraee, in his fashion, as he loves all elves.” She shrugged. “It’s not romantic love, really—little more than the wondrous fascination we evoke in humanity. To some extent, that’s also true of Spira itself, and of those people he works for . . . But given the service that he’s performing for us in its name, I would find his death to be a poor repayment of that love.”
“So long as his resolve holds,” Corellon replied, “it should not be necessary; ’twould hardly be a worthy test, otherwise. But the question would then remain, of what to do with him afterwards . . .”
“Toril is no place for him,” Labelas said firmly. Had any of the other gods—even his fellows among the Seldarine—known even half of the sort of knowledge that was in that mortal’s head, or even just known of it . . .
Toril would not survive the ensuing conflicts.
“Nor, I fear, would consigning him to Spira do our cause any favours,” he forestalled the next obvious choice, not unkindly. “Should the truth of his nature be revealed, it would undo all the groundwork laid for the Ssri-Tel’Quessir . . . And in truth,” he added, doing his best to sound off-handed, “he does not fit well with his compatriots, either. He is no more of their world than ours, and the differences, though often subtle, leave him somewhat adrift.”
Hanali smiled, and it brightened the whole of the glade. “Then perhaps we can change at least that?” She turned to a fellow goddess. “Sehanine, what would you say to the idea of trying to catch his spirit for a little reincarnation . . .?”
The moon goddess raised an eyebrow in response, her expression intrigued.
Labelas very carefully kept his own expression blank. From here, things became very delicate . . . But, handled carefully, it would place the mortal safely away from Toril and its associated planes—for a certain value of safe, at least. Moreover, it would return the mortal to his people and his work, which was best for all concerned.
All that aside, however, he had to admit to some amusement about what was about to happen.
After all, in all his tens of millennia of life, he’d never had the opportunity to meddle before—and it always seemed to be so much fun . . .
Not long ago
A Servant Universe far, far away . . .
“. . . It seems, coincidentally, that you were on the same wavelength as someone else’s mind. They would appear to be a mage. But we are headed to a battlefield. Information leaks and unknown elements cannot be permitted. I’m going to remove the source of the problem.
“Maybe you’re still listening to my words through this Black Knight as a vessel. If you are . . . I would like to say goodbye. Having someone listen to me when I needed it . . . I think that was nice. When I succeed, and make a name for myself as a Servant, maybe we can talk like this again. When that time comes . . .
“No, that’s just wishful thinking. She and my deceased Master would both laugh at the thought.
"See you. Whoever you are, from a Servant Universe far, far away . . . May the Alternium be with you, always . . .”
En route towards Trifas, Romania
July 1, 2004
He started awake after that, his heart pounding and thoughts racing.
What the hell did I eat that had me dreaming of a mashup of “Star Wars” and Saber A—
His eyes widened in sudden realisation.
. . . Awww, SHIT!
Spending several seconds cursing silently in every language he knew (which was quite a few more than he previously recalled), he unbuckled his seatbelt and made his way to the back of the plane, before locking himself in a vacant bathroom stall and staring at himself in the mirror.
And it was himself, more or less. Not simply because his memories insisted that it was, but because it more or less matched what he’d looked as a human, prior to getting cursed into his half-drow druid character—though admittedly, minus about fifteen to twenty years of aging and plus about fifteen to twenty kilos of muscle.
And going back to the aforementioned memories . . .
Leaving aside the newfound (or perhaps, merely newly-awakened?) part of him that insisted he was a TYPE-MOON fan and general failure in life who had briefly become something more, his current sense of self-identity insisted that he was a magus by the name of “Godafrid Úa Súilleabháin.” To perhaps no one’s surprise, he often went by “Frid,” or answered to “Sully” among friends, rather than hear people butcher the pronunciation, saving the full name for formal or legal occasions.
The truly sad part, to that new source of memories, was that this was a perfect fit for the Nasuverse’s terrible habit of mangled-if-not-utterly-ridiculous “names” when it came to foreign-born characters; it also happened to be the Old Irish pronunciation of his actual name. He’d used it before, for certain D&D characters . . .
Didn’t matter—what did was getting back to the Works . . . Assuming that wasn’t part of the dream, anyway.
If it was, would the part of me I think of as “me” still be insisting that I was in a fictional universe?
. . . He hated it when he made sense like that.
Taking a deep breath, he spoke, seemingly to the air.
“Ilya-chan, if you’re listening, I could really use a Door . . .”
To his immense disappointment, exiting the bathroom revealed the aisle of the plane, not the foyer of Avalon Castle.
Resigning himself to being stuck here for the foreseeable future (if not his entire life), he made his way back to his seat, and began organising his thoughts and memories.
All right, for the moment, I’m stuck in the TYPE-MOON universe—or one of them, at any rate—being “Frid,” who is . . . A freelancer magus?
That was both good and bad. Good, in that confirmed the existence of magecraft, and ruled out the “EXTRA/Extella” incarnation of the universe; given his history with technology, getting involved with the VR simulation of a supercomputer on the Moon just sounded like a ludicrously bad idea.
With all due apologies to the Emperor of Roses, not even Nero’s presence could probably make up for the amount of things that would likely go wrong if I got involved in that mess . . .
It was also good in that being a “freelancer” magus implied some level of power and competency, since freelancers were basically mercenaries for hire—and as such, frequently in conflict with the Enforcers of the Magus Association and the Executors of the Holy Church. As for the bad . . . Well, the prior statement pretty much summed it up, really.
And since I am not nearly bad-ass enough to be Emiya Kiritsugu, or even Bazett Fraga McRemitz, I’d hope that Frid spends a lot of time avoiding conflict for a freelancer . . .
A check of his most recent memories seemed to confirm that, at least; his present “job” had sent him travelling through a few European historical sites. Nowhere major, though, in magecraft terms—heck, one of them was a bloody tourist attraction! It was practically a vacation, which was why he’d only charged his transport expenses for the job. Even then, only for the international stuff; if he’d needed to take a cab or a train “in-country,” he’d written it off, just like his hotel and meal costs.
Honestly, I wouldn’t have charged at all, considering it’s a favour for her little brother, but there was just no arguing with that “You’re not family yet” stance of—
Frid blinked, coming to several heart-attack-worthy realisations at once.
First, he was apparently engaged.
Second, he was engaged to Fiore Forvedge Yggdmillennia.
And third, he was carrying “The Blueprints of Frankenstein!”, as he “recalled” jokingly referring to them.
Which meant that not only was he in the world of “Fate/Apocrypha” (and apparently deeply involved with some of the major characters, at that), the opening events of the Great Holy Grail War as he’d seen them were very much imminent—if not due to break out within hours of his arrival.
“Oh, bloody hell . . .”
Chapter 3 – Stacking the Deck
DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and TYPE-MOON, along with whomever they’ve happened to license them to, such as Geneon, Funimation, A-1 Pictures and Netflix.
This is a not-for-profit, just-for-fun project.
Sighișoara, Romania
June 30, 2004
Rin sighed as she settled into the hotel room. She’d been raised to be frugal, but she had to admit, it was nice to splurge every once in a while . . .
Not that there was a whole lot to this hotel—it was a “bed-and-breakfast” inn, not a five-star chain hotel. But as foreign as it was, there was a sense of coziness that she had to admit she liked. There were heavy blankets were on the bed, thick, shaggy rugs on the floor; meals were served in a Western-style dining room, but in a home kitchen rather than the industrial sort that a larger hotel would use.
There was also a minimum of electronic record-keeping, which made it less likely her name would pop up on anyone’s radar. Most magi weren’t up-to-date on technological capabilities—Rin herself (grudgingly) included—but there were always outliers; the Magus Killer was simply the most blatant example. It was part of why she was based here, rather than in Trifas proper, where the Grail War was to take place.
The presence of a magus in Yggdmillennia territory at this point in time virtually screamed “Association/Master of Red,” after all.
Of course, just because Rin was out of their city, it hardly meant she was out of their sphere of influence. Given what Yggdmillennia was pulling, they’d want to put agents out to locate incoming magi, so they were aware of retaliatory strikes before they were literally on their front doorstep. Fortunately, she had a cheat available: access to a Holy Grail that was capable of detecting potential Masters over the range of its system, and the ability to communicate with her.
Ilya’s senses weren’t a perfect fix; not every potential Master was a magus, and vice versa—Rin knew that better than anyone, after all. But she still had a hell of a lot more warning than any other magus in town of any competitors’ presence, which was a comfort. Especially when she had no idea who the hell else Zelretch might’ve drafted into this thing . . .
Kotomine Shirou.
Just thinking the name made her want to retch. Imagining what that bastard might have twisted Shirou into, given the blank slate he must have been when the Magus Killer found him . . . As distorted as the idiot was, at least there was something in him capable of caring. But if he’d been, not sacrificed like the rest of those poor children, but actually raised under Kirei . . .?
He would be a monster, walking around with her friend’s face (just a FRIEND!)—no more human than a Dead Apostle, Rin was sure, and less so than Zelretch.
The Servant class was enough of a tip-off, really; she knew that Kirei had been the Master of the Fourth War’s Assassin. That told her all she really needed to know about this analogue’s probable style, intentions, and personality. And according to the brief she’d been given, he was supposed to be the Church’s “official overseer”—which should raise alarms in itself, given the apparent existence in this War of a Heroic Spirit whose job was exactly that.
No, Rin was staying as far away from “Kotomine Shirou” as she could reasonably get. They might be listed as being in the same faction, but she was damned certain that they weren’t on the same side—and that there was something being plotted behind the scenes.
Really, Rin sympathised even more with Shirou’s frustration over not being able to do more with this. She was absolutely terrified—or she would be, if she let herself actually stop to think about what she was liable to be up against. Right now, her best hope was that Zelretch wasn’t selecting the members of this “Red Faction” solely for the purpose of screwing her over . . .
. . . And even that wasn’t her only hope.
None of the other Works personnel had actually asked, out loud, what Rin planned to do in regards to her Servant for this War. To summon a Servant, of course, one needed either high compatibility, or a catalyst, and preferably both—and for one Servant in particular, she did. A Servant she both cared about, and wanted to strangle; one that she could never trust around Shirou, or the Works, because he was liable to try and destroy one or both . . . But she could rely on him to come when she called.
And so, when she found an appropriately undisturbed space, and Ilya assured her she was unobserved, the Japanese magus got to work.
“For the elements: silver and iron.
The foundation: stone and the archduke of pacts,
And for my great master Schweinorg, let RED be the colour that I pay tribute to.
“Close the four gates, come forth from the crown,
And follow the forked road leading to the kingdom.
Fill, fill, fill, fill, fill—repeat five times, but when each is filled,
Destroy it.
“Heed my words: my will creates your body, and your sword creates my destiny.
If you heed the Grail’s call, and obey my will and reason, then answer me!
“I hereby swear that I shall be all the good in the world;
And that I shall defeat all evil in the world.
Seventh Heaven, clad in the Great Words of Power,
From the binding circle: thou, Guardian of the Scales!”
As expected, the blast of power erupted, forming into a familiar, red-clad shape—and as before, he smirked lazily at her before drawling, “My, my. Looks like I’ve—”
“Shut it, EMIYA,” the magus hissed icily. “We’ve got too much work to do for your bullshit.”
Archer started, nonplused. “Huh?”
Rin adopted a smirk of her own, savouring the look on his face.
Millennia Fortress
Trifas, Romania
July 1, 2004
Anyone who noted the tension in Frid’s posture as he walked the halls of the castle Yggdmillennia had claimed as their home might’ve been forgiven for assuming that it had to do with the literal army of golems and homunculi that could be glimpsed gathering in various places around the grounds. In point of fact, the source of said tension was a lot simpler—and more complicated, all at once.
I’m ENGAGED?! How the HELL did THAT happen? I’ve dated exactly once in my entire life and that relationship crashed and burned spectacularly!
Again, most people would be forgiven for assuming that he would be freaking out over being at ground zero for the mystical death match about to start—and if he’d actually been a genuine, trained-from-birth magus, Frid probably would’ve been. There were two factors that prevented him from doing that, however.
First and foremost, Frid’s identity and life had been grafted onto a man who’d been literally months away from being eligible for the title role in “The 40-Year-Old Virgin”; someone who’d given up on all possibility of something like this ever happening. And secondly, from what little Frid had been able to glean from memory about “his” life before waking up on that plane, he didn’t know about what Yggdmillennia planned to do.
And that, of course, meant that freaking out over something he shouldn’t actually be aware of would raise a nice, big warning flag to the clan of paranoid magi whose stronghold he was currently walking through—decked out in neon lights, no less.
So, better to focus on the freak-out topic that wasn’t liable to get him immediately killed and/or vivisected (one did not preclude the other), since, while he’d never seen evidence of it, mind-reading was apparently a thing that TYPE-MOON magi could do.
. . . Although, that was assuming that Saber wasn’t just being a jerk to Shirou, of course—or a mistranslation by the dubbing people. Still, better safe than strapped to a table; he seemed to recall that Astolfo’s Master had a thing for bondage dungeons . . .
“Seemed to recall”—honestly, that was part of the problem.
Depending on how you looked at it, Frid was a pushing-forty menial labourer, gamer and geek who’d woken up from what had to be a fever dream with an additional quarter-century of memories in his head—with supporting evidence of identity—or . . .
Or he was a twenty-five-year-old magus who’d woken up remembering almost forty years' worth of memories—with a supporting personality—that told him everything around him was ultimately fictional; at least, from his perspective. The dissonance between the two identities was making it hard to sort through everything, since he’d either increased his life experiences by sixty percent, or one hundred and sixty percent, and a lot of them overlapped.
If he’d been, say, a wizard in the style of the “Harry Potter” series, with access to Occlumency—or perhaps a druid with a genius-level intellect and a Wisdom score eclipsing that of many deities—then maybe it would’ve been easier to handle. But as it was, straightening out who he was, what he knew, and how, was taking time.
Thus, he was kind of fixated on the one point, right now.
According to the memories he’d managed to untangle, they’d first met in London, as fellow prowlers of the Clock Tower’s library. Fiore was a first-rate magus, with a heart and older sister issues, not unlike a certain other “Fate” heroine—though really, it seemed to be a standard magus design . . .
(In a town some distance to the North, as well as one in the Far East, certain magi sneezed. The former vowed vengeance if she found out Shirou had taken her name in vain; the latter merely continued listening to her acquaintance’s proposition.)
In any case, the teenager was lovely, intelligent, charming, and enthusiastic about learning; qualities his misanthropic self—one of the many points of commonality between his lives—had little defence against. When it came to social cues, he might be oblivious enough to qualify as a harem protagonist (honestly, too—that one attempt at dating? He’d had no clue the girl was into him until she’d said so), but he also had manners.
Seriously—when a pretty girl smiled upon seeing him, and invited him to sit, with no knowledge of ill-intent on her part he was aware of, he was supposed to refuse . . .?
They’d become friends, basically, and (while they’d each eventually left the Clock Tower, for one reason or another) kept in touch. It had actually encouraged Fiore to learn to use a cell phone, even if she’d been embarrassed at needing her little brother to teach her how—something he was reasonably sure that “canon” Fiore hadn’t really known how to do. For that matter, neither had he; his only cell phone had been an analogue one, and used only briefly.
The engagement request had come from her patriarch, Darnic—and hadn’t that been a surprise . . .
The actual origin and meaning of the name “Súilleabháin” and its variants was in some dispute; all most scholars could agree on was that it referred to the eyes: “bright-eyed,” “hawk-eyed,” or something similar. In Nasuvian lore, of course, that sort of name brought to mind a very specific connotation—as such, Frid had been unsurprised that his family’s work had revolved around refining their genetic propensity for, and the general power of, their Mystic Eyes.
In Japanese, what Frid possessed was called the “Yoseigan”—which sounded like it more rightly belonged in “Naruto” than the “Fate” series—alternately translated into “Fairy Eye,” “Glam Sight,” and (his personal nickname for it) “What is Seen Cannot Be Unseen.” In layman’s terms, it allowed him to see and make sense of things that the brain normally couldn’t process; high-speed movement was usually the given example. And it was true: using the Yoseigan, he could keep up with the kind of fighting Enforcers, Executors, or assassins like Soichiro Kuzuki, were trained to engage in—it was very handy for not just going down like a chump when he encountered one.
But it was more than that. Being able to see everything the eye possibly could, and see past the kind of bounded fields that used mental manipulation instead of physically bending light; being able to translate any writing, instantly . . . The eventual goal, Frid knew, was to see a way to the Root, but for the here and now?
It made spotting and disarming magical locks, and traps, a hell of a lot easier—hence his being hired for this job. . . Aside from the part the whole “fiancée” thing had to do with it, at least.
. . . And how the hell had he wound up with one of those, again?
Frid shook his head. Honestly, with the way he was having trouble sorting out his mind, and the general circumstances—if that fever dream had anything to do with reality, then he’d have suspected someone had slapped a Dungeons and Dragons true reincarnation or true resurrection spell on him. But those built a physical body out of elements of the world, if physical remains were unavailable to be transformed. That would explain his being a magus, but how would a TYPE-MOON world’s elements would have been available to use in the first place?
In a particular tube in the dungeons of the Millennia Fortress, taped to its otherwise empty insides, was a note:
Dear Yggdmillennia,
I.O.U. one (1) homunculus.
Sincerely,
Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg
P.S. Challenge accepted!
Taking a deep breath, Frid reminded himself that the metaphysics and reasons behind however he’d ended up here was, at this point, immaterial. Right now, he had a delivery to finish, and a boss to report to—who just happened to be his nineteen-year-old fiancée, and the mirror image of India Eisley at that age . . .
I’m almost freaking forty—so why do I feel like I’m back in high school . . .?
Fiore fidgeted in her chair, turning the tray of pastries on the table in front of her to be just so—making that the eighth time she had done so in the last five minutes.
Caules sighed. It was a sigh of long-suffering that would’ve been familiar to any sibling. While there was a certain impish delight to be had in watching his big sister squirm like this, by now it had long since passed the point of amusement and was rapidly descending towards the point of being irritating.
“Fiore,” he said at last, “there’s no need to get so worked up—”
“Ah!” Fiore bolted upright in her chair, startled, before looking to him, her complexion darkening in embarrassment. Though whether that was because of her behaviour, or the fact that she’d apparently forgotten he was even in the room, Caules couldn’t say.
“Sorry,” she murmured, not elaborating of what she was apologising for. “I’m just worried. We know his plane got in on time, but he didn’t call or come to the castle—”
“Because it was three in the morning,” Caules pointed out reasonably. “He likely got to sleep during the flight, but he wouldn’t have woken us that early outside of an emergency.”
Godafrid Úa Súilleabháin could fairly be said to be a lot of things—and “tactful” wasn’t always one of them—but he was generally polite.
“You’re right,” his sister admitted. “But I sent him on this mission, and if anything went wrong . . .” She worried her lower lip anxiously. “Even when catalysts like this are easy to find, they’re heavily guarded; if he got hurt . . .”
“You didn’t send him because he was the easiest to contact, or the cheapest,” Caules said. “You sent him because you could trust him to get the job done, and because he’s good at what he does.”
All true things—Caules had been amazed that Fiore had needed to badger the man into working for cost, never mind a fee. It wasn’t exactly the most financially sensible way to operate . . .
But that same sentimentality makes him an ideal match for Fiore, the younger magus thought. Especially when it’s paired with a vindictive streak like he’s got . . .
He hadn’t been sure what to expect of his big sister’s “pen-pal”—and knowing Fiore like he did, Caules assumed that she was seeing him more positively than the man deserved—so he’d done some digging of his own. Especially once Lord Darnic had proposed engaging Fiore to him; that was the head of Yggdmillennia’s right, but Caules was still going to make sure that Fiore was happy, regardless of all else.
What he’d discovered painted the picture of a magus . . . Who wasn’t much of one, really.
Oh, he had a bloodline of some age and recognition, but never a lot of influence or renown; and seeming little to no interest in the politics of the nobles above him. And he was regarded as intelligent and interested in learning, but he seemed to perform few if any experiments of his own, preferring to acquire knowledge from books, or scouring sites across the world for information—again, much like Fiore herself. Save that he tended to use his magecraft in meddlesome, albeit subtle, ways in the non-magical world around him. Wherever he tended to set up shop, for example, street crime rates took a sudden and sharp decline . . .
Which, Caules admitted, Fiore might also do, if our magecraft and Mystic Codes were such that she could manage it without drawing attention.
He also had a reputation in the mundane world as a translator and code-breaker; be it digital encryption or a long-dead pictograph, few ciphers could withstand his skills, apparently—and they were in high enough demand to command quite the sum. Even if the Yggdmillennia name and fortunes didn’t support the siblings, his income could have, and it would make a nice addition to the family coffers.
And that was on the mundane side of things; as a magus, there was the Mystic Eye trait of his bloodline to consider, and the fact that while he had only eleven Magic Circuits, they were apparently some kind of mutation—unusually dense, and as a result, strong enough to be capable of generating more, or denser, levels of prana than they would otherwise be able to support without sustaining damage . . .
Which might be capable of fixing Fiore’s legs, Caules mused to himself, if we could figure out how to transfer the quality; a denser, more robust set of Circuits might alleviate the strain that using them puts on her nervous system. But even if it doesn’t, if that quality is transferrable to any degree on a genetic level, like the Mystic Eyes supposedly are for his family . . .
The result, Caules supposed, could be a magus of truly terrifying capability—which made Lord Darnic’s proposition a sensible, even desirable one. But that was the political, and magus level of things. On the personal side—
Caules’ thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a maid, announcing the very subject of his thoughts; followed shortly by the man himself appearing.
“Good morning, Lady Fiore,” the freelancer said crisply, his professional expression spoiled somewhat by an underlying warmth in his voice, and a slight reddening of his cheeks. He turned and added in a slightly cooler tone. “Lord Caules.”
Caules nodded in response to the older man’s own, which prompted the freelancer to return his attention to Fiore, and continue, “I am pleased to announce the successful completion of the task you set me.” He un-slung the oddly patterned tube from his back—a carrying case such as were used for maps, scrolls, and similar documents.
“Behold!” he pronounced dramatically. “The BLUEPRINTS OF FRANKENSTEIN!”
In all defiance of the warm summer morning and the sunshine pouring in through the windows, ominous thunder rolled.
To her own embarrassment, Fiore eeped at the sudden sound, as Caules jumped—then stared at their guest, even as one hand rose to rub his temples.
“Did you honestly just use illusion magecraft for a practical joke . . .?” her little brother groaned disbelievingly.
“My sense of the dramatic demanded no less,” Frid confirmed with a grin. “I mean, how many chances am I going to get for something like that?”
Fiore quickly brought her hand up to cover a giggle. Frid’s sense of humour could be odd at times—and inappropriate or dark in how and when it chose to come out—but there was a good-natured irreverence to it that tickled her own fancy. It was one of his more attractive features.
Not that he’s short of them, she thought, feeling her cheeks heat up again. With a deep breath, Fiore calmed herself; it wouldn’t do to give Caules more fodder to tease her with.
“If he realised how besotted you were with him, you might be in trouble,” her little brother had pointed out after their last phone call. “At least, you might be if he wasn’t already wrapped around your finger.”
Her face had burned for hours after that remark, and it put her future plans in a sour context. She was sure he would do as she asked, or at least try . . . But she didn’t like what it said about her that she was going to ask in the first place.
How could she not, though—?
Her attention was seized by the opening of the case, and the careful, almost reverential actions of removing and unrolling the pages that had been contained inside. Fiore leaned over to get a closer look as they were spread across the table—far from the pastries and coffee tray, obviously.
They were remarkably intact, given their age and the likely state they’d been in at the time they were last used—yellowed, naturally, and the inks were far from as vibrant as they could’ve been after nearly two centuries, of course. But the sort of water and mildew damage and outright fading one would’ve expected from a mundane document of this age, exposed to the elements, was not present.
“As I told you, I started in Ingolstadt,” Frid said. “Mainly having Shelley’s ‘novel’ to use as a basis for investigation, it made sense to begin where Victor was educated, and began his original experiments—I felt if the ‘creation’ scene held any accuracy, it was unlikely that he’d taken and carried the blueprints with him from that point.”
There would be more to it than that, of course, Fiore knew. Frankenstein had been a magus, if an unconventional one; even a satellite workshop, not intended to be permanent, would’ve been hidden, had defences . . .
“Failing that, I felt that the next best place to pick up traces was in the Orkneys,” he continued.
Where Frankenstein worked on the bride the creature demanded, Fiore mentally finished for him, the one he destroyed before completion.
“And I admit, that was a search,” Frid confessed. “Shelley didn’t exactly go into detail on where Victor was, and trying to trace a magus’ path from two centuries ago across all those little islands? Not easy.”
Fiore’s eyes lowered in shame. “I’m deeply sorry for making you go to so much trouble . . .”
He grinned—Frid almost never showed his teeth, but the degrees to which his mouth stretched differentiated his smiles from his smirks.
“I enjoyed it, and you knew I would,” he countered. “I told you I’d do something this fun for free.”
Her face heated up again. He had, too—but she’d had her pride. Still, she could imagine him tramping across the moors, senses alert for every possible detail, checking off areas on a map, making entries in his notebook . . .
She’d watched him do it in the Clock Tower’s archives, and the light in his eyes when he was on the hunt transformed his entire expression. Frid wasn’t a researcher in the scientific sense; he enjoyed knowing things, but didn’t do it for the sake of the knowledge. For him, it was about the finding—tracking down the hidden secrets, buried in places no one would think to look. It was one of the reasons they got along so well; and one of the reasons she loved him.
. . . Or at least, found him attractive—she didn’t think she knew enough about love to call it that, yet. In quieter moments between them, though, he’d confessed the same, so she felt reasonably secure on that end of things . . . Mostly.
“I wish I could’ve joined you,” Fiore murmured, and meant it. Books and such were her passion, but she did enjoy “field trips,” as Frid termed them, much as he loved libraries.
Unfortunately, while they were a romantic setting—for the Gothically-inclined, at least—the Scottish moors were not wheelchair-accessible.
“Me, too,” Frid said sincerely, and she blushed.
“Well,” Caules said suddenly. “Thank you for your efforts, Frid—these will be a great help to my project.” He gently picked up the pages, and then half-turned away, before adding, “And now, I’m going to leave before I need to see a dentist about all this sweetness I’m being exposed to.”
“C - Caules!” Fiore sputtered, suddenly having an entirely new reason to blush, and more fiercely at that. Her only consolation was that Frid was now blushing, too.
“Just for that,” the older male growled mock-fiercely, “I’m teaming with Lord El-Melloi II to whup you this weekend.”
Fiore cringed inwardly at the mention of the boys’ weekly “online gaming” sessions with one of the Lords of the Clock Tower. Caules did so as well, but more visibly.
“Ah, yeah,” the younger male said awkwardly. “About that . . . Sis, do you want to explain for me? Thanks!”
He departed without another word, leaving Fiore to fume silently over irresponsible little brothers leaving their older sisters holding the bag . . .
Fortunately, she’d prepared for something like this, and met her fiancé’s raised eyebrows with a gesture to sit down. Preparing him a cup of tea the way he liked it—Frid preferred coffee, she knew, but he wouldn’t have come here without having had his “daily allotment” of it already—she pushed the pastry tray towards him; it contained as many of his favourites as she’d been able to arrange for on short notice.
And from the way his eyebrows rose even higher than they’d already been, he noted that fact, as well.
“. . . Battle preparations in the castle, and bribery behind closed doors,” he murmured neutrally. “What war do you want me to fight in, Fiore?”
Inwardly, she winced at his choice of words—even as the part of her that was trained as a magus applauded his observational skills—but managed to keep it from showing on her face. “About that . . .” she began, echoing Caules.
Fiore explained about the history and nature of the Holy Grail War, the events of the Third War and the intentions of the Yggdmillennia Clan going forward. Throughout it all, Frid listened stoically, with that empty expression on his face that appeared whenever he wanted to mask his thoughts—or was really, truly angry.
“. . . And you’re all right with this?” he asked flatly, once she had finished.
Fiore winced again. It wasn’t the best segue into the part of the conversation she needed, if not wanted, to have—but it was unlikely she’d get a better one . . .
“. . . Not entirely,” she admitted quietly. “Which is why, though I’m ashamed to admit it, I have another, very selfish request to make of you.”
Taking his hands in her own, as well as a deep breath, Fiore steeled her courage, looked into his eyes, and pleaded.
“Will you please, please find a way to join the Red Faction . . .?”
Writer's Notes: As promised! Enjoy! :)
