Sometime after the Great Holy Grail War
“From the shards of tattered dreams I rose, unwilling; tossed upon tides of pain which left me searingly awake—and more revoltingly, alive . . .”
The harsh voice spoke words, which he understood, and certainly agreed with—but where the voice came from, and how he knew that it had an accent, or whose voice it even was, he didn’t know. He didn’t know a lot of things, when he could actually think about it—the pain made it so hard to focus . . .
“—offer no certainties; even willingly allowed, such an act—not meant to be possible. It will cause pain, and I cannot—I will endeavour to—”
Another voice, and more words; it was more solid, somehow, but even more fragmented, at the same time. And there was no context—what was she talking about?
“When it starts, try to remember the reason you’re doing this—it might help with the pain.”
“I’ve felt pain before.”
“Not like this.”
More voices—male and female this time, but different again, and back to the ephemeral sense of reality the first had carried. It was like they were dreams, or pieces of dreams, but without the whole . . . What was he hearing, and why . . .?
“It is a rare reward indeed, to be given a—hope you treasure it sincere—”
As he parsed the new sentence fragments, they brought with them a new sensation—touch. Warmth and cold, combined and unexpected, flowed through his being, bringing with them some notion of the limits and definition of his self (he was not yet aware enough to call it a “body”). The warmth was soft, delicate and brief; the cold somehow invigorating rather than chilling, sending a tingling sensation of energy through him—
And then, his sense memory latched onto the same sensations, amplified. Cold deep enough to burn and fire hot enough to numb raced through him, wracking his self with conflicting agonies, accompanied by four words in an altogether new voice. Four words, that were spoken in tones of recognition and revelation, in shock and in horror—and above all else, with a simmering fury on the edge of outright eruption.
“You . . . I KNOW YOU—!”
The pain coalesced into a great wave that hurled him into darkness—and even as he sank into the abyss of oblivion, a final, faint hymn reached his consciousness.
“For the elements: silver and iron.
The foundation: stone and the archduke of pacts,
And for my great master Schweinorg, . . .”
Fuyuki City
June 14, 1934
“For the elements: silver and iron.
The foundation: stone and the archduke of pacts,
And in the name of my great master Schweinorg,
“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.
Yet you shall serve from beyond the threshold;
My invitation shall be your entry,
And my judgement shall be your dismissal.
Seventh Heaven, clad in the Great Words of Power,
From the binding circle: thou, Guardian of the Scales!”
As Jubstacheit von Einzbern watched, the summoning circle flared alight with prana; but even through its blinding radiance—a somewhat standard effect, from his recollections of the last Grail War—he could still somehow see the space within its confines warp. Involuntarily, the hair stood up on the back of his neck for a moment as a sound he could only define as being reality’s agonised groaning arose, as light and force became meat and bone, wrapped in the comingled stench of paper and ink, leather and blood . . .
Contrary to expectations, the figure which emerged from the circle appeared human—and his appearance was unimposing, to use the most charitable description possible. Most of his form was hidden beneath a trench coat, as was made popular in the Great War, though unusually made of leather as opposed to gabardine; his skin was pale, his features sharply angular, and his posture bent—almost gnarled, in fact. His hair was wildly dishevelled, but utterly normal in colour. That, combined with the dark circles around his watery blue eyes, made him seem more like an insomniac than a Servant.
Have we failed again . . .?
“Identify yourself!” the patriarch barked, before turning to the homunculus that had summoned him and ordering, “Have him identify hims—!”
“Jubstacheit von Einzbern, shut up.”
The voice was soft, both in volume and in timbre, but the air visibly trembled with each breath—and there was more to it as well. The almost slurred cadence of the words made it difficult to focus on them, hinting at meanings just out of his understanding; and those pale, unfocused eyes were suddenly as bright and cold as stars . . .
The Einzbern patriarch had just enough time to realise the possible ramifications of a newly-summoned Servant who knew his name, before suddenly understanding that perhaps hacking the Grail to allow for the most terrifying Servant possible hadn’t been the wisest of id—
Having fulfilled the dreams and wishes of countless Ilyasviel and Irisviel fans over a span of decades, the being formerly known as “Godafrid Úa Súilleabháin”—and now, apparently, “Servant Foreigner”—looked at his apparent Master, and wondered what the hell he was going to do now . . .
Writer's Notes: It's an idea that's been on my mind - not necessarily for the Works (it was just the easiest adaptation right now), but probably for an SI. After all, barring "Moon Cancer" (which they'd never understand) and "Alter Ego" (which wouldn't make any real difference), "Foreigner" is the one "extra Class" the Einzberns haven't summoned in some Fate story . . . 
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Originally Posted by Kieran
