Omake: I Was Wrong—THIS is the Weirdest Possible Servant . . .
Sighișoara, Romania
July 1, 2004
The last etchings made, Frid made a cut, and bleeding into his empty summoning circle, beginning to chant as he did so . . .
Ironically, Frid had a catalyst; he’d picked it up during a layover on his journey from the Orkneys. His pre-awakening reasoning, apparently, had been that it might be useful to the Yggdmillennia, given the scarcity of such things, after the widescale distribution of the Heaven’s Feel ritual; and if not, it would be an interesting, if macabre, souvenir. Post-awakening, he’d still intended to hand it over—even if the Servant it would almost certainly summon was no better than Jack the Ripper, the newcomer was (probably) more reliable . . .
And then Fiore had made her request before he could even mention it, and rendered the catalyst useless. For one thing, the Assassin slot was probably already filled (unless Zelretch had intervened to take out the unholy love-child of EMIYA and Kotomine Kirei), and for another, that one wasn’t at all compatible with him.
Some of the other versions, maybe—but I’m not sure any of them would be strong enough to survive this . . . Which means I’m stuck relying on the compatibility system.
Even as he began the incantation, Frid wondered—what sort of Servant was compatible with a Master who intended to betray his comrades in spirit, if not in fact, from the beginning? He had no particular interest in the Grail, himself, and no reason to care whether the Association or the Yggdmillennia wound up with it in the end; at least, not insofar as it was kept out of the hands of Kotomine Shirou or “Count Darnicula . . .”
Shirou—the real Shirou, to his mind—would’ve approved of that, he thought.
His only concern in this affair beyond that was regarding Fiore’s wellbeing, and to a slightly lesser extent, Caules’; only “slightly,” because he did like the kid, and Fiore’s was, obviously, invested in it.
So who will it be? Normally, I’d expect Hans, but under these circumstances? Medea was the betrayed, not the betrayer . . . Lancelot, maybe—or, since Mordred is a thing here, maybe her? It’d be nice to try and get her past her gender hang-up . . .
By its very nature, the Throne of Heroes existed outside of the normal boundaries of time and space. This was what allowed it to contain records on all Heroic Spirits; past, present and future. When contacted for a summoning, this nature allowed its records to know the nature of a catalyst used, and which sources to consult when compatibility was the judging criterion.
And as it happened, some of those sources were on a similar level . . .
[B] Contact established; analysing . . . Contact validity verified. Uploading data packet; upload complete. Analysing . . .
[Authority: Moon] detected. Category: [Administrator] confirmed. Quality: confirmed. Creating profile . . .
Profile: [Holy Grail War Master/Administrator/Special_Access/B] created. Analysing request . . .
Alert! Received data indicates potential conflict resolution measure:
[Conflict: 201303282030EXCCC_SM/01-06]
[Conflict: 201303282030EXCCC_SM/01-06/GO_20170501]
[Conflict: 201611102030EX_US/V02]
Analysing profile compatibility . . .
Confirmed. Solution created. Run? [Y]
Initialising [Rayshift.EXE] . . .
“. . . From the binding circle,” he finished in a thundering tone, “thou, Guardian of the Scales!”
Blazing light filled his vision, but his Mystic Eyes “saw” through the blindness, which revealed—
Sakura . . .?!
Any further thought on the implications of that were derailed, however, when the girl in question opened her mouth, and SCREAMED in existential horror.
“I’m MEAT?!”
Quick as a flash, even with his Eyes’ ability to process high-speed movement, she lunged at him, hands outstretched—
And latched onto him like a drowning man clutched a life-preserver.
“Sempai? You feel like Sempai, somehow—doesn’t matter, HELP ME! I’m made of meat, now, and I can’t access the Moon Cell, and thereareTHINGSmovinginmychest, AND I DON’T WANT TO BE MEAT . . .!”
Frid’s immediate attempts to answer were choked off, literally, by the death-grip she had on his torso—as it was, he could barely manage to raise his one free hand and pat her back in an attempt at reassurance.
And while his lungs sending making alarming signals about the sudden decrease in available oxygen, and his ribs made alarming sounds about their inability to stay intact under this level of pressure, Frid decided he wanted a refund on his Mystic Eyes.
Allows me to “see and comprehend things the brain can’t,” my ass—there’s no way to explain THIS . . .!
Chapter 61 – To Have A . . .
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.
Battleship Wolfen
July 4, 2004
As she strode through the corridors of the battleship in search of Godafrid (well, actually, she knew where he was; she was just “looking” to give Fiore time with him first), one question dominated Rin’s thoughts.
How, the Japanese magus wondered, could she get Godafrid to marry her . . .?
“. . . What.”
The deadpan response from her astralised Servant made Rin abruptly realise that she’d said that out loud—and she hastily engaged in damage control.
“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not like that!” she blurted. “Marriage is only the backup plan, anyways!”
After a moment, Archer sighed. “. . . OK, as well as I know you, even I’m going to need some context for that decision.”
“When he first turned up at our doorstep—after we’d fixed his issues,” Rin added hastily, “he had almost eleven million yen in gold coins on him. Here, he gave up three and a half billion yen, apparently with the full expectation he could make it back.”
Rin stopped walking, and put her hand on her hip as she glared (even if she had to guess at Archer’s exact location) and demanded, “Do you realise the amount of research I could get done with that kind of money?!”
There was a pause, and she could almost see the smirk forming on his face. “. . . Ah—that kind of reasoning does sound like you.”
“Shut up!” she snapped, fighting down a blush. “I’m serious! I know it’s not part of his original identity, because he looked totally middle-class when he wasn’t changing into an extra from one of those hobbit movies. That means it’s some factor he’s picked up as a result of changing worlds—and potentially replicable by the Kaleidoscope, if I can figure out what it is, and how it works.”
Rin lost herself for a moment, in visions of not having to scrimp for every yen she had every day—of being able to afford some of the higher-quality gemstones, in quantity, and damn the cost . . . Finally, after years of frugality, of hard-learned stinginess, she could at least scratch “poor” off the list of reasons the Clock Tower was liable to look down on her; and possibly even ignore them entirely, because she wouldn’t need access to their resources to get anywhere.
“All right,” Archer allowed. “I can see the logic of your reasoning, but I’m not sure how you managed to jump from that to marriage.”
“Simple,” Rin replied. “If I can’t figure out how to turn myself into a walking mint, then I need to make sure I keep hold of the keys to this one. That means either marriage, or adoption—and since I haven’t figured out how to get Sakura back into the family yet, there’s no point in trying with him.”
Not to mention, of course, the fact that her sister might take a total stranger being brought in before her quite badly—assuming, of course, that she wanted to be a Tohsaka again at all . . .
“You realise, of course, that if you actually go through with that, you’re surrendering all claims to the idiot?” her Servant pointed out, and she winced inwardly.
“It’ll be good for Sakura . . .” Rin said flatly, even as she felt her face start burning.
Another sigh (which sounded really strange from an astralised being, over a telepathic link) was the only answer she received . . . For a moment, at least. Then, all of a sudden, she could feel that damned smirk again.
“What?” the Japanese magus demanded.
“It just occurred to me that you’re going to have to be really careful in how you go about your ‘research,’” he said blandly. “After all, if Ilya-chan, Sakura-chan—or, say, Taiga—hear that you cornered the man, stripped him down, strapped him to a table and had your wicked way with him . . .”
At his phrasing, Rin’s face passed “burning” and “inferno,” going straight to “volcanic.”
“Well, your plans won’t matter then,” Archer continued in a too-casual tone, “because you’ll be marrying him whether you want to or not.”
“. . . So help me God, Shirou,” Rin sputtered once her brain had restarted, “I will use a Command Spell to shut you up—again . . . !”
Chiron, why on earth would you bring that up?
Fiore hated how mortified she sounded, even in her own thoughts. It was an accurate reflection of her feelings, mind you, but she hated that it was so obvious even in the relative privacy of her own mind—how obvious must it be to everyone else, then?
Nevertheless, she persisted in her demand for an answer; if nothing else, the centaur had behaved remarkably out-of-character in making such a slip (however apologetic he’d appeared afterwards), and she wanted to know why.
“I deeply regret your embarrassment, Master,” he answered sincerely, “but the revelation was calculated on my part. I don’t know enough of her cultural norms to accurately judge her reactions—but based on experience, Miss Tohsaka’s response to learning of your engagement was far too calm; it suggests either prior knowledge, or premeditation. I was hoping to provoke her into a response which at least might give me a better scale by which to judge her; at best, she would confess any misdeed on her faction’s behalf . . .”
It would not at all be exaggerating to say that Fiore’s heart leapt into her throat at his explanation.
You think that Godafrid has betrayed me . . .?
“I would not go that far, yet, Master,” Chiron cautioned. “Nevertheless, there are signs with the Tohsaka girl that this was unremarkable—perhaps even anticipated—and I do not like them. I require more information to render any sort of certain judgement, but I am of the belief that there is something more going on than we are presently seeing . . .”
Fiore frowned to herself. As much as she knew, intellectually, that they were on opposite sides, she didn’t want to believe the Tohsaka heiress guilty of wrongdoing; in their discussions, the other girl had come across as knowledgeable, intelligent, and curious—in short, quite the opposite of beliefs regarding “backwards Orientals.” And their discussions, while guarded, had been refreshingly absent the usual “sheathed daggers” aspect that was usually present in her social discourse with her peers amongst the Clock Tower. While Fiore recognised it was optimistic of her, she liked to think that, absent the complications of the Great Holy Grail War, she and Miss Tohsaka might have become friends . . .
(Elsewhere, for no discernible reason, Rin suddenly felt incredibly guilty.)
By the same token, Fiore admitted to herself, the centaur Chiron was renowned in legend for his insight and wisdom; her role as a Master was to anchor and guide him, but if she wasn’t willing to listen to his advice, what was the point of summoning him in the first place . . .?
(Somewhere else entirely, and also for no discernible reason, Gordes abruptly felt that he’d been insulted, somehow.)
She brought her wheelchair to a dead stop as the obvious question occurred to her. The question she didn’t want to hear the answer to (even though she’d asked before, the wording had been ambiguous enough to be misinterpreted, wilfully or otherwise), but the magus in her had to ask, just the same.
“Do you think he’s cheating on me?”
Fiore forced herself to speak the words aloud, though just hearing them on the air was painful; but she’d given too much leeway to her heart, of late, and this situation demanded that she use her head.
It was to her credit, then, that her voice was only a little uneven as she asked.
“Contrary to the expectations of my time, no,” Chiron answered with remarkable gentility. “If the Olympians were still active . . . Well, Aphrodite will have her way, regardless, and Eros very seldom refused her orders—but based on my observations thus far, your betrothed seems remarkably faithful; both to you, and to the image of him presented by others.
“Which is where my uncertainty lies,” he admitted. “By all accounts, there is little to nothing he would not do to protect you; like Orpheus, Godafrid would descend to the depths of Hades, if necessary. And unlike Orpheus, I trust that he would not falter in the final stretch . . . But I do not know whether he could succeed where Orpheus did in convincing Lord Hades to release you in the first place—and I worry that likewise, whatever gambit or stratagem he may be employing here is a case where his reach exceeds his grasp . . .”
Fiore had the sense of the astralised centaur shaking his head, even though she couldn’t see it for herself, as he concluded, “I simply do not have enough information yet to make sense of the tangle before us.”
Fiore took a deep breath, let it out slowly—and then did it again.
“I don’t have time for this,” she said firmly, as much to herself as to Archer (because she very much wanted to pin Godafrid down and interrogate him, even as she was still worried about him). “We have Dead Apostles in the area, we still have Assassin of Red and her Master to worry about, and potentially that divine artefact that’s sealed itself away—and somewhere in the midst of all that, there’s still a Holy Grail War to finish . . .”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “It was not supposed to happen this way.”
Privately, Fiore asked herself how she thought the War was supposed to play out—and, knowing some of the things she did now, along with things she hadn’t wanted to know, how it likely would have.
The Yggdmillennia Clan was her home, her family; they’d taken her and Caules in when the Forvedge siblings had nothing, and treated her overall far better than many “noble” magi would have. She’d seen enough of them in Clock Tower to know that with certainty. Granted, she didn’t always agree with the attitudes or personalities of the others (Celenike was particularly on her mind with that thought), but not all family members always got along, and it was far less quarrelsome issue than it could have been. Even (or perhaps especially) without magecraft being involved . . .
And yet, now that she’d had time to consider the matter, Fiore was horrified at the implications that Grandfather had turned himself into some form of Dead Apostle; horrified, but not terribly surprised.
After all, while she’d never inquired into the means of his longevity, her own studies implied that most such methods were inherently unsavoury, at best, and outright offensive to her own sensibilities at worst—and that was putting it mildly. Darnic had already proven himself to be an archetypical magus in many ways—why not in this area, as well? Which of course left the question of what his “ideal” outcome for the Holy Grail War would’ve been, precisely; after all, with fourteen participating Servants, one could theoretically reach the Root twice over, or grant at least two wishes, and possibly as many as four . . .
Of course, that was assuming that one cared about granting any wish other than theirs.
It requires the energies of six Servants to materialise the Grail, and seven, supposedly, to open a path directly to the Root, Fiore recalled what they’d been told, but looking it over with a more critical eye than she had at the time.
But the Greater Grail was already materialised from the previous War—and even if it lost power by being disconnected and moved, it was still in a material form. Assuming that Grandfather merely waited the sixty-year interval to make certain that it was fully charged and lay preparations, why not simply summon a single Servant, order them to suicide, and be done with it? So long as the Grail is energised enough to be material, then it shouldn’t matter, should it?
Perhaps the act of moving it required the ritual to be done again, in order to properly feed it energy? Fiore reasoned. Or resets its “counter,” somehow? All right, that’s possible, but it’s still only seven Servants’ worth of energy to reach the Root; why wouldn’t Grandfather simply have had us summon ours and order them to fight each other, or suicide? Why go to the trouble of setting up to fight a second group of Servants, challenge the Clock Tower—
The young magus sat bolt upright in her chair, as thinking of the Clock Tower recalled Godafrid’s trial in absentia to her mind, as well—and with that, an answer:
He needed someone to blame.
To reach the Root was the ultimate goal of all magi, but no one truly knew what would happen if it actually occurred. There were theories that the last True Magic wielders were connected to it somehow, but personally, Fiore doubted them. After all, it was common knowledge that the Einzberns had created the Holy Grail War Ritual for the purpose of regaining the Third Magic; if they had somehow managed to reach the Root by possessing it, she believed they wouldn’t have failed to make that known, as well—and taken full advantage of it at the time they had it.
Regardless of the truth, there was no way of predicting what would happen if someone did manage the feat; managed to access the source of all knowledge, and everything else, as well. But for herself, Fiore could recall theoretically debating the outcome with Godafrid in the Clock Tower’s library, and his theory regarding the potential effect of the devaluation of mysteries when all mysteries were known, by even one person . . .
He had argued—quite eloquently, she had to admit—that in reaching the Root, magic itself would cease to be. Because once anyone had learned all the Mysteries of the World, what power did magic, which was mysterious by definition, hold?
Personally, Fiore doubted that any potential consequences would be as catastrophic as that; but neither could she wholly deny the possibility. And in the event of that, or a similar such outcome—whether of global or local scale—people would come looking for the parties responsible for it. Even if it didn’t go that badly, or if Darnic failed outright, the Clock Tower, at least, would be looking for scapegoats.
And there we would be, Fiore thought dazedly. Six magi, renegades of the Clock Tower, of no particularly valuable or important lineage or quality—practically gift-wrapped for anyone who wanted us . . .
(She knew firsthand, after all, that the Clock Tower wasn’t interested so much in the facts of a case so long as the narrative suited their purposes.)
From the very beginning, we were nothing more than sacrifices . . .
“Master?” Chiron inquired urgently. “What’s wrong?”
It took several moments for Fiore to explain her thoughts, even telepathically—not due to lag in the method of communication, but in the need to compose herself enough to convey them. As she did so, some small part of hoped that her Servant, legendary for his wisdom, would refute her conclusions . . . But alas, her hopes died unrealised.
“I cannot fault your reasoning, Master,” the Archer said grimly. “It may be, of course, that we are surmising based on incomplete or inaccurate information; as I’ve stated before, I’ve no real knowledge of the politics of this era, and they were never my focus within my own. It would be the height of hubris, then, to assume omniscience on my part, or an inability to be mistaken . . . But what I do know of authorities in general, and of those that flout them, agrees with your logic—as does what I observed of Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia himself.”
Fiore sagged in her chair. She’d so very wanted to be wrong . . .
Caules is safe, she reminded herself. At least I did that much right.
She would berate herself for needing help to do it later.
“. . . Archer,” she said aloud, because this needed to be said aloud, “Given the current circumstances, I find that I cannot in good conscience continue fighting in the Holy Grail War.
“I will offer my Command Spells to Roche,” she continued, “because he may wish to avenge Caster, regardless—but I’m afraid that there’s a very good chance the Black Faction may concede the War, once the truth is known. “ She turned to where she believed her Servant was standing, though it was hard to be sure, with the way the quickly-forming tears were clouding her vision over.
“I’m sorry Chiron,” Fiore whispered, “but I just can’t—”
“Fiore,” Archer interrupted her, materialising as he did so—and it was the unexpected use of her name, as much as it was the firmness of his tone, which focussed her attention.
“In this, too,” he said gently, lifting her chin and wiping her eyes, “I understand your reasoning. Moreover, I approve; I am as proud of you, and your wisdom, as of any student I have ever had—and you know that is no claim to make lightly.
“But you are thinking too far ahead, in this case,” he said. “After all, before any decisions can be made regarding the fate of the Holy Grail War, or mine within it, there is a more immediate matter to be dealt with.” His expression hardened. “I admit to knowing little of Dead Apostles, and less still of this ‘Castlevania’ which is at the centre of this; but in that, Master, I am content to rely on your direction and judgement—it has served in good stead, thus far.”
Fiore blinked, her eyes going wide. “You’re . . . You’re still willing to—?”
Chiron smiled. “I would trust few others in this time and place besides you, Fiore—and none more than you.”
Fiore felt a massive weight lift off her shoulders . . . Or maybe it was all the blood rushing to her face. Her throat seemed suddenly clogged with cotton, as she couldn’t quite manage to say ‘thank you,’ no matter how she tried—and she suddenly felt so lightheaded, she nearly missed his next statement (though perhaps Chiron’s sudden smile had something to do with that, as well).
“Truth be told, Master, I should be thanking you for this opportunity—I was renowned for training many heroes in my lifetime, yet never managed to take to the field myself . . .
“And I find that I am quite looking forward to it.”
Rendezvous Point Alpha
Outside Trifas
Erik looked at the man holding Aestus Estus.
There were subtle differences from the form of the man who’d introduced himself as “Frid”; strangely enough, that wasn’t a sarcastic crack about the tattoos, either. He looked a bit younger, and a bit bulkier, but had the bearing of an older man, just the same . . . Still, divine senses, to say nothing of long experience with shapeshifters and illusionists—his wife foremost among them, but this one had actually been the first—allowed him to confirm that it was the same individual.
(The fact that the sword hadn’t burned him to ash for handling it without permission was also a clue, of course.)
The tattoos, now—those Erik found fascinating . . .
The patterns were glyphic, in a sense, but of no runic language he knew of. Just the same, the shaping of them suggested an elven hand behind it, rather than human; he’d spent enough time in Svartalfheim to recognise the differences in styling. But even more interesting, from his point of view, was the metal they were made of. It was a silver-based compound, certainly, but the spectrographic readings that he could see implied that it was more, somehow. Purer than pure silver, if that could be said to make any sense. And its state was equally strange—much too fluid, almost like the metal was in liquid form; but with no means of suspension, how was it staying on his skin, much less in a pattern? And when he looked deeper, he got the impression that someone had, on a conceptual level, melted the Moon itself down into silver . . .
Weird stuff—and the engineer in him was dying to get a sample to play with, already thinking of possible applications just on what he could see it being capable of without the kind of testing he could actually put it through . . . Oh, and the guy’s eyes were glowing; Erik supposed that was important too, somehow.
(Really, given who and what he was and what he dealt with, eye-lights were a dime a dozen, so he hadn’t actually given it much thought—or any, in truth.)
Dismissing that fact, he focussed instead on the other Relic in the room; the one he hadn’t made . . . No—it wasn’t quite a Relic, was it?
Erik frowned. The whip was made of another entirely new material; one that would look completely non-reflective to mortal eyes, but held an impression of agonised human faces to his own. It was definitely divinely-crafted (not even dwarf-crafted, flat-out divine; he could tell the difference) but, try though he might, the Wolfson could not detect the slightest link to a God—whatever properties it held were entirely due to the item itself.
That was rare, that a God would create something that could be used by mortals—rarer than even a Relic. And because the general technique of its forging pointed to a Nordic origin, and most of those were crafted by dwarves at the Aesir’s behest, that made it rarer still; he and Wayland were the only ones to create Relics themselves, generally. Moreover, given the general aesthetic of both the design and material, it was fairly easy to guess which God had forged it—and while Erik could accept the idea of her gifting something to her consort, Hel had never shown any inclination, much less talent, for actually creating such things . . .
He was suddenly reminded of why he’d simultaneously liked and hated dealing with Krampus. They were both intellectuals in a pantheon dominated by jocks; but with him, there was always another surprise, somewhere, waiting to be sprung. Personally, Erik had always figured that Hel’s relationship with him had come down to daddy issues on her part, as much as anything else—
His musings were interrupted as the shifting in biorhythms indicated “Godafrid” was coming out of his trance state; and from the slight shaking of his head, trying to deal with a sudden case of tinnitus.
Erik grinned at the sight. “Nero” must have been singing—I love it when a plan comes together . . .
Aloud, however, he said only, “So—you ready to really talk, now?”
Writer's Notes: And behold - a second chapter, ahead of RanmaBushiko! . . . I really must have too much time on my hands. :D
. . . Still, while some of this chapter came as a surprise to even me, I approve of the developments, and hope you do the same. Even if not, enjoy! :)