The Manhattan Project II

[Five_X]

It would inevitably end up with him building a time machine that would cause Hitler to accidentally win World War 2.

[Fancy Face the First]

It would inevitably end up with him building a time machine that would cause Hitler to accidentally win World War 2.

Being Moses is suffering.

[Five_X]

Isn't it sad, Casters?

[Mattias]

It would inevitably end up with him building a time machine that would cause Hitler to accidentally win World War 2.

Or succeed in killing Hitler and bring the C&C Red Alert Universe into being...

[EXiku]

Speaking of waiting, it's not too long! Thanks again EXiku, for being a super prompt beta!

You~ It's no problem, because of the following:

a) If I hadn't done so, I wouldn't have heard the end of it and you'd have gone off and done something stupid again.
b) Importantly - I will always do my best to support you. What is important to you is important to me, after all.

Now, some of the thoughts you've been bugging me about d:

Something I have been wondering - Katalin didn't use an artefact to summon Moses, so she winged it. Unless that particular rule is different in your lore, wouldn't the next best thing be to match a particular trait with the summoner?


Somehow, it's like Alexei is reinforcing that idea that he could have left her for dead - it's like this was some grand, elaborate trollish point that Alexei was making (he did send her specifically north, after all...) I love this full-circle-ness. Also...he must still consider her useful, since he kept making a point of that being the main reason he allied with her.


And lol...not so subtle parrallel with the destruction of the city and the crumbling of Katalin's life.

[Five_X]

You~ It's no problem, because of the following:

a) If I hadn't done so, I wouldn't have heard the end of it and you'd have gone off and done something stupid again.
b) Importantly - I will always do my best to support you. What is important to you is important to me, after all.

Aww~

*huggly boyfriend/girlfriend moment*

Now, some of the thoughts you've been bugging me about d:

Something I have been wondering - Katalin didn't use an artefact to summon Moses, so she winged it. Unless that particular rule is different in your lore, wouldn't the next best thing be to match a particular trait with the summoner?


Somehow, it's like Alexei is reinforcing that idea that he could have left her for dead - it's like this was some grand, elaborate trollish point that Alexei was making (he did send her specifically north, after all...) I love this full-circle-ness. Also...he must still consider her useful, since he kept making a point of that being the main reason he allied with her.


And lol...not so subtle parrallel with the destruction of the city and the crumbling of Katalin's life.

1. GOSH WHY CAN'T YOU PEOPLE LEAVE THIS FOR THE QUESTION PERIOD AT END OF ARC

Er, I mean, it's pretty much different, yeah - or, rather, not as pronounced as in Fate itself, where there are few good examples of it anyhow. Keep in mind that the Grail is an actual, magical construct beyond mortal ken that has the potential to unlock the path to the Root; the Manhattan Project is just a fountain of mana you could use to influence current history. It's a strictly man-made, purpose-built structure, with no real influence on who summons what, save for the natural class restrictions. However, most of the "random" summons have Master-Servant similarities:

Hannibal and Nigel are general bros, and have some shared history: debts to their fathers, a love of the outdoors and adventure, and a similarity in the development of their personalities. Nigel is very cynical and unhappy with this lot in life; Hannibal went through that, and he could be considered an older Nigel who got through his problems with his family and his rival.

Eleanor and Moctezuma are both trying to work for an ideal that was pressed upon them (by family and history, respectively), and their story is about growing past that and stuff.

Saber and James are opposites, for the most part, but through their being opposites they manage to deal with each others' weaknesses and the differences in their personalities cover all bases, in a sort of way. They're like puzzle pieces that are differently shaped, but because they're just the right shapes to fit together.

Napoleon and Francois are both French.

I'd say overall the Manhattan Project's imitation Holy Grail sort of grants heroes to people based on their own personalities if there's no catalyst, but otherwise it gets someone to match them in some way, even if that means getting them an opposite. Though that's really just a narrative thing than anything to do with the Manhattan Project itself, lol. That would just be trying way too hard to justify something perfectly covered by basic narrative conjecture.

As for Alexei and Katalin, that's an interesting point. I'm not sure that I managed to fit everything I wanted to into her scenes, since I wanted to display more aspects of her personality/motivation. Overall she was meant to be more focused on family-related issues in the beginning, but her character drifted to become more of an almost naively cynical nationalist who's in a way a foil to Alexei himself. The main reason he's helping her is because he kinda feels bad for her, and they happen to be technically of the same ideology so he helps her out. However, he's very focused on his goals, so if he has to leave her behind and fight her, that's what it comes to. He just wouldn't enjoy it. For that reason, at least partly, Alexei is one of my very favourite characters in the story; he's a very complex person, and it's really interesting to be able to reveal more about him with each chapter.

And of course, I look forward to more comments from you, EXiku~!

[Five_X]

Another chapter! And a fairly long one, too. Hopefully I can keep these ones going, since I've got about 7 or 8 more (!!!) that I need to finish by the 21st of August... luckily I've got Tuesday off and then a 3-day weekend starting Friday.

Anyhow, enjoy the chapter, hopefully! It's one I'm actually really satisfied with.

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

CHAPTER XCII

“So the old man still lives? He's doing well, considering how well-placed that shot was.” Enrico stroked his chin, watching from afar as destruction was sown in the middle of the cities. Fires burned and lightning struck and the river threatened to spill over into the very streets, but not a mortal soul knew as the night concealed all. Even the vast figure of Behemoth was invisible to the eyes of those who lacked any magical capability, a clever but expensive use of the boundary field that surrounded Washington and Arlington.


The giveaway, though, ended up being the buildings that the huge monster so casually knocked aside, like a child playing with blocks – as soon as the rubble had settled the structures reconstituted themselves, their forms returning brick by brick, as though nothing at all had happened.


The river, of course, was uncontrollable, but as Enrico could see from atop his perch in Arlington, it was only loud and threatening, not yet dangerous – and noise, of course, could be muted with little difficulty.


Enrico had to smile at the ingenuity of it all, far more than he smiled at the surprise of George surviving. The priest had survived throughout all his years for a reason, and right now Enrico and El Cid were witnesses to exactly why he had proven himself formidable; his eighty or so winters had been harsh indeed, but nothing that could have stopped him. Even this, while straining, seemed manageable, and Enrico could only admire the work at hand, so far out of reach of it all.



His coat flapped in the wind as the storm began to pick up, plunging into Arlington, and he raised an arm above his eyes to keep himself from being blinded by the driving rain.


He was high above the city, on the flat roof of an apartment building, and a place he marked down on his mind's map of the city for laying prone with his rifle, watching over Washington with a hawk's eye. On a calmer, brighter night, it would give him a perfect view of Arlington and D.C. alike, and few would be safe from his sharp sight.


“Is this the chaos you were planning, Enrico?” El Cid stepped up from behind, his cape fluttering roughly, snapping with the wind, and it almost seemed to take effort for him to walk against the violent winds. “From what I can see, it worked and it failed, at the same time. The question is: is this a victory for us, or a defeat?”


With a slight laugh, Enrico shrugged. “Both... I guess. I never could have expected this, and with George still alive, it'll be less deadly than it could be. On the other side of things, this would have left a too-huge gash on the city had it gone on uninterrupted. I doubt much would be left save for rubble by morning if George was truly dead, and in that case the whole war would be called off. It's a victory, but not in the way I wanted it to happen. Only the future, though, can tell us if this forecasts defeat or not; what seems to be in our favour right now can quickly shift to oppose us, remember.”


“You could say I know that better than most.” El Cid had no real feelings on the matter, understanding his Master's will, but still yearning for a more direct, involved part in this war. There were battles to be fought, but he felt uncomfortable letting nature takes its own course. He wanted to be in control of events as they happened, rather than letting chance dictate victory or defeat.


Taking in a deep breath, Enrico turned away from the apartment's steep ledge and to his Servant, a dark look cast over his face. “It's a gamble, but we have to keep George alive. I like the chaos we have here, and if we can keep it going for just a few more days, we can take control of this and strike the others while they stay weak. I can't guarantee that Servants or Masters will die tonight, but I know that wounds will be suffered, and these wounds won't heal easily. They'll fester, and eventually their victims will succumb.”


“I take it that we happen to be the infection that brings them death, in the end?” El Cid gave a short nod, his hand touching the hilt of Tizona, feeling its masterfully-made steel. “I want to fight, you know this, Enrico, but I can accept a lesser role if it's necessary. Some of the heroes there – Ramesses, Gilgamesh, the truly great ones – are beyond me, and never could I defeat them alone, not if I steal all the weapons and shields that I can find. As a strategist, my opinion is that those who will survive until the end will be the Servants around the middle-ground, the ones not so weak as to be crushed outright and not so strong and bombastic as to draw themselves right into death despite their power. Those Servants I can duel and rightly beat, and that's when we can excel in this war.”


Enrico smiled again, his frown cast off, and he clenched a triumphant fist, holding it to his chest. Victory felt close, but he knew well that it could be torn away in a moment.


Despite that, he could at least enjoy this brief sight of hope. “I agree completely, Rodrigo. Events are playing into our hands, which is good – but if we try to act too openly now, we'll be revealed and all attention will be on us, and no one else. We need to hide in the grass, you know, and be low to the ground. We can't be noticed, until the time comes when we can do nothing else but be noticed, and then we strike: when we have to, and when we want to. We want those two to be the exact same, as anything else could spell immediate defeat.”


“Boring, unconventional, but it should work.” El Cid smiled back at his Master, and they slipped down the edge of the apartment's roof, their boots lightly stepping on the thin metal fire escape. From there they made their way to the ground, and then they disappeared from the war as it was.


On the grand scale, they were unknowns, and no one paid much attention to them – but they would have their own role to play, in time, and Enrico could only hope and plan for that moment, desperate to ensure that nothing went wrong, paranoid with a desire to win this war, even going so far as to delay his and his Servant's entry into the main fights, just to ensure that they had a true advantage.


He never could have known, though, how quickly the clock was ticking down for him.

-- --

His hand firmly on the grip of his old pistol, stuck in its holster, Dietrich furrowed his brow and pushed the chapel's door open with one stiff palm.


With the interior lights all bright to push back the encroaching darkness outside, Dietrich could clearly see the master of this place, standing at the altar as he always was; it seemed eerily as though he had been expecting Dietrich, and the German glanced from side to side, still wondering how his old friend managed to know so much but do so little. He'd rarely had the means to act before, but now... it was key that George play his role in the war, but here he was: neutral, as he thought, and passively doing his best to ensure that the war was as fair as it could be.


Dietrich couldn't stand that, not anymore. His wrinkled, gaunt face showed a rare frown as his fingers began to slowly slip his pistol from its leather sheath, his heart pumping in his chest as he readied himself. His old bones could still handle a fight, even with a surprisingly tough man like George, and so he was ready for any scuffle that could arise from this. He knew what had to be done, and he knew that George knew the same, but nothing was being done.


“George!” he shouted, offering the priest one chance at offering an explanation before Dietrich forced one out of him.


George, formally clothed in his dark frock, extended his arms and bowed, nodding his head at this late-night visitor. He matched Dietrich's scowling visage with a pleasant smile, as if nothing in the world was wrong, and for once he stepped down from his altar, away from his podium, carrying in his hand a solid, thick Bible. Yet his skin seemed strangely paler than usual, and he had the same tired look as when he had crept from the chapel's cellar not too many days before. Despite this, he still smiled and greeted his friend as though they were having an amicable little meeting in a park, not an ongoing war.


“What brings you to this house of God, Dietrich? You come here often lately, so I have to wonder if you're thinking of converting one of these days.” His grin grew more broad at his own humour, but Dietrich wasn't one to appreciate jokes. Most of the time the old German couldn't be bothered to care about anything, but when circumstances became as extreme as they were, he returned to the businesslike demeanour he'd shown during the world war, his grim exterior rarely cracking even as he faced his country's inevitable defeat.


The finger that Dietrich held on the clasp of his gun's holster twitched. “You should know that already, George. You know about the Masterless spirit that still lurks near the Arlington Memorial Bridge, and you know about the sheer inability of anyone to confront Gilgamesh successfully, and you now know – unless you just became blind, which would hardly surprise me – that another creature is making an attempt at destroying the city. I came here to find out what your plan for removing it might have been, and what do I find?” He extended his arm towards the man, showing how he was just politely standing in the aisle between the rows of pews, his smile slowly fading.


“You do nothing but repair the damage as it happens. This strains you, I can tell it just by glancing at your face: your cheekbones are more jagged, your skin more sickly, your wrinkles deeper and darker and your eyes dilated like a man about to die. You haven't been this overcome with effort since the last war, and all of this because you seem to be refusing to let this monstrous thing die. Yet you have the power right here, George. You could spare yourself some dignity and save the war from being abruptly discovered by killing it and letting the chaos settle as it should.”


Dietrich took in a deep breath, seeing his old friend begin to frown just as he himself did – but Dietrich never let up on his aggressive, merciless glower. “So, then,” he asked, “might I ask why?”


“I want to preserve the neutrality of the war.” That was George's default, automatic answer, just as he clasped his hands together as if he wanted to seem as peaceful as possible, meaning no harm at all. That was just a mask. “The creature that Caster summoned was legitimately brought into the world. If I attempt to destroy it, then that would make my role in this war, as its unbiased mediator, illegitimate. You of all people should understand this, after all. You showed me your neutrality, your sole dedication to duty, years ago, back when I still had a spring in my step. Did something change you, then, Dietrich? Are you the same man you were when you were fighting for Germany?”


“I'm still fighting for Germany, remember,” Dietrich shot back through clenched teeth, his brow knitting together more tightly than before. “And even you, George, are fighting for a specific side in this war: you're fighting for the war itself, trying to preserve it. You have to remember that neutrality isn't in forsaking all else to follow a goal, unbiased, but to do whatever necessary to achieve that goal, even if it means choosing other paths temporarily, to keep yourself and the war living.”


The priest's deepening frown looked to become a sneer, and he stepped back to his podium, making sure each of his paces on the hardwood floor was sharp and clear, echoing throughout the thick-walled chapel.


He looked down at his Bible for a moment, and sighed. “I remember it differently, you know. I remember times when you seemed to hardly care about anything around you, or the others fighting against your own cause. You just let them die, because letting them live would take years off your life – that's exactly what you said to me, remember? I'm an old man now, but even in my sixties I was still open to ideas, and what you showed me then changed my view of the world completely. You stood there, fighting against everything even when the odds were against you, not caring because you believed your cause was right. You let nothing else influence you, I remember that most clearly of all, and you actually threatened me with death if I followed a path different from yours. Dietrich... you of all people, you were unbiased and calm, the epitome of what you worked toward. Can't I act the same, towards my own goal? I am the mediator of this war, and nothing can get in the way of that position, not the lives of others or even my own faith. If I do only what I believe is right, and am guiltless in those acts, am I not exempt from sin in the eyes of God? I'm an old man, and I remember they say age and patience brings wisdom, but I believe yearning for more, for a true cause, proves youth.”


“You're an old man,” Dietrich said in a low voice, his hand tightening on his pistol's grip, “and your memory proves that. Neutrality isn't blind indifference to your fellow man, or to your own goal, for the sake of what you merely believe is right. You're confusing pragmatism with neutrality; the former is doing whatever is necessary to achieve a goal, even if it seems to go against your choice of ideals, and the latter is your kind of seclusion in favour of one unchanging mission. I was pragmatic in those years, and you saw something else in that. I can't blame you for that, but you must see reason rather than the foolishness of your singular goal. Logic states that if this creature is allowed to continue its rampage, the war will be discovered or will simply end, otherwise – I can never know how exactly, but it will end. A pragmatic, more logical man would see this and make a stand, and see the good of the war as being more important than neutrality. If you have to cull the herd in order to make the rest of the flock thrive, then so be it.”


George was taken aback, looking in shock at his friend. His fingers curled weakly into a fist as he tried to find the words to fight against this injustice, but he could find nothing. He spoke the words that just came to his mind, hot with anger and stress alike, his body deteriorating as he did his best to support his boundary field in stopping the reckless destruction along the Potomac.


“Why do you deny this, then? Does some esoteric kind of logic drive you to work against me, for your own benefit? Your own desires won't ever get in the way of the war, not while I live. I could use my Servant to end this, as you want, but what would that make me? A coward, who only ants the Manhattan Project to end in the way I see fit. As Caster summoned his monster as a legitimate extension of his power, then I have no right to prevent the victory his Master seeks. If I say now that this act alone crosses the line, then what authority do I have as a neutral mediator? What precedent would be set? I won't allow it, not as long as this war can remain pure and unaltered, uncorrupted by the stains of biased leadership.”


For the first time in the war, staring at the priest, Dietrich raised his voice to a tone of anger, shouting as he tore his gun from its tight holster, the barrel aimed for George's chest.


Dietrich's chest rose and fell with his heavy breaths, and his eyes were narrowed. “You already broke your vow of neutrality when you helped the Spaniard, and when you set out to kill Gilgamesh! Any pretence of neutrality at this time is worthless – and even if you were to sic your Servant on the monster Caster brought into the world, who would be wise enough to know that it was you who ordered that death? No one would know, not at this point, and at least for a time you could escape scrutiny from the Masters. Those who would question you would only be the usual ones – the Frenchman whom you clearly despise, the Spaniard now that he has no use for you, and that pagan woman. If you think yourself at all wise, you should be able to deflect most hostile curiosity, and those who refuse to believe your cover-story would be exactly those people who would believe no word you could ever speak to them except those in their favour.”


One, two, three, four steps brought Dietrich closer and closer to the altar, his pistol pointed straight forward; this show of anger and force even made George pause, and it took a few moments for him to speak his retort, even as Dietrich walked ever nearer, the end of his gun threatening as it ever could be. One wrong word or misstep could end with George's bloody body laying in between the chapel's pews, and few would even care.


“The war must continue!” George yelled, his fervour growing in his heart, emotion intoxicating him as his mind was weak from the stress of holding up the city as it was beaten to dust by the beast lingering outside. “If I fight, no matter how, they will know, and I'll have failed at the only thing I set out to do in this war! You can't forsake my neutrality, unless you want to kill me where I stand, Dietrich! Would you do that, just to let the war drag on?”


“The war will never continue like this,” were Dietrich's plain, reasoned words. “You know that as well as I do. The behemoth will kill those who try to stop it, and only your Servant can bring an end to this before the city is levelled, left as rubble. You can only last so long, George, before you collapse from the strain, and the beast is free to wreak its terror on the land, and I doubt even the borders of this war will stop it. It's not just about the war: kill the behemoth, and you save the secrecy and sanctity of the Manhattan Project, even if it prevents the Hungarian woman and her Caster from winning tonight. If you truly want to see this war end well, then you have to make sacrifices that, while they may unbalance the odds of victory for some, will ultimately make the war fairer to those fighting in it, who are giving every last ounce of their strength and willpower to keep going on. Kill the monster, and you will allow the war to continue in dignity, just as you wanted. If you ever wanted to be like me, to be pragmatic, you have to learn to do whatever it takes to keep your goal alive, even if that means taking an active role, breaking your alleged neutrality.”


George gripped the podium, his whole body ready for Dietrich to shoot him. He stared the German back, seeing those fierce, hawk-like eyes, and he could do nothing. He was weak now, weaker than he was twenty years before, and he was trembling at Dietrich's anger.


It was unlike him, and he knew now that he had to fight back against this, with words: the only weapon he had anymore.


“Would you kill me for this? Tell me that, Dietrich.” That was all he said, holding the man's harsh gaze. George no longer used his podium or his Bible as a shield; he stood straight and tall, giving Dietrich a clear shot at his heart, or his head, or whatever would kill him the quickest. No more emotion showed in Dietrich's eyes, and as they stood there, silent, the cold, wintry air blew in through the still-open door of the chapel, bringing with it the thick scent of smoke.


Dietrich felt a chill from the gust of wind, and shrugged it away. “If I have to, I will. As a mediator, you're in a position of power only necessary so long as no one can take your place. I'm trying to help you succeed with this war you imagined up twenty years ago, but if things have changed, then they have changed. I would kill you right now, old friend, with a shot through the heart – you lived through the last shot someone tried to end you with, but I know you have no way of bringing yourself back from the end this time. All I ask, in order to spare your life, is for you to use your Servant to kill the behemoth; only he has the power to do that easily, amongst all the Servants in the war.”


George could feel the cool, steely barrel of Dietrich's black pistol pressed to his chest, his robes nearly nothing before its weight or its touch, and he could tell that death stood before him, a long and dark shade who he called Dietrich, a friend from years ago when they both were younger. George felt his whole life crumble and wilt before his eyes as what he believed in so strongly was refuted by the very man he'd taken that belief from. What he'd learned from the war had been a lie, all of it, and he was so completely unable to understand this that he was at a loss for words, his mouth hanging open as if he'd truly been shot just now.


The icy air spent more minutes filling the chapel, seeming to freeze time itself, and Dietrich let out a short breath that clouded as it left his lips; he still held his gun firm, not relenting even for a second while he waited for George's response.


His finger tensed up on the trigger as George began to raise his right hand, and with a sigh the aged priest slipped the sleeve of his frock up his arm, showing the three command seals he held there, glowing a very faint red as if to hide them from anyone who might try to glance at them while he wasn't looking.


“Alright, Dietrich.” He spoke those words reluctantly, but as slow as they were, they were spoken and he could not take them back, free as they were now on the wind. “For the war to continue as I had planned, I will order my Servant to destroy the behemoth, even if it may cost him his life.”


The stress in the air, tight as a violin's strings and just as fragile, all of a sudden began to fade, sinking back, slowly, into the darkness. With one last glance at his friend, Dietrich lowered his gun – hesitantly at first – and then pushed it back into its sheath, snapping the holster's clasp shut. He took in a deep breath of the cool, smoky air, and smoothed his tie with a curt nod towards George.


With that he turned around, confident that he'd accomplished what he had come here for.


While the German marched off, back into the night where the fighting was still as heated as it had been an hour ago, George laid his left hand over his right, clasping it, and closed his eyes. The symbols along his arm began to glow with an eerie light that seemed so out-of-place in the holy chapel, but they were there nonetheless, and George permitted their presence. The glow turned into a flash as George cleared his thoughts to turn his attention to only one.


The excess was trimmed, and the priest focused his mind, sharpening it like a keen knife, keeping his Servant in his single train of thought.


Silence filled the chapel as even the wind itself paused for George to decree his will and change the course of the entire war with but a single thought. Nothing would be the same after this night, he knew, but he had to embrace that change, lest he be buried in the destruction and horror that would be unleashed should the ancient creature be allowed to roam without restriction.


His first command seal filled the whole of the chapel with a bright, blood-red luminescence, and as soon as that light had appeared, it faded into nothingness, and the symbol etched into George's old, pale arm was reduced to just a trace. His will had come to life.


Beside him, on the altar of the chapel, shimmered into existence a Servant of unmatched grandeur and nobility, his ancient, white beard and wrinkled skin making him seem aged and weak, but his bright blue eyes showing the true strength he held in his mind and body alike. He was dressed in rich robes of white, blue and gold, and the symbol of the fleur-de-lis was marked on his untarnished, ivory cape, its likeness repeated one thousand times on the silky fabric.


He was tall, and wore a crown of pure gold inset with rubies, sitting comfortably atop his lofty head and not moving even as he took a broad step down from the altar, moving towards the chapel's doors as the winter wind picked up again.


His robes, noble as they were, hardly made for protection, and so he had a breastplate of solid, shining steel to protect himself, along with gauntlets of white and inlaid with images of flowers, as incredible and breathtaking as anyone could imagine, something that no photograph or painting could ever truly capture. The king's very presence seemed to have a radiance to it of true wisdom and compassion, and he smiled calmly at his Master before he left, nodding once and placing a hand on his sword, a long two-hander that he hardly needed to pair a shield with.


His robes flowed gently in the breeze as he left the chapel, the golden-white of his sheath nearly dragging along the ground; the weapon's hilt and grip were of exotic ivory and an emerald in the pommel was ensconced, a royal jewel set in an otherworldly sword.


The Sword of Earth it was called, granted by angels to this man, and it had few equals. The divine spirits of the earth herself had forged it with their own, masterful hands, and it held a contract with the living earth, a strength that none could match. Its very touch against its blade was the will of the earth made into the blows of a weapon, and with that strength the king marched to battle, to kill Behemoth, that monstrous creature of God, and George knew that only his Servant, a mighty Saber to whom few if any could compare, could destroy this beast for good.


He could only watch in awe as that bastion of nobility and justice left with his royal radiance from the chapel, his name clear on the lips of whomever saw him pass:


Charlemagne.

-- --

“Moctezuma, here we are. Do you see them there, in the darkness?” Eleanor pointed towards the Key Bridge, seeing through the night with her keen eyes enhanced by a touch of magecraft; Moctezuma, following her words, watched where she directed him, and so his eyes were cast on the figure of a swordsman, his blade nearly as tall as his body, mailed in plate and walking steadily towards Behemoth off in the distance.


Nodding, Moctezuma understood, the rings on his ears shimmering as they stepped under a street light – one of the few in Georgetown that was still in good repair after the monster's rampage.


He breathed in, smelling the smoke, and clenched both his fists. “The monster there is our target, but there are others who seek the same goal. We are not a pack of wolves, though, stalking the same prey; only one can take the meat of this kill, so what shall we do, Eleanor?” He looked down at her, a questioning look on his face.


“We have to destroy the competition, simply enough.” She shrugged after saying that, as though it was the easiest thing in the world, and her small lips broadened into a smile. “They'll be distracted by Behemoth, and while they try to kill the monster, we attack them. Even if we cannot defeat any Master or Servant individually, the massed battle tonight is inviting everyone. If we weaken some, then Behemoth, perhaps, can kill them for us. I know some may retreat when they've been harmed enough, but if we play just the right role in undermining those other Servants, we can ensure their deaths.”


Moctezuma enjoyed the thought of that clever plan, relishing the idea of it, until he revealed to her the hidden difficulty of it.


“If there is no one left to kill the monster, then we alone will have to face him. As a single tree cannot resist an avalanche, how can we even believe that we can surmount such a beast? I have studied him from afar, and his strengths are more than anything we have faced yet: the monster rages without thought of tactics, and so his unmatched size and muscle will not differentiate who or what is ruined by his anger until all is dead before him. Worse than that, he is connected to the divine earth itself, and so long as he has that physical and spiritual connection, he will heal from all wounds.”


Eleanor, thinking, placed a hand on her chin. She leaned against a building, out of sight, and did her best to come up with a plan – or, really, anything that could help her and Moctezuma win this battle, snatching victory from the hands of another and preventing the utter destruction of this city and James' own hometown.


She raised a finger, an idea coming to her. “His healing... isn't it like Antaeus, the giant killed by Hercules in the old myths? In that story, Hercules defeated Antaeus by grappling him and holding him in the air, detached from the earth – Gaia, the natural protector of Antaeus – and crushed his body.”


“Eleanor,” Moctezuma began, raising an eyebrow, “I hardly believe that even with the utmost divine grace I could lift that unholy beast from the ground.”


Sighing, Eleanor stepped away from the wall she leaned on, and continued along down the road, Moctezuma diligently following behind her, ensuring that they weren't being stalked. He carried no weapons, not even his obsidian sword, choosing to fight with only his hands as he believed that a sword or a spear would only make him dependant, rather than doing battle with nothing but his body. Eleanor, in her silent thoughts, imagined that as making him quite similar to Hercules – something that made her giggle, and Moctezuma glared at her, knowing that she was laughing at him.


“This has the potential for a great battle, though, Eleanor,” said Moctezuma with a wistful tone to his voice, thinking of the defeats he'd suffered up to this point. “I remember, long ago, I was nearly killed, my army massacred, by the defenders of the Alamo... William Travis, David Crockett, and James Bowie among them. Before that hot, shining day in the desert I never knew of those men, but after I suffered such disgrace at their hands, I was enraged, and I would never forget them. Now, looking back at that day, seeing the past with new eyes... I honour those men, and I will never forget them for their sacrifice, fighting for what they believed in. They resisted me until they were all dead, their blood mixing with that of my own warriors, and never before had I seen such a thing – perhaps, I may never see it in the future, but I do not claim to have any aptitude for prediction. All that I declare is that while the future is shaded and unknown, like a lake covered in morning fog, what is known of the past should be remembered and honoured, not for the mistakes but for the successes, and what lies in the past then should never be a point of regret; my mistakes, I know, will never leave me, and now I see them as guides to become greater in the future and better myself. Do you not feel the same?”


Standing still, Eleanor thought about that for a while, and smiled back at her Servant. “I think that as well, Moctezuma. Though I was subservient to my family when I entered this war, I have here a chance to be better than that. I will take that chance no matter where it brings me, and I will always be thankful for this. More than anything, it is those people around us who are responsible for changing us and making us better... and this is why I respect you now, Moctezuma, and why I feel the way I do for James. I want to do something important, and I feel that we can achieve that together, striving to win.”


Her grin grew wider as she brimmed with confidence, and though he normally was surrounded with an air of emotionless calm, Moctezuma himself had to return her smile, as he felt just as she did in that moment. They had both come far, and this wasn't nearly the end of their journey: the war was not yet won, and there would always be more to learn from the days and even weeks to come.


Their focus, though, was one that truly mattered at the moment: Behemoth, and the conflict surrounding him.


As Moctezuma said it, they were to be like vultures with the teeth and claws of a jaguar, feasting on the hunters as they became too centred on their giant prey, their own hunt leading to a kind of tunnel-vision that blinded them to any threats from behind. That would be the key to overcoming the other Servants, and then Behemoth himself could be dealt with in time – there was still Ramesses, and Gilgamesh as well, two Servants that could put an end to anything that crossed their paths and they didn't take a liking to.


Ahead, there was the armoured Servant with his two-handed sword, his dark brown hair flowing like an animal's thick mane, and his march was slow but confident, and he made not one glance behind.


Eleanor nodded at Moctezuma, and raised her hand.


Out of the darkness walked a deer, a tall adult stag who stood about as tall as Eleanor herself, his muscles taut and his legs and body lean, perfect for sprinting. The stag was her familiar and an asset she could count on, and though he was a construct of magic and not a real beast, he looked at her with curious, animal eyes that seemed to show that he had some life to him – if anything, the creation of familiars was something Eleanor had mastered, and here at least it could see some use.


When Eleanor snapped her fingers the stag burst off at a run, reaching its full speed in mere moments, leaving a breeze as it passed and brushed Eleanor's dress. She watched and drew a few fingers through her hair, her hand trembling as she tried to still herself – she was confident, of course, but now this moment would determine whether this would end with a deadly fight or the kind of instantaneous slaughter she was hoping for, the one Moctezuma primed himself for.


Past a row of buildings, there was a hill down from the city street where Eleanor and Moctezuma had been walking, which led to a road along the Potomac; this road was the clearest path to the Key Bridge going north and quite scenic in the day – but at night, the riverside trees were treacherous and dark, hiding figures that could be anywhere in the pitch black, far from any working street lamps.


The stag raced across the road in front of the Servant in steel, and he gripped his sword in both hands and watched the stag as it darted in front of him. He could tell it was magical in nature, as any Servant could, and he snarled, watching the animal as it evaded him, entering and leaving his sight as if to taunt him, wanting him to follow it. The Servant let out a scoff and he rolled his shoulders, his plate mail clattering together as he prepared to chase the deer and kill it. A spy for a hidden Master, he imagined it was, and he readied his sword and stood still, his feet shoulder-width apart in a runner's stance. Even in his thick and heavy armour, he could make a good pace, easily catching up to the animal as it curiously ran back and forth ahead, along the river and against it.


Just as the Servant, letting out a yell, raised his sword, he was stopped dead in his tracks, finding himself suddenly unable to move at all.


He felt a breeze on the skin of his back, seeming to reach deep into his bones, and he felt lines of warm liquid run down to his waist, down his legs, dripping on the ground. A pool of red slowly formed about him, and he used all his remaining strength to turn his head, seeing a dark shape behind him and holding him in a grapple.


Moctezuma had thrust his hand into the man's one weak point, the leaf-shaped scar on his back, right between his shoulder blades, and pierced through the flimsy armour to grab the man's still-beating heart. The organ pumped out a few last spurts of blood in the Aztec's grasp, but then he slowly tightened his hand, making the mighty Sigurd howl in anger and pain mixed into one barbaric scream.


Sigurd's heart was crushed into a collapsed piece of blood-soaked meat, and with his last, heaving breaths the warrior urged himself into action.


He pulled himself off of Moctezuma's hand, leaving the man's full forearm covered in a slick, deep-red coat of blood, and he turned about on the spot with his sword still held tight in both hands. He brought the old iron blade down, its cold edge enough to match the icy night air, and slammed it down on Moctezuma's arm, hacking the limb off with a single blow. His foe stepped back a pace, then another, staring at the stump with a look of shock and dismay on his face.


Feeling death encroaching on him, Sigurd let out a deep laugh to match his blood-curdling scream, and rushed at Moctezuma with his two-hander held high in the air, ready to smash the blade on the haughty Aztec's skull.


At that moment, Moctezuma's shock faded immediately from his face, revealing it all as a facade. The blood that had slicked his severed arm flowed together on the fleshy stump, the bone rebuilding itself and then the crimson fluid forming into new flesh, clean and muscled, a new limb with no hint of wear. Sigurd didn't even notice that, his rage was so hot, and so he continued to run, his feet pounding on the grass and dirt, and he felt that nothing could stop him. He was a berserker, truly mad with the heat of combat, and nothing but the spilled blood of his hated foe could put an end to this. He began to speak a few words, the beginning of a command for the Aztec king to stay rooted in place until his death came to him at the edge of that huge sword, but he was too late.


Pure adrenaline pushed him onwards, the last gasps of a mighty hero, and yet he wasn't quite as quick as Moctezuma, not dextrous enough to dodge an attack made against him.


Moctezuma, seeing clearly in the darkness and feeling the exact moment when Sigurd would strike, bent his knees and ducked low, starting to run ahead himself when there was a fraction of a second until the blade's impact into his broad shoulder. He grasped Sigurd by the legs, using his new found strength and speed to hold him tightly there, and lifted him into the air, getting a better hold on the Germanic hero.


Though Sigurd's tough skin was coated in dragon's blood and was immune to any strike save for those made on his famous scar, his body was still that of a man, and it could be destroyed like any other, with enough raw power – Moctezuma had that power.


With one arm holding Sigurd's legs and the other reaching up to his shoulders, the tall Moctezuma kept the man held up in the air and, with one decisive movement, snapped the man's back in twain, leaving his body limp in his grip. For all the man's endurance, that was the final blow, and he could not survive past it. The last drops of his heart's blood poured from his open wound, and his body collapsed with a thud and a clatter of metal on the grass of the hill when Moctezuma let him fall from his powerful grasp. Sigurd, son of Sigmund, was no more; his current incarnation faded away into dust, whisked away by the cool winds across the river.


Covered in blood, both his own and from Sigurd's heart, Moctezuma smiled, and let out a laugh. More than ever before, he truly felt confident, as though perhaps he could triumph even against the mighty beast that was Behemoth.


Eleanor, too, from atop the hill looked down on her Servant, returning his smile and running carefully down to meet him, enjoying their combined victory – the stag, too, returned to her and ran beside her, dissipating back into its invisible, magical existence, its duty completed for the night.


They had a victory, but the night even now was still young – there was much time left for their victory to be reversed, and for the shame of defeat to destroy their hopes and their lives.

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

There you go, chapter 92 of MPII, getting closer and closer to the fabled 100. I do hope this chapter was a good one - I liked it, especially the part with Dietrich and George arguing (their character dynamic really is interesting) and where Moctezuma is reminiscing about the Alamo, seeing it in a different light than when it first happened in General Dialogue. Things like that really show how far he and Eleanor have come since they first showed up.

Prepare yourselves for next chapter, now, which should drop around Tuesday, if you (and I, actually) happen to be lucky! I'll do my best, of course.

[Mattias]

So George is Charlemagne's master. Makes sense in hindsight. I laughed every time George talked about being neutral because of all the tampering he's done, and then Dietrich calls him out on it too.

So Berserk Siggy is done, is that 4 or 5 down?

[Five_X]

So George is Charlemagne's master. Makes sense in hindsight. I laughed every time George talked about being neutral because of all the tampering he's done, and then Dietrich calls him out on it too.

So Berserk Siggy is done, is that 4 or 5 down?

Berserker (killed by Napoleon) > Rider (killed by a dog) > Assassin (killed himself) > Caster (AZTEC HEARTPUNCH) > ??? > ??? > Saber

Caster Sigurd died because he's too slow. Sigurd in general gets mad easily in a fight; it's only the Berserker class that actually gives him the benefits, though. He was about to use his Language of the Birds to make Moctezuma stand still but he was too slow for heart-powered Aztec priest.

[Lycodrake]

Meanwhile, Behemoth is going Kaiju on some other Servants.

Berserker (killed by Napoleon) > Rider (killed by a dog) > Assassin (killed himself) > Caster (AZTEC HEARTPUNCH) > ??? > ??? > Saber

Caster Sigurd died because he's too slow. Sigurd in general gets mad easily in a fight; it's only the Berserker class that actually gives him the benefits, though. He was about to use his Language of the Birds to make Moctezuma stand still but he was too slow for heart-powered Aztec priest.

Angry Birds weren't strong enough.

[EXiku]

The more you ask me to comment, the more I don't know what to comment about ;_; I guess it's what happens when you want to feed off my thoughts as soon as I'm done beta-ing :/ I can't have more thoughts when I've already shared them...

[Five_X]

The more you ask me to comment, the more I don't know what to comment about ;_; I guess it's what happens when you want to feed off my thoughts as soon as I'm done beta-ing :/ I can't have more thoughts when I've already shared them...

MOGU MOGU~!

At least you posted, silly. You may not have thoughts, but there's a post! Maybe I should make "thinking up a comment" part of the beta-ing phase.

[Five_X]

Help, help, I've been dreaming about MPII! ;_;

Last night I had a dream about Napoleon and the viking Ragnar Lodbrok laying siege to a castle defended by Richard the Lionheart and and I think Saladin... there were two bridges leading to the castle/city, which was located on a sort of slightly offshore island, and the forces of Ragnar Lodbrok advanced up one bridge while being supported by afar from Napoleon's line infantry and cannons. Francois was fighting on the front lines and being surprisingly awesome, and there was a comedic scene before the battle with Francois being embarrassed about giving names to his spells and stuff as though they were fighting game special attacks.

Ah, no room for that in this story... maybe another, in the future.

[Mattias]

Saladin and Lionheart? On the same team? That would be a hard position to take out....

[EXiku]

MOGU MOGU~!At least you posted, silly. You may not have thoughts, but there's a post! Maybe I should make "thinking up a comment" part of the beta-ing phase.

GOMU GOMU~!

Noh.

Help, help, I've been dreaming about MPII! ;_;Last night I had a dream about Napoleon and the viking Ragnar Lodbrok laying siege to a castle defended by Richard the Lionheart and and I think Saladin... there were two bridges leading to the castle/city, which was located on a sort of slightly offshore island, and the forces of Ragnar Lodbrok advanced up one bridge while being supported by afar from Napoleon's line infantry and cannons. Francois was fighting on the front lines and being surprisingly awesome, and there was a comedic scene before the battle with Francois being embarrassed about giving names to his spells and stuff as though they were fighting game special attacks.Ah, no room for that in this story... maybe another, in the future.

You make it sound like this is the first time you've dreamed about MPII...surely that can't be true, for one as obsessed as you? :3

[Five_X]

I know of one other MPII dream I had, and it wasn't really MPII related it's just that in that one I was a time-traveler or something and Ilse was my bodyguard.

[Lycodrake]

...Ilse was my bodyguard.

That sounds like some sort of suffering.

[Five_X]

It's another chapter! Thanks again to EXiku for being a very very quick beta despite me being slow with the chapter; I hope I get get about another two done this weekend, though I have no idea if I can get the third down. The second is halfway done and it shouldn't really take long to finish. Hopefully it'll all be good so I don't get consumed by guilt!

Anyhow before I get all writted out, here's the chapter! Enjoy. :3

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

CHAPTER XCIII

Regardless of the clouds and the rain and the dreary atmosphere that night, the golden armour Gilgamesh wore shimmered with its rich light. The King of Heroes, proud as he was, watched the fighting from the sidelines, his eyes narrowed and searching the fervent fighting – there was a man he was looking for, and when he spotted his chariot and its white horses dashing like a shaft of light to and fro, between the massive Behemoth's legs, his eyes widened once more.


There he was: Ramesses, the all too haughty King of Kings, within whom Gilgamesh had been seeking out a fight since they first met. Each battle they had against each other had ended in a draw, but Gilgamesh swore on his own insurmountable will that Ramesses could only die by the hand of his better, the oldest hero himself. No one else deserved the honour, and it would never be appropriate for anyone but Gilgamesh to slay the upstart king, putting the attempted usurper in his place. For all his strength, the pharaoh would come to understand how weak he truly was, and how much greater the King of Heroes was, so deserving of his title and ownership of the entire world. Ramesses could, perhaps, be delighted with the rule of a petty kingdom in north Africa, but Gilgamesh would never stoop so low; his ambition urged him to look to the future, but Ramesses was an ugly obstacle blocking his path forward, needing to be put somewhere out of sight and out of mind.


Gilgamesh snapped his fingers together, a quick sound that bolted his Master to attention. In that same moment a shining sword with a red hilt crackled into existence, flying out of a shimmering red portal behind the golden king.


The sword, tearing through the cold night air like a bullet, struck itself into the side of Ramesses' chariot, followed by an axe that, with a thundering blow, shattered one of the chariot's wheels and made the vehicle spin out, nearly flipping on its side as Ramesses tried to keep control of it as he was ambushed. This whole spectacle earned a hearty laugh from Gilgamesh, far enough away to avoid Ramesses' immediate wrath while also ignoring Behemoth entirely. The creature, though his shadow covered much of Georgetown and the Potomac, was hardly worth the king's sneer.


At the same time, the beast was all a trembling Filippo could pay attention to, his mind struggling to comprehend such a vast and immortal thing brought back from the past, something that should not have been but nonetheless could not be denied by his very own eyes.


“Gilgamesh, please!” Filippo said this between heavy breaths, feeling himself shrink before the shadow of Behemoth as his tail swished through the air, sending a fetid gust in the man's direction. “Kill this creature, and show Ramesses your glory! Show him that only the true king can overwhelm such a beast, and I'm sure that he'll be shamed to no end, seeing the ease with which you can destroy the huge Behemoth of legend!”


The King of Heroes just turned and looked down on his Master, his lips curled into a disgusted frown, and shrugged. “Are you trying to command me, worm? I have no interest in this mindless animal. Ziz was a great and noble creature, but this Behemoth is cattle, a stinking beast with no intelligence to it. It cares not for my own existence, and I share that same view towards the thing. Perhaps when it has nothing left to eat and wants to try to digest me I may lay a few Noble Phantasms through its skull and its hide, but for now I want to kill Ramesses. There is a man who has done me dishonour, and making him submit to my will at last would be too vindicating for me to pass up. Wallow in your desperation as much as it satisfies you, mongrel, and try not to die tonight.”


Filippo, exasperated, dropped to his knees. He could do nothing but stare into the great, black and white orbs that were Behemoth's eyes, each larger even than Filippo's head.


He gripped his wrist tight, looking down to his right hand, and he clenched it into a brazen fist, channelling his prana into that one spot. The two remaining symbols there, like the tattoos of a mystic, glowed a fierce red and shot their light into the darkness all around, surrounding Filippo's form with an otherworldly hue. Filippo breathed faster now, arcs of pain shooting through his body, but he wasn't going to stop now. He had to do this.


Casting his dull gaze back at the kneeling, pained man, and in a moment a vicious, serrated scimitar was in his hand; the moment after that the curved blade was against Filippo's neck, and a line of red showed on the man's pale, still skin.


Staring at the blade, Filippo didn't even dare to move, and he felt a warm drip of his own blood slide down his neck down his shirt, and he avoided the urge to gulp, lest the steel cut deeper and his wound become fatal.


The king had made his will known without a single word.


The red flash that had once surrounded Filippo, showing off the power of his command seal, was gone completely, replaced by the encroaching darkness that refused to part for any light save for the reflections off of the golden plate armour Gilgamesh wore. Filippo was left there, listening to heavy boots clank on the asphalt of the road, staring down at the ground. His blood washed away with the rain and his knees began to sink into the muddied grass near the river, raindrops beating down on his head.


Though he'd tried his hardest, in this key moment he couldn't do anything. He was useless, unneeded, just as he'd always been. Even if he'd let go and cried, with the rain continuing to relentlessly pour down on him, soaking his dress clothes through, he wouldn't even be able to feel his own tears.


Gilgamesh paid no more attention to the pathetic Master he was contracted to, and watched as the chariot ground to a halt, its remaining wheel spinning uselessly against the road.


“Come, King of Kings! Do you want to earn your title tonight?” Gilgamesh laughed as he taunted Ramesses, who stood atop his chariot as if nothing unplanned had happened. He was smiling, though when the figure of his Master appeared, creeping out from behind the broken wheel, his face contorted into a scowl and he ordered her back with a snap of his arm. She was important, above all; he would never let her safety be compromised, even if it meant his honour could take a blow.


“I believe that I did that three thousand years past, King of Heroes. If thy will is to question it, then I shall giveth the same answer as before to thee: in legend thy honour is writ, as with thy skill and thy strength, and aught shall besmirch that now. As with myself, mine own history is recorded in the books of the scholars and in the monuments etched into the land of Egypt, never to be forgotten. I hath made my mark upon each grain of sand in the vast deserts and each drop of water in the great Nile; none shall forget me, and none shall forget thee. What doth thou seek to gain by battling me over honour and prestige earned so long ago? Nothing now can change that, and none shall remember what we do this day.” Ramesses kept up his noble sneer, watching Gilgamesh striding towards him, unimpressed and expecting more from the most ancient hero of legend.


Lightning cracked down onto the road as Gilgamesh raised his hand and tightened it into a fist, his red eyes seeing easily through the night towards the figure of Ramesses.


Even as Behemoth crushed a building with a single step, the two kings merely stared at each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Ramesses, at least, had the high ground, standing atop his chariot with his arms crossed, his loose, gold- and silver-trimmed robes fluttering with the wind as it passed between them. Neither made a single step forward, knowing that their best chance at victory would be to exploit the first weakness that their opponent showed. They had both met their match in each other before, and because of that now they both only wanted victory, and nothing more; a draw could never suffice, but Ramesses seemed to be looking on in nonchalant disinterest.


He glanced pointedly to the side, and saw a familiar flow of brown robes silhouetted against the city's dim lights, and he smiled, looking back at Gilgamesh without bothering to turn his head – his interest was elsewhere now, and he placed a hand on his hip, ready to leave now that the King of Heroes was boring him even more than usual. A graceful step forward brought him to the road, in front of his chariot, and he let it remain there as an effective shield for his Master.


A shimmer of blue stemmed from the ground, rising up to Ramesses' free hand, until it rose as high as the man itself, the aura forming itself into the long-bladed war axe he was so comfortable with. The blunt end of the axe thudded against the ground with every step he took, moving towards the Key Bridge and the summoner of the mighty Behemoth. The beast had caught Ramesses' eye when it had been brought into the world at Moses' behest, but now that the old magus has begun his escape, Ramesses saw his one and only chance to strike down his ancient, legendary foe.


Though Gilgamesh shot a sword straight forward to catch Ramesses in the side, the pharaoh instinctively understood it would hit, and deflected it uselessly to the side with his divine axe.


An antiquated Indian mace, made entirely of gold, burst from one of the glowing portals at Gilgamesh's back, and when it struck the ground it rocked the road and the remains of the bridge with a huge explosion in front of Ramesses' sandal-clad feet, but he merely stepped through the cloud of ash and smoke without bothering to look back at the King of Heroes, his robes and skin unscathed by the fire of the Noble Phantasm's blast.


“So you ignore me?” shouted Gilgamesh into the night, thunder bellowing from above, almost drowning out his voice. “Why don't you finish this, then, if you see the decision to avoid heeding my words to be so obvious to you? Fight me, and we will tear this city apart! It will be more full of splendour than the old myths, a story of two god-like and mythic men fighting until one of them can no longer stand, and collapses into death, the other too exasperated to enjoy the victory?” For once the king showed a more humble side, trying to worm his way into Ramesses' own ego and win him over, offering a chance that nearly any other hero of his stature would be almost too quick to accept.


Yet the pharaoh, so preoccupied with Moses and their rivalry, didn't even offer a response.


The indignation burned inside Gilgamesh, his teeth tightening together, jaw locked, his brow furrowed to contort his handsome face into a scowl. “I will leave you to this, then, Ramesses! No King of Kings are you; if a glorious end is not what you seek, then I hope a peasant brings you your end with his rusted knife plunged into your back – for though you say you possess the blessings and the body of a god, you have the heart of a mortal, and everyone who sees you can understand that as I do. You lack a true myth, Ramesses, like the grand kings of old do, kings like myself with no bounds to their powers. You are descended from gods, the incarnation of one as you say, but I walked amongst older gods, those who could attest to being alive when the world itself was born. I slew their beasts and adventured in their forests at the far edges of the world; to that, what can you say, you King of Kings?”


Gilgamesh, though he had no power to draw this man into a battle, knew that he could win this fight with his own words. Ultimately, no matter the ignorance Ramesses had for Gilgamesh, he was but a man, a king of only mortal territory.


“You are called King of Kings, Ramesses, but what are kings? They are the mortal rulers of petty swathes of land, appointed through power and alleged divine right. You are lord over these men, squabbling tribes far outnumbering the few glittering cities your civilization can attest to. But I? I am the King of Heroes, oldest and most grand amongst the many figures of legend across the world. My legend was the first, and will remain the last, when the world comes to an inevitable end, for every myth and tale told after my time was derived from my own stories, my deeds and journeys. Heroes are the greatest that humanity has to offer; heroes are the prime examples of this species, the paragons of strength, virtue, and intelligence alike that people worship and aspire to become, and of these same heroes I am counted as the greatest.” His scowl had by then been replaced with a smile, as he knew his superiority still was standing. Ramesses' lack of a reply, though he was halfway across the broken bridge, was perhaps now because of an inability to dredge up the words to form a retort.


It was time for the last blow in this battle of minds, with Gilgamesh as the only true competitor. “And though you are King of Kings, you are regarded as a hero, and I am the King of Heroes – you said upon our first meeting that I was your lesser, and you proclaimed this with no doubt in your mind, but the truth is that I am still the most noble and powerful of them all, the King of Heroes with no equal in all the world. Your name will fade from history, Ramesses, but my legacy will never die, not so long as people still stubbornly persist, their legends living with them.”


His hand tight around the haft of his war axe, tight enough to make his knuckles turn a sickly white, Ramesses held his head low, staring forward, no longer wanting to even recognize Gilgamesh. He let himself only pay attention to Moses, their history of hatred towards each other driving him onwards just as the words Gilgamesh uttered made him know he couldn't ever go back.


For a while the storm seemed to calm, letting Ramesses wallow in his thoughts; his heart pounded in his chest, and he stared through the thick night into Moses' very own eyes.


He knew them well; they were as recognizable to him as the desert sands of his own kingdom, but he was too late. Just as the two made eye contact, Moses' robes disappeared from sight as Ramesses heard a flutter of clothing in the night; there was a small splash into the rolling river's current, and it was clear to the pharaoh then that Moses had at last escaped, flowing down the rapids he had made himself, letting his mastery over this freakish weather guide himself along to safety.


This would be the last time, Ramesses swore to himself.


He swore that night, that the next time he laid eyes on Moses, the magus wouldn't leave his gaze until the life had been torn from him in as violent a manner as possible. If honour was something he ever valued, then Moses' own existence was a stain on that honour, the sole surviving example of his ultimate failure. He would not let the man live to carry on this shame.

-- --

The long and brilliant jewel of a sword, Joyeuse, was clutched tight in Charlemagne's hands. A fire was lit inside the king, his old spirit strengthened by the command seal that had been used to order him to kill Behemoth no matter the cost Charlemagne would have to pay. It was a task he would have done regardless, but George couldn't hold the utmost faith in his Servant; if he was to alter the war in such a crucial way, breaking his vow of neutrality, he would have to make sure that he succeeded no matter what took place in D.C. that night.


With the command seal's magic infusing his every movement, Charlemagne dashed with blazing speed from the chapel, his figure barely noticeable as he dashed through the streets to perform his sacred duty.


Behemoth was a creature that God had destroyed on purpose; he was too huge and had too great a constitution and lifespan to ever walk the Earth like a normal beast. Were he allowed to breed, Behemoth would have spread across the world with nothing to stop him, and his spawn would have drank all the oceans and grazed across the forests and plains of all the vast earth until nothing but desert and ruin was left. In order to allow His creation to flourish, God had to take a begrudging hand in the lives of the beings He had delivered unto the world, and so the Behemoth, and the Leviathan, and noble Ziz perished, their deaths allowing the other creatures to thrive on their own, rich Earth.


The beast's breath was fetid, his very presence in fact marked with a stench like none other, and Charlemagne looked with narrowed eyes up at the huge animal, his weighty head occasionally leaning down near to the ground to pluck a tree right from the earth with his teeth.


He was like a massive bull with the skin of an elephant, with tusks all the same, his body stout like a boar and his legs ending in bony, mammalian hooves. He snorted as he saw Charlemagne, noticing the man as anyone was forced to, his very existence as notable as the sun in the sky. The limited intelligence made Behemoth lack a certain understanding as he glanced at the king's sword, calmly moving his head about, watching everything around so nonchalantly, as if this weather and the events that had transpired were all so normal to him. When he crushed an apartment block with a swing of one of his legs, just trying to move about in the crowded city, he meant not to destroy but to position himself so that he could lower his mouth to the river and drink from its icy, fast-flowing waters, to him merely like a stream from a faucet.


So it was that Charlemagne steeled himself.


A golden-white flash emitted from Joyeuse, lighting up the deep night with its holy glow. When Charlemagne lowered its tip to the asphalt of the road, looking straight on at Behemoth, the ground seemed to pull itself apart at the very touch of the weapon's hot iron, and Charlemagne readied himself. His knees were just slightly bent, and Behemoth now was turning about, slowly and steadily, having lost interest in the strange old king and preferring to dwell on other things.


That was the perfect time for the king to make his first, decisive strike. He put one foot forward, feeling the dust under his boot, and then he shot himself forward, sword held out to the side, ready for a swing. The peerless sword was sharp as any blade could hope to be, and there was no doubt that it would pierce through the Behemoth's ancient hide.


Charlemagne let Joyeuse tap against the ground as he ran towards Behemoth, and when its tip carved into the road, the Sword of Earth dug deep; like an explosion from underneath the asphalt tore apart, shards of dirt and rock flying into the air along with a cloud of brown dust. The fissure ran along the ground wherever the blade ran, and with a heave of both his arms as he came into striking distance of Behemoth, Charlemagne brought Joyeuse up and against the beast's thick, tree-like leg.


Any normal sword would have, if it was sharp enough, cut Behemoth's skin and dug into the meat on his bones, but Joyeuse, of course, was far from a normal sword.


Blessed by the mother Earth, just as Behemoth himself was, Joyeuse struck with far more devastation than its size would imply. The wind gathered behind the blade and extended it, and the gust that formed around Joyeuse made a divinely sharp edge that sliced through the tough animal hide with utmost precision, severing the whole limb. Much as had happened when Ramesses had used his huge war axe to cut the monster, Behemoth fell onto the stump, struggling to move and writhing in pain, screaming as bestial rage filled his mind, only thinking now of stomping on the body of the ant that had injured him, tearing up its corpse for the smaller creatures to devour.


But this time, unlike the last, the stump didn't grow back. The power held within the sword cut not only the flesh and bone of the Behemoth but also his spiritual connection to the Earth, a brute-force and unavoidable counter to the overpowering regeneration Behemoth possessed.


Disregarding the bloody wound. Behemoth turned his body about with remarkable speed, swinging a heavy foreleg at Charlemagne, trying to knock him aside like mere paper.


The king ducked under the huge limb as it was clumsily tossed through the air, and instead of continuing to dodge he held his place, standing his ground and daring Behemoth to try to strike him again. He knew the beast would be foolish enough to try, and it was only a matter of waiting. He tightened his grip on Joyeuse, making sure he didn't led the sword slip from his hands, and he let out a breath, waiting as the seconds counted down. Charlemagne didn't know when Behemoth would make his next, overbearing assault, but he assured himself he would be able to avoid or counter it outright. A few beads of sweat showed on his brow already, but the fight had just begun. He would see this to its end, one way or another.


Behemoth, letting out a roar louder than the thunder that cracked down from the heavens above, raised himself up on his hind legs, almost managing to stand himself upright. His vast belly was exposed to the wind and the rain, and his true, incredible bulk was revealed. Nothing Charlemagne had ever seen had been even close to as huge as Behemoth, but that didn't worry him for a moment.


As expected, after a short delay, Behemoth brought his front hooves crashing down onto the ground, wanting to smash Charlemagne and kill him in one, definite blow. No doubt the king, with all his endurance, would have been instantly slain by that, but he was more clever than this animal by far.


Instead of dodging, or taking up a better position, Charlemagne held Joyeuse tip forward like a spear, its hilt grasped as tight as he could manage with both hands.


The shadow of Behemoth grew smaller as the body of the monster came closer to the ground and making impact, but Charlemagne was prepared. He felt the rush of wind and the warm stench that came with it as Behemoth's front half plummeted to the earth, his capable limb aimed for Charlemagne directly – this was exactly what the king had wanted, and so he stood, waiting. His waiting did its purpose, then, and the hoof slammed down on the very tip of Joyeuse.


The steel slid past the tough bone and hide as easily as before, tearing right into the lower leg's bone to split it in half.


A jolt of burning pain ran through Behemoth's body, like nothing he had experienced before; he reacted immediately and instinctively, pressing his foot down harder, only digging the bone and flesh deeper on the skewer that was Charlemagne's two-metre long sword. His bellow grew louder, nearly shaking the very earth as he tried and failed to express his anger with noise and violence, two of the only thoughts that the creature could understand. He thrashed his body about, trying desperately to kill Charlemagne and drive away the searing pain that ached down to his bones, and he tossed his foreleg with a sideways thrust of his body. Charlemagne continued to hold on to Joyeuse, the wind battering through his hair and his robes, and he was left with one hand on the hilt, two fingers wrapped about the crossguard for stability, his figure nearly flying away into the swelling Potomac. He pulled himself forward with his sheer strength, grabbing the blade itself, not caring about the cuts it made in the calloused flesh of his hand. So long as this unholy beast ended up dead, he would be satisfied.


His grasp remained strong, but Behemoth was stronger, his rage enough to overcome any obstacle. He flailed and threw himself about, beating Charlemagne's body against the side of a building badly enough to collapse a section of the sturdy brick, making the structure slant towards the street, slowly crumbling as its foundations shook with each of the Behemoth's thudding steps.


Ultimately, despite being thrust three-quarters of the way up its length into Behemoth's leg like a sword encased in stone, Joyeuse began to slide free, and with one snapping swing of that leg Behemoth tossed Charlemagne away like a ragdoll, his body hurtling through the air with nothing to stop him at all. He could only wait until gravity had the mercy to let him strike the earth so he could get back on his feet, and then he would take up his sword once more and strike down Behemoth, even if doing so ended with his own death.


Shoulder-first, he slammed into the asphalt and stone of the Key Bridge, his body sliding across the ground, scuffing and scratching his armour and tearing his robes; he stopped just before he would have fallen over the edge of the broken bridge into the deadly waters of the Potomac below.


Trembling and beaten, Charlemagne refused to be laid low. He stood to his feet, using Joyeuse as a crutch, stabbing the tip into the stonework of the bridge for stability. Using the leverage he steadied himself again, and moments afterwards he was ready to fight once more, his back to the raging river, waiting to kill or be killed by this enraged monster. He waited, watched, and saw Behemoth readying himself for a charge, lowering his sharp, long tusks so low they nearly brushed against the asphalt, sweeping away the debris as Behemoth swept his head from side to side in animalistic posturing as though he was trying to frighten away a predator.


Charlemagne, King of the Franks, wouldn't be frightened so easily. He held Joyeuse in one hand and began to charge before Behemoth could even move, and he let out a yell of his own.


He swung his sword along the ground, putting the full force of the weapon and its magic behind that blow, and the sheer power of it could be seen to all who looked on as the ripples from the sword's clash with the earth poured forth in a massive roll of the ground like an earthquake erupting from Charlemagne's own legendary power, backed by the spirit of the world itself. A wave of debris tore up along a straight path, carving a steep valley in Georgetown towards Behemoth, and the huge beast was knocked off-balance as the unsteady, ruptured ground collapsed beneath his feet. The creature roared, shaking his head and pounding its crippled front legs on the ground, shaking Charlemagne himself. The king's breaths were ragged, but he kept going, walking slowly forward but without a single moment of hesitation in his beleaguered movements.


This time, Behemoth made the first move, and trampled the ground beneath his feet to make it level, tearing down buildings with the shock of his hoofbeats, rushing forward with more speed than he had ever shown before. His charge was made with all the fury of a raging, dying animal, seeking only to take Charlemagne with him as he scraped and tore up the ground with his tusks like a plough, his run hobbled but not hindered by his stump of a leg, still unhealed.


Charlemagne kept Joyeuse tight in one hand, the other bloodied but still functional. His strides were magnificent, like an expert runner, and at the last moment, before he made contact with Behemoth's massive tusks, he leapt.


The beast was too late in noticing the king running up one of his tusks, but as soon as he did, he shook his head, twisting his neck about to get rid of the man trying to end his life; Charlemagne was knocked off-balance, but as he slipped from Behemoth's tusk he gripped it with his free hand, wrapping his arm around the ivory. Before Behemoth could try to drive him into the ground, Charlemagne swung himself forwards and up, leaping to the other tusk as the first was buried like a drill into the rock. Behemoth stuck in place as he writhed and struggled against the ground, eventually breaking the bone off and shoving his whole body backwards, ensuring every movement he made was massive and powerful so as to fling Charlemagne back to the dirt so that he could be impaled on his other still-sharp tusk. However, Charlemagne was too clever and too strong to be pushed around by this beast now, and he kept his stance low as he navigated the back of Behemoth's neck.


Behemoth now let out grunts and bellows, knowing that his time would soon come, and became more angered and desperate than ever. He knew now that he would die, and so he cared not even for his own life; all that mattered was ensuring that Charlemagne was slaughtered at the same time.


With no sense of self-preservation left in his mind, Behemoth beat his body against tall structures, letting his hide get bruised and cut, and Charlemagne only managed to stay steady by grabbing the beast's ear, which writhed under his grip. The king had to act quickly, or else this would all be for aught... if only he could make his strike, finding the perfect opportunity for it; then he could kill Behemoth, even if he died as well.


Not bothering to hold back any of his strength and energy, Charlemagne wasted himself, stabbing into Behemoth's back, severing tendons and piercing organs, making the creature howl and begin to lean to the side as he ran. He rampaged across streets and flattened buildings like crops under his feet, feeling the pain overtake him, and his front leg, barely able to keep up, stumbled for just a moment mid-pace, and Behemoth's whole front went with it as the severed stump couldn't adequately keep the beast upright, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how numb to the pain he was at that moment; Charlemagne's time had come.


Standing tall, his robes spattered with blood and flowing in the thick wind, the great king swung Joyeuse down on Behemoth's neck, the force of a hurricane gathering behind the blade's peerless edge, sharpening to as fine a point as divine grace could make. The sword, burning with righteous fury and the magic of the world imbued in its untarnished, white steel, struck down on Behemoth's neck and split right through, cutting off the creature's spine where it met the base of his head, and in that exact second the beast went silent, his screams cut off mid-roar, his mouth open wide and slack, his darting, enraged eyes going dark and glassy, Behemoth's life extinguished in a single moment. His front half crashed against the ground, head raising as if in one last, triumphant look to the heavens above, knees buckling and breaking from the sheer weight of Behemoth's full bulk shoved forward.


Charlemagne, unable to keep stable atop the dead Behemoth, was flung forward as the monster suddenly halted, not even dragging along the ground for some metres more; the king was slammed to the ground at full-force, his vision blacking out for a few moments as he tumbled and finally landed on his back, staring back at the Behemoth he had killed single-handedly.


His off-hand he could no longer raise, and half of his body felt completely numb, and just as he became conscious of the world around him, he saw Behemoth's vast skull plummeting back to earth, the echoes of his body's fall still rumbling through the air, the dust rising in heavy clouds.


Charlemagne didn't even close his eyes as the tusk came down, its dashed tip, blunted but still enough to cut through a man, staked the King of the Franks through the stomach, his blood pouring out of the wound and pooling below him, muddying the dry and dusty dirt below as it was soaked through with rain that was soon dyed a sickly red. Charlemagne touched his bloodied hand to his pale sword-arm, steadying himself, but he could hardly move, not now. He would be an easy target for any half-ambitious Servant or Master who came by, laying there as weak as he was, but even as he was dying he knew he would do his best to put up a fight against anyone.


The beast had done its best even after death, yet Charlemagne kept Joyeuse held as tight as he could manage in his trembling hand, his breaths unsteady but becoming firmer by the minute.


He couldn't raise the whole weight of the bloodstained two-hander, its former brilliance marred by the Behemoth's unholy corruption. Still, he could fight. He raised the tip up, like a pike set by his body, and his chest raised up and down heavily with each solid breath he took. The king barely winced at the pain in his stomach as he tried to move despite being run through by the Behemoth's shattered tusk; but the full weight of the beast was on him, and he could do nothing.


Charlemagne knew, above all, that he was dying.


With his own will, though, he could stave it off for some time, allowing himself to get in perhaps one last, good battle before his spirit faded. He had done his duty as a king and as a knight, and as a man under God, and he felt proud. A smile crossed his pale lips; he was noble until the very end.


Perhaps the world had seen better battles, but even he had to admit, that his own struggle was quite spectacular. He imagined that, just maybe, a song would be written of it, someday...

-- --

Katalin's eyes, half-lidded, revealed to her a realm of destruction that had spread throughout the city. Her eyes shot open when she realized what she was looking at, and caught a first glance of the Potomac river, swelled with water, its churning and rushing waters the only sound that filled the night.


Bricks had fallen out of structures along the streets, glass littered the pavement from windows that shattered above, and the riverside parks of D.C. were drenched in muddy waters, if not outright flooded over from the tearing down of the embankments by the newly powerful Potomac. Katalin remembered, then, how she herself was soaked from the rain, and her skin and clothes were slick with mud from where she had lain, weak and useless.


Her numb body eventually regained all of its senses, and most sharply of all, she noticed Alexei grabbing her arm, strong and brutish as he did so; but he was only holding on so tightly because he needed to, lest she be overtaken by the river beside them, her once-unconscious body pushed by the wind and the rain, slipping on the smooth pavement and fating herself to a too-early end.


It was hardly a clever escape from the dangers surrounding the Key Bridge, but it was necessary, that much Alexei knew.


“Unhand me! I agreed to ally with you, but now you manhandle and try to control me?” She scowled as she spoke, her voice louder than even the rushing waters, and she tried her hardest to twist her arm and shoulder out of Alexei's grasp as he guided her along.


“I'm saving your life, Katalin. If you want me to stop 'controlling' you then I certainly can, but I doubt either of us would enjoy it when I'd have to dive into the river to save you. You've been unconscious for about an hour now, but as I've found, almost nowhere is safe. Saber is behind us, fighting off a few other Servants himself, and I don't know what happened to your Caster after he summoned that monster. You've got the marks of your old command seals, though, so I imagine he's still alive – you're lucky to have summoned a Servant like him.” Alexei, breathing heavily, let go of Katalin as they approached a black, wrought iron fence, and he looked it up and down to find the best way to cross it.


Katalin just huffed, crossing her arms tightly, barely even wanting to get a glimpse of Alexei. “I failed then because Caster is stubborn, his morals preventing him from using the situation to his advantage. That, I think, will someday get the fool killed, and I'll be the one trying to make up for such a loss. Useless, useless man.”


Gripping one bar of the tall fence, Alexei measured it, sighing after he found it too sturdy to break open. “I've seen too many good men ruin their lives by sticking too firmly to their ideals. He may never appreciate it, but you did well in making him defend the both of you. It's good that I could find you afterwards, though; it makes me glad that you're alive still.”


“I never needed your protection, Alexei!” Katalin shouted, and her words were followed by a firm hushing from Alexei himself, who hitched his thumb behind himself, indicating the violence in the core of the city. She continued, not bothering with the man's warning. “Here you are, doting on me, ensuring I come to no harm. Do you not trust me to fight for myself, and survive? You may surpass me in age, but I achieved my skill and reputation not through your aid or the aid of anyone else, but through my own, solitary devotion to bettering myself. Few women I know have had the will to surpass the sort of obstacles I've faced, and I've not only done so; I have done so and thrived. You, Alexei, should be asking for my help and my protection, if you want this to actually be an alliance, but you seem content to treat me like a puppet to do your will, unable to act unless you, personally, are pulling all the strings. The most I can say to vouch for you is that you have not betrayed me, yet, unlike most other men I've known so far.”


Alexei grunted as he lifted himself up the side of the fence, holding on with both hands and the strength in his arms, pressing his feet to the solid iron to get as much of a grip there as he could. In a minute or so he'd clambered over to the other side, finding a way to get fully over the high barrier, dropping down onto the grass on the other side, wincing as he fell. Toughening himself up he turned about, letting in a deep breath and nodding to Katalin, meaning for her to climb over as well.


She disregarded any thought of stealth and pressed her hands to the fence, closing her eyes and speaking an incantation in Hungarian.


After no more than two sentences had passed her lips the fence immediately in front of her melted away, the iron heated to a white-red and deforming, allowing Katalin to push open the bars of the fence that didn't just drip to the ground in a pool of molten metal in front of her feet. Alexei just watched, shaking his head in obvious disappointment, disappointment that Katalin could hardly care enough to pay attention to.


“In return for respecting and advancing the Soviet cause,” said Alexei as though he was reciting a passage he'd memorized long ago, “Katalin Maleter, in alliance with Alexei Skobelev, will receive the utmost aid from the aforementioned Russian Cossack in clearing the shame of her family by discovering the location of her informally divorced husband Jozef Malczewski and their child, an unnamed son, that the aforementioned Pole claims is his alone and belongs solely to his dynasty to carry on his name and not the line of Maleter.” Alexei gave Katalin a knowing stare as he waited for any response from her, and when she said nothing at all, he sighed. “That was what you and I agreed to: you support the Soviet Union, and I aid you in finding your husband. Upon the announcement of this war, the addendum was added that, should either of us claim victory, that favour be offered for the ally of the victorious country, as to further future relations between the republics of Russia and Hungary. I only wish to aid you, Katalin, but only you are making them difficult. I believe that you are in truth a strong woman; you certainly have shown this, but I only do for you what I would do for any other comrade. I have taken too many lives in my time – I feel that I should repay that debt by saving some.”


Begrudgingly, Katalin stepped through the gap in the fence that she'd formed with her magecraft, and set off on her own, following behind Alexei at a safe distance yet expressly not letting him guide her directly along.


She had one last thing to say, as they walked through the night. A smile grew on her face, but it was a bitter smile; she asked what she did not quite out of malice, but for a reason that even Katalin herself couldn't quite place; it was only right to ask this of her ally, given the circumstances, and perhaps she could make him reveal more of his intentions, even if it was for but a moment.


“Alexei, I still have to wonder: when you read me that decree, who was it that wrote it: you, or the Party? Who was it that commissioned it and authorized it: you, or the Party?”


Alexei, this time, had no answer. He walked in silence for many minutes, with Katalin alone in her thoughts as she followed him closely, idly watching the river as its flow began to lose its old vigour, its anger simmering away to stillness, even as anger for the night seethed inside Katalin's heart, her mind already occupied with thoughts of how she could make up for this night, and show herself that she could be better, proving that she deserved exactly what she fought for. She would earn her victory, even if it had to be earned through blood.


Later, Alexei's words seemed to appear out of the darkness of the night as he spoke, with Katalin only barely able to hear him.


“It was me. Just me.”

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

Alexei is actually a pretty compassionate dude, for a technical extremist. He reminds me a bit of Dietrich, if Dietrich actually had any kind of emotions. You'll get to learn a lot more about his past once we're out of this arc and some more focus goes to him. Wait for it!

I hope the chapter was nice and an enjoyable read, and please keep on looking for the next chapter, which will be out in the next few days!

[Lycodrake]

Though Gilgamesh and Ziz's battle is probably my favorite one in the entirety of MPII, Charlemagne vs Behemoth is definitely an interesting fight, and seemingly a bit more genuine of a struggle.

[Sunny]

Finally catching up! You make it harder by putting more stuff to read every time I start to get close. ^^; It's a nice problem to have, at least, though.

I have to admit I wasn't expecting Charlemagne's master - or this outcome to his big fight (wonder what that will mean for George's GMing) - but it was a good read and I'm interested to see what happens with Moses next. It's really nice to see the upswing in Eleanor and Moctezuma's relations of late too, and that was a pretty crowning moment of awesome versus Sigurd too. I was sorta surprised Sigurd even stayed in the fight past the opening blow to be honest, especially as a Caster - I guess he always stays pretty tenacious even in the frailest class.

Mmm, one thing I will say on the critical end is that I feel like I get the impression of different sizes for Behemoth at different parts in this chapter. A lot of the descriptions read like (or at least makes me think like) it is Cthulhu sized and really epic in scale, but then the parts where Charlemagne stabs it through the hoof (and into the leg bone) makes me imagine something much, much smaller than the original descriptions imply. I might just have a distorted mental image of its scale, though, considering his 6'5" foot (if I'm converting from metric right) long sword sticks most of the way through its leg, but his tusks are also large enough to run on top of. My mental image of the Moses beasts is like the biggest Shadow of the Colossus-size whereas Charlemagne's fight with it makes me think it's more like the smaller ones.

Am I off in that?