Chapter 6 – The Die is Cast
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.
Trifas, Romania
July 1, 2004
“Teacher!” cried Roche. “The next shipment of materials has arrived!”
The poet and philosopher who was known in life as Solomon ibn Gabirol, or “Avicebron”—and now for current purposes, “Caster of Black”—glanced at the boy who was serving as his Master in this Great Holy Grail War. He did not, as a rule, care for children; or for humanity in general, really. As such, despite his profession’s associations with teaching, he had never taken students. Still, there was something to be said for this one’s enthusiasm.
It was . . . Refreshing to be so esteemed, given the events of his lifetime. Not that it would stop Caster from using the boy, in any way required, in order to complete his great work—but as of now, it seemed as though such an act would be unnecessary.
. . . After all, he had literally been given a gift from the Heavens with which to do so. It was merely up to him to make it work . . .
Aloud, however, he merely said, “Excellent. And the production of the standard golems proceeds as expected?”
“Yup!” the Yggdmillennia boy replied with a grin. “Just like you planned it to—I never knew golem manufacturing could be done so quickly and smoothly!”
“With the proper materials, and sufficient practice, even the wondrous can be rendered into merely rote,” Caster noted. “And as to the miraculous . . .”
He turned his gaze upon the object of his study—An element like none he had never before seen or heard of upon this earth, and whose sheer purity could not even have been imagined.
And even that was far eclipsed by its power . . .
Truly, only an act of God could have created such a thing, and that it had arrived now, literally falling from the heavens to this place, when he sought to complete his Noble Phantasm at last . . .
“. . . The miraculous,” Caster repeated, “takes a little longer.”
It was requiring some refinement of his initial design, to ensure that the golem could endure the raw force of what was to become its heart—to say nothing of using it effectively—but once complete, he had no doubt whatsoever that his Noble Phantasm would function as he had envisioned.
“But you can do it, right, Teacher?” the boy asked, nearly bouncing with excitement. “I really wanna see this awesome golem!”
It would bring about a pure, pristine, perfect Eden . . .
“Oh, yes, young Master,” Caster assured him. “With all the materials in place, it is simply a matter of time . . .”
“Interesting . . .” Lord Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia, head of the Yggdmillennia Clan, murmured from the comfort of his leather armchair.
While the rest of the family understood that the castle’s defences included surveillance, and had some access to the Bounded Fields that comprised them, none but he realised the level to which they went in monitoring the circumstances of the surrounding environs. Indeed, he had gone to some effort to strengthen them, prior to the summoning of their “Caster of Black.”
Magi were, after all, a generally unscrupulous lot, and single-minded in the pursuit of their own agendas—and however useful or necessary, only a simpleton would not consider that when undertaking dealings with the Heroic Spirit of a magus. And if Darnic had been a simpleton, he would never have survived the Grail War, never mind to the present day.
Opposite him, in an equally sumptuous armchair, on the far side of a largely-empty marble chessboard, an equally aristocratic figure arched an eyebrow.
“‘Interesting,’ Darnic?” came the smooth, mellifluous voice of his pale companion. “You do not find it at all concerning that your heir plots intrigues, supposedly outside of your notice—or that she shows so little talent for it?”
“On the contrary, Lord Tepes,” Darnic returned, in a baritone that, if lacking the rich power of the other lord’s voice, was smoothed by self-assurance in such a way that it seemed nearly as appealing. “I find this an encouraging sign of Fiore’s growth. Her position as my successor was based upon her talent as a magus, not her capacity to think like one—indeed, if she has any weakness, it is not the frailty of her body, but her heart.”
His smile was pleased, if not pleasant. “I am pleased to see that heart being tempered under the circumstances, rather than breaking entirely—and that she is putting the well-being of family above all else.”
The bearded man nodded in acknowledgement of the point; he, too, had known nobles of weak character, too fearful or sentimental to do what was required. In that, he agreed with the magus: this was an encouraging sign of mettle to see in one’s heir.
“You do not see this as a sign of doubt in your victory?” the pale man (who was indeed no such thing) pressed. “Or even a waste of a potential asset? She asked for no actions against our enemies, after all—or even to gather intelligence regarding them.”
“As to the first, no,” Darnic said with a shake of his head. “While I have no doubts that we will win, it is not a bad habit, by any means, to plan for failure and its consequences in any given undertaking— or, in this particular case, to consider the possibility of reprisals after our victory. That Fiore is doing so is, as I said, an encouraging sign; it means that I chose rightly for her to lead our family after I reach the Root, over the older, more experienced magi here—and as to the second . . .
“The boy’s assessment was far from inaccurate,” the magus noted. “No lone magus could reasonably be expected to face six magi, and quite probably six Servants—to say nothing of his own, potentially—and expect to survive. And if the one in charge of selecting the Masters has any brains at all, they will be six of the most cunning and ruthless magi possible . . .
“No, the risk is too high,” Darnic concluded. “Even accomplishing the task Fiore set him will be quite difficult, though I’ve no doubt he will make the utmost effort, nonetheless.”
“. . . And yet you fear no betrayal from him, given what you just said about the enemy Masters?” The tone used was inquisitive but casual almost off-hand—but the burning intensity in the eyes of his companion belied the importance of the answer.
“I did not select the boy for Fiore solely for his family’s abilities,” Darnic answered firmly. “He has intelligence, as Fiore has, and a sense of ruthlessness that she admittedly lacks—but he lacks the ambition of a magus. The Root is of no interest to him, and the games of power-politicking among the Lords of the Clock Tower are of even less interest.
“What he has is loyalty; to his own ideals, and loyalty to Fiore in particular. To see her succeed, and prosper, he will bring all of his powers to bear; employ all of that intellect and that ruthlessness, to spare her suffering—even if it is only of her conscience . . . “ With a faint smile, he added, “Or to avenge her suffering, should it come to that.”
“You seem remarkably certain of that, Lord Darnic,” remarked the other, in the tone of one who senses an unspoken story.
“Well, he left the Clock Tower for a reason, Lord Tepes,” Darnic replied. “And I’m certain the Sophia-Ri family would have protested his doing so alive, even with the lack of proof that he was responsible—if there had been anyone left to do so.” The dark-haired man smiled. “Such a pity, what happened to their only heir, you see: he suffered such a sudden and violent rejection of the family’s Magic Crest that it was utterly destroyed in the process . . .
“It was the tragic culmination of a very bad month for that young man,” the magus concluded with mock-sympathy. “What with his family’s finances being stolen, their magical resources scattered to the winds, and his workshop burned to the ground.”
“Very ill fortunes, indeed,” Lord Tepes observed, with a flicker of interest in his eyes. “What might he have done, I wonder, to so offend God that it merited such a punishment?”
Darnic paused for a sip of wine. “. . . Well, his family was being rather insistent on his finding a bride, to continue the Sophia-Ri line—but he’d asserted that Fiore, despite being fortunate enough to be chosen to share his bed, was assuredly not a potential candidate for the position, given the ‘disgrace’ of our family. Nor, despite her firm refusals of the opportunity, was she or anyone else in a position to prevent it from happening.”
Lord Tepes grimaced, before admitting, “That . . . Is a not-unfamiliar position to me, amongst men on campaign—or nobles, come to that. Few with such little grace, however, were men worth knowing, in my opinion.”
“Quite,” Darnic agreed. “An opinion the young man seems to share—along with your historical penchant for, shall we say, ‘spectacular examples?’”
“They served their purpose,” the other retorted, with no real rancour—Darnic had made it clear that he had no problem with such things, so no offense was taken in the statement.
“Indeed,” the magus agreed. “And this example worked to a similar purpose. There was no proof that he was responsible, and no doubt that, against the massed might of the Clock Tower, he could be brought down . . . But when dealing with someone willing to utterly destroy a magus family—position, lineage, Crest and all . . . No one wished to be the first to risk drawing his ire. After all, if he had acted, it had been in reaction to an insult, and to a friend, at that—what might he do against an actual threat, to himself?”
Lord Tepes nodded, repeating Darnic’s earlier response. “Indeed—as you say, I am quite familiar with the tactic.”
“After some negotiation—pushed by the Archisorte family, as I understand it—the boy was allowed to leave the Clock Tower, and no more was said on the matter.” Darnic took another sip of wine, and concluded mildly, “By her own account, however, Fiore had no further trouble with unwanted suitors until she left her own schooling there—or any sort of harassment at all.”
The paler man chuckled. “I understand completely—and having heard the tale, I feel ‘tis a pity he will not be fighting openly alongside us; there is always a place for those like him under my command. But I believe you have chosen well in your heir’s guard dog, and I suspect his placement among our enemies, while precarious, will yet prove quite the useful stratagem . . .”
Sighișoara, Romania
July 1, 2004
Night had fallen by the time Frid’s preparations were ready. Well, actually that wasn’t true; he’d been ready in less than an hour, all told, but he’d waited for nightfall, because he’d felt this was best done under moonlight—and that sort of feeling was important to his particular methods of working magecraft.
In that span of time, however, he’d long considered his answer to Fiore’s request, to say nothing of all the other elements of that conversation.
He’d honestly meant to say “Huh?” in response—the genuine shock of the request made him incapable of making a more coherent response. What actually came out of his mouth, however, was “The Red Faction? Not yours . . .?”
In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t so surprising; the hurt in his voice at that moment stung him badly—it was little wonder Fiore flinched at it, and impressive that flinching was all she did.
She was kinder than he was, after all—so to show this little, she had to be desperate.
“. . . The only one I could have you replace is Caules,” she said heavily, her eyes sad. “And I would, in a heartbeat—but I’d never convince him to give up his place as a Master. But I have to protect him. I’m his older sister, after all.” Her eyes lowered, and her voice softened in apology. “. . . I told you it was a selfish request.”
After a moment, Frid remarked, “. . . Sweetheart, I’m decent, but I don’t think I’m up to assassinating—”
Her head shot up as he spoke, expression alarmed. “OH! No, no—it’s nothing like that!” She waved her hands frantically in negation. “I’d never ask you to do that, Godafrid . . . !”
Feeling a palpable sense of relief that Fiore hadn’t turned into some kind of ice-queen mastermind when he wasn’t looking—to say nothing of not being sent on a suicide mission—he sighed, and replied, “Then take a breath, and explain exactly what you want me to do.”
“Protect Caules,” she replied immediately. “As best you can.”
Frid blinked. Not spying, not sabotage—not outright, anyways—and not . . .?
“. . . Caules, but not you?” he asked.
“I expect that you’ll try, during the War itself,” she answered softly. “And that’s part of the reason—from the other side, you can try to mitigate the damage. Not stop it, I know, but you will hopefully keep him from being killed—and me, too, if you can. But there’s a more important part of it.
“If we lose, there will be consequences—and I’m Grandfather Darnic’s heir. There’s no way that I won’t be made to pay for our rebellion—and there’s nothing even you can do to change it, this time . . . But, Caules—Caules is no one to the Clock Tower. He’s not a once-in-a-generation prodigy, or wealthy or possessed of a unique talent—he has nothing that would induce anyone to speak for him, no one who would protect him, except me . . . And I won’t even be able to save myself.”
She started crying, at that point—tearing up, if not actually weeping.
“It’s not fair to ask, I know it isn’t,” she said fiercely, her voice breaking, “but you’re all I have, and it’s all I can do . . . Please, please protect my baby brother—any way you can. Please, Frid . . .”
In no life (previous or current, real or imagined) had he ever been good at handling crying girls—so naturally, he’d caved immediately. Fiore’s grateful hug in return had been nice, even if she had threatened to crack a few ribs . . .
Of course, that left the question of how to go about it. First, Frid had fired off an e-mail to Lord El-Melloi II (mentally suppressing the urge to giggle at the idea that he had Waver’s e-mail address!). It taken some thought, but he’d managed to couch things in vague terms: he’d done a job for Yggdmillennia, caught wind of some of their plans, and was on-site—did they want him to do anything about it . . .?
The response had been similarly vague—not due to secrecy, but lack of information on the Association’s part. Basically, it boiled down to, “Zelretch is handling it, and so I recommend withdrawing to a safe distance—for example, I hear Florida is nice at this time of year.”
Good advice, really; and under just about any other circumstances, he’d have taken it—probably even a bit further than Waver suggested. For example, why just settle for one ocean between him and the Wizard Marshal’s shenanigans? After all, what with growing up watching “Hercules: The Legendary Journeys” and “Xena: Warrior Princess,” he’d always wanted to check out New Zealand . . .
But Fiore had asked—no.
. . . No, being honest, Fiore had begged him to do this; if she’d actually been capable of getting on her knees at that moment, she would have. She was that terrified for her brother, and since Frid knew just enough about what was coming he knew she had good reason to be. Maybe better reason than even he knew—after all, things so far had proven just different enough that he couldn’t guarantee either of them would survive as they had in the series.
So he had to try—and while getting involved as an outsider was always an option, he could do a lot more good as one of the Red Faction, as Fiore believed. Since getting in contact with the master of the Second Magic was a hit-and-miss proposition at best, Frid figured the most likely chance of success in that regard was to hack the system and make it a fait accompli; to wit, summon a Servant in the name of the Red Faction before all the slots were filled. If it didn’t work . . . Well, he was screwed, but at least he’d have tried.
And so he was here, on the roof of the Sighișoara Clock Tower—more than twenty-one stories up. Partly because this was the tallest place in the entire village, and therefore, despite his acrophobia, the easiest to conceal from prying eyes. It was unlikely that anyone could see him up here, after all, and some simple security measures kept those who might be curious from noticing—though whether it’d hold up against the lightshow he was about to call up, Frid couldn’t say.
Another part of the reason was that it wasn’t the cathedral, where Shirou Kotomine, if Zelretch had let him live (and the old vampire was liable to do that just to get some entertainment value of it, if what Frid knew of him was accurate) had set up shop. It was a pity, really—it was a gorgeous building, by the exterior, not to mention on the ground—but the prospect of dying via terminal velocity was still better than crossing the fake saviour’s path.
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 . . .
“. . . 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—
Oh, you have got to be kidding . . .
Writer's Notes: Bets, votes, and comments eagerly anticipated - and appreciated. :D