The Manhattan Project II

[shikyo21]

Ok then.

[Mattias]

Nigel would be a master hacker, unbeatable with his Google-fu. Every Servant would be in Tron suits for some reason.

Caeser in a skintight neon lit suit? I can dig it.

[Five_X]

Hmmmmmm...

*writes down idea for art commissions*

[shikyo21]

Huh I was going for issues happening during the 2010s just like how the 60s was shown in Manhattan Project II. That drew me in to read Five_X story.

[Mattias]

Hmmmmmm...

*writes down idea for art commissions*

Yay! The subliminal messaging works! Now, to turn it on Fallacies so I can we can get more Solenoid Flux...

[Leftovers]

Such a thing could never happen, even if you wished it on the Holy Grail!

[Mattias]

Yet, I'll keep pursuing that dream...

[Five_X]

Back in black.

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CHAPTER CV

The whole of the river, swept with snow, was a bluish-white like a great glacier, the deep barrier that split Arlington and Washington now an unbreakable bridge. This wasn't the first such winter the Potomac had seen, but it was the deepest, and it was the latest. Yesterday the gathering clouds on the horizon called for snow, but this was much more than just that.

“Do you reckon George can fuck with the weather, as well?” Nigel mused, half to himself, before glancing sideways at Hannibal.

They stood in Arlington, looking across the river from the end of the Key Bridge, their eyes straining against the driving snow. Nigel had brought his scarf up to cover his mouth, his knit cap tucked over his ears – but still the cold bit at him, and he held his arms close to his chest, shivering and shaking his head, wishing for somewhere warmer. A war in the Caribbean would certainly have been more popular all around.

Hannibal shook his head, almost solemnly, but it was not because of the chill.

He took in a breath of icy air, blowing over the river, his eyes darting left and right, trying to see if anyone was lurking between the snowdrifts. Not a single figure revealed itself.

“I don't think he has that power,” he said, the wind picking up and muffling his voice, though still Nigel heard him. “If he did, would he ever use it? I doubt he would. He's too honest a man.”

Nigel snorted, with a flash of a smile. “Honesty is rare enough, isn't it? I'm not an honest man, Hannibal. I don't think I've ever met an honest man, and if you're right, that would make George the first. But, honestly, I've lived my whole life with suspicion. Just one mishap can make you think the worst of the world.”

Hannibal nudged him with his elbow, glaring at him, but then broke into his own smile.

“You don't trust me, then? I'm not honest enough for you, Nigel? I think I feel a tear in my eye – wait, no, it's frozen now.”

A good laugh – that was what Nigel needed. He shook his head and grinned, and as much as he tried he couldn't frown. Hannibal was right – there was some trust to be had, but at the same time it wasn't something he spread around freely.

With a shrug he said, “I guess you'd be right on that account, then. I can trust my wife well enough, and my daughters, well – they're children, and... then there's you, I suppose? If I don't trust you, I might as well just head back to London. That's the conundrum, isn't it? If I weren't to trust you, then I couldn't do much of anything in the war. Considering that I do trust you, is it really honest trust, or trust brought on from necessity, a mutual necessity?”

“You'd best stop thinking too hard now, Nigel. The snow must be making you delirious. And you said it yourself, really: you're not an honest man.” Hannibal chuckled, the wind and the cold and the driving snow not even in the thoughts of either man.

“You're right, you're right,” Nigel replied, exasperated by a conversation he didn't even mean to get into. “Come on, now: it's night-time, war-time. We've got to be on the lookout, not having a laugh and some banter. Isn't that the true, solemn spirit of war?”

Not quite, was Hannibal's thought, recalling his campaigns through Italy and through Spain. Humour was one of the few things on a long march that kept both the ennui and the fear away.

This, now, was an altogether different war, and the very thought of it made his smile slip away.

Hannibal sighed, wishing he could see better and farther through the white fog of snow, and Nigel's own thoughts weren't too far off from the same. But they were to no avail: the air was thick.

“I sense you're looking for someone,” he finally brought himself to say, no longer looking at Nigel. It was a harsh thing he implied, but it was the truth. It had to be the truth, if he knew anything about his friend at all.

“Enrico,” Nigel muttered under his breath, hoping half-heartedly that no one at all would hear him, but that was too much to ask for. That name could have been on his lips every day, but he kept those thoughts and feelings to himself, bearing that weight alone. Every morning when he woke up, the reason why he went about his day was because that one man was still alive on this Earth, as though he was some kind of unnatural contradiction, an aberrant mistake that had to be corrected. It was a mirror opposite of love, perhaps, yet it was so far from being founded in emotion.

Why, then? No one should be that important, but Enrico was something else, had always been something else.

The only sound that mattered, then, was a soft, almost disappointed breath from Hannibal, followed by a quick sigh – just as quiet and clearly heard as Nigel's mumblings. Neither knew what to say; neither had answers, and any spoken conversation between the two was only a formality, no more.

“How do I end this, when it comes to it?” Nigel said this aloud, as though he were pleading with Enrico himself – vague, far-off – for a resolution, but there was no answer from the pale air.

Still Hannibal looked solemn, his smile having long since faded. “I know what that's like, Nigel, when you know you've started something that now has to be finished – one way, or another. When there's no compromise left, you wonder why this is all happening to begin with.”

“But I didn't start this!” Nigel clenched a fist, shouting into the wind, then more softly, “It was a fucking job, and it was supposed to be that way... but it changed, Hannibal. It all changed, and now that's why I'm here. Everything I do is dictated by this one goddamn Spaniard still living and breathing as he is. I didn't choose for my life to be like this, but how could I do anything, really? Enrico, there's nothing wrong with him as a man; I could even respect him, if I were in a different situation. I don't even know if he wants to kill me, either, but then again I'd take that thought with a few grains of salt. If I were to up and end his life, then what would be left of me? Just a bitter old man, having sinned for someone else. I ought to be worth more than that.”

There was silence between the two for a while, and Hannibal so wished to be able to reassure his friend that his life was his own and no-one else's, but it was more complex than that. No single answer was right, nor could it be right. There was no better path to take; perhaps the only good route would be to press forward, as he had always done, and damn the consequences – but what would those consequences be, then?

Hannibal took in a quick sigh, and looked from the river to Nigel, his frown now more quietly wistful than grave and dark.

“I wish I could advise you from experience and earned wisdom, but I never ended up resolving my own struggle. I died, and the torch was passed on, and now history remembers the outcome. Maybe there was something I could have done in my last years, but no – I think that things were too far gone by then. You opened my eyes and made me understand that history had ended my conflict against Rome, that my vendetta was over and I could live my own life, freely, but... you don't have the weight of two thousand years to support you. You're living in the present, and who knows what this means for the future, either way?”

“I know what it means,” said Nigel, his voice a low grown, but not out of anger but because he only wished to hide his turbulent emotions, lest they take control of him through his words.

He could only look into the ice as he spoke, “One of my daughters will be doing this same, bloody work when I'm gone, if I don't return to London with a Spanish corpse. She'll suffer, just like I've suffered, and like me she'll wonder why her father did nothing to avail her of this situation. But.. I don't want to be some killer, Hannibal; I've shot dead men who weren't deserving of life in the first place, but I spent too long chasing Enrico. I got to know him, understand him, even sympathize with him and his motives – and that's why I hate him so much. I've got to kill this man to free my own family from centuries of obligation, but I can't do that without a spectre of guilt hanging over me for the rest of my damn life.”

Nodding, Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, glancing first at the frozen river, into the obscuring snow – and before he could say a word, he noted a pale figure trudging across the ice, the silhouette of a sword in his hand.

With a scowl, he looked over at Nigel for but a moment. “Time to drink of the bitter chalice, then, my friend; the war has decided to come to us.”

There was no need to consider the identity of whoever was walking over the Potomac, suffering the driving snow and the deep chill: there were no alliances left in this conflict. They would kill, or themselves be killed, and it was necessary to be the first to strike. Keeping the advantage in such a way, Hannibal knew, might be the only way they could have an advantage.

Not a word was exchanged between the two, but there was no need: they held a silent understanding, parting with a glance, as though they'd practised this all in advance. Nigel knew what he had to do, his eyes scanning the obscured horizon.

One step, and another, and then Hannibal bolted into a run, keeping his balance with the head of his spear digging into the ice.

His sandals crunched across the packed snow, his eyes narrowed as he made his way through the storm, raising an arm above his face to shield himself from blindness. Where was that figure, then? Had he gotten lost along the way as well? Even Hannibal couldn't summon much of a sense of direction out in the middle of the river; every direction looked the same, and there was barely any sign of the shore. Only the Key Bridge loomed above, dark and imposing, faded yellow lights showing from its top, their illumination barely managing to cut through the thick snowfall.

“Did you want a duel?” A voice called out, somehow from behind, and Hannibal turned at once.

Initially he couldn't see anything else but the white all around, but then that silhouette appeared once again, the shape of a man seeming almost wraith-like, not even human.

Yet there he was, and he raised his arm, hailing Hannibal without showing any aggression. There was a flash of orange like a pale fire, extinguished in an instant, but Hannibal knew now. This was El Cid, the Spanish knight, Enrico's Servant – those suspicions had been confirmed, leaving no doubt at all in Hannibal's mind.

He showed a customary smile, lowering his spear, eyes still straining to see his foe-to-be.

“I've always respected you, Hannibal. If we are to fight, I'd like to see your face.”

Bringing his foot back, Hannibal steadied himself, focused on the colourless figure in front of him, waiting for any movement. For a moment he checked the ice below him, seeing that the snow was up to his ankles; it was as solid as rock, unnaturally cold, like a glacier brought down from the high mountains to rest where the river once ran.

Another flash of orange, this time with a mix of red and yellow, and a hint of blue – true flame.

The snow was gone, leaving the clear sheen of the perfect ice below them, a field of battle cleared for the two fighters extending all the way to the Key Bridge.

“There – no more hindrances for us.” A sword was slipped back into its sheath, a short wave of heat dissipating back into the cold of the night. The lights from the bridge were brighter, now, and cast an eerie reflection across the river, the shadows of Hannibal and El Cid tall like black giants along the Potomac's length, all the way into the darkness.

Hannibal's cape fluttered as the heat passed him. “For you, maybe. I enjoy fighting in the cold and the snow, but I don't mind conceding a little advantage to you, either. You'll need it, knight.”

El Cid let out a spirited laugh, his hand still on the hilt of his sword, Tizona, the firebrand. The snow melted away, now Hannibal could see the smile on his face and the flame crackling in his eyes. A noble Servant he was, a truer knight than almost any in history, but he did love a fight, a good duel to ease the body and soul. Few things are remembered in history so vividly as a grand battle, and the prestige of the fighters only makes it more memorable. As a knight, perhaps that was El Cid's greatest gift to his country: his immortality as a hero, a beacon in troubled times, a figure for all Spanish people to look up to for hope and for inspiration.

Now, he thought: if only this duel could be recorded in song, to be commemorated for centuries.

Sadly, though, the nature of this war made that impossible – so, this was a duel that would have to be savoured by only two, for all it was worth.

There was silence, and then steel sang out as Tizona leapt from her sheath.

Lunging forward, El Cid brandished his sword, his left hand holding his other scabbard steady as he leaned in for a wide slice.

He stared right into Hannibal's eyes, his sword striking just below the head of Hannibal's spear, holding it in place, yet the old Carthaginian didn't move an inch. Their gazes met, locked, and then El Cid brought Colada into the chilled air, stabbing at Hannibal's gut, but Hannibal twirled, pushing down hard on El Cid's other sword and forcing the man to the side. The knight had finesse, but his own strength couldn't match up to that of the lion of Carthage.

El Cid, however, knew how to use his agility, and fell with the blow, diving onto his shoulder in a quick roll, both swords brandished in his hands, daring Hannibal to get closer.

He was on one knee, feigning weakness, staring up at his foe.

This was a good fight: no snow to obscure them from each other, no unexpected arrivals interrupting the duel; there they were, man to man, an experience El Cid had been bereft of for too long. His Master's tactics could find no application here – this was the realm of knights, of heroes, not of mere soldiers in a war.

That was the romance El Cid gave to it as he brought his swords together in a cross, holding one on either side of Hannibal's spear as the old Carthaginian had come charging forward.

The wooden haft, like iron, stood fast, and Hannibal pushed forward to close with El Cid, looking him right in the eyes. The two men were close, their heavy breaths flowing like steam from their mouths, their muscles tensed, aching from disuse. Hannibal shoved, slamming El Cid back, but the knight dug his boots into the ice, commanding his legs not to give way, not to slide off on the ice. Again, he was stuck matching strength against strength, and he knew he would fail.

Hannibal shouted, pushed, and kicked straight ahead, his foot slamming into El Cid's gut, knocking him back and off-balance.

El Cid, nearly slipping, stabbed Colada into the thick ice, the straight steel keeping him steady.

“No helmet tonight?” Hannibal wondered, the point of his spear aimed for his foe's eye.

“No shield?” the knight countered; the two shared a laugh, but it was short-lived, as El Cid seethed through his bared teeth, still on the ground, still reeling from the blow that had struck him.

He held his stomach, bent over, cringing from the dull pain, but he stayed aware, swords at the ready, watching Hannibal through narrowed eyes. They were a few metres apart, more than enough distance for either to react, but El Cid knew that they key wasn't to get close – that had already failed him. Man-to-man, Hannibal would overpower him, and eventually his spear would strike home.

So, instead, El Cid dashed to the side, skidding with the tips of his blades digging into the slick, polished ice, the figures of the two fighters reflected by moonlight on the river's glassy surface.

Tizona's straight edge flared when it struck the wooden haft of Hannibal's spear, striking up along its length like a match, all the way to its iron tip, holding it there. The quick momentum of the knight's charge left Hannibal open, a weakness that he'd close within seconds, if only he had that opportunity. He had a second sword to account for.

El Cid ducked down, close enough to the ice to feel its chill on his cheek, and he let out a breath as he pivoted on the spot.

Hannibal's spear was free, but it was too late: Colada dug into his calf, a razor edge splitting his flesh open, spilling red onto the cool bluish-white at his feet. He jerked forward, escaping from the bite of the blade, but its damage was done; he stepped forward with a limp, blood flowing down to stain his heel and his toes. Clenching his teeth, he held his spear in both hands, bending his untouched leg to keep any pressure off of his wound. The pain could only make him fight on harder, and he would not make the same mistake again.

– –


Master and Servant were rarely far apart, but that was only the norm, and a man like Enrico was ever unorthodox. He couldn't have lived for as long as he had if he wasn't.

“Let me see you and we can get this over with!” Nigel shouted into the obscuring curtain of snow ahead. He could barely see the buildings of Arlington, but he knew for a fact that Enrico had to be amongst them. Years ago, he'd been running for his life, but Nigel now had the impression that his old foe was done with running. Winning this war would be, for either of them, the end to their chase.

In that light, then, maybe it was time to make the most of it while it still lasted.

A gunshot rang out in the distance, and with it a flash in the darkness. The distinct crack of a rifle, fading over time like a withering flare, the only signal that Nigel needed. He was being called.

That sound was drowned out as the drum of hundreds of flapping wings filled the sky – seagulls, crows, geese and more took to the air, seemingly frightened into flight by the shot, blocking the moon and the clouds as they scattered in random directions here and there, all flocking above the river. There was even a huge albatross in their number, like a king in the air, gliding about in circles as though there was no trouble at all that night.

The echo and the flash came from a window on the third floor of what looked to be some office building, long since abandoned for the night. The wind swept its grey walls, its glass shattered onto the road, and its door loose, inviting – daring.

Something in Nigel's mind told him to stop now, to leave, to let this all stay in the past. That small voice screamed for him to stay by the river's edge, helping Hannibal if he could, and Nigel trembled. Even with his cap drawn tight over his ears, his parka and shirt layering his body with warmth, he still felt cold, a chill running through him like a fell premonition of bad things to come. He knew consciously that this would not go well for anyone, and never before had he been failed by his tuned instinct, but tonight he chose for once to turn away from that instinct, playing deaf as the voice of reason in his mind continued to beg him to halt, his body as well beginning to refuse him.

Nigel wouldn't be stopped tonight. With effort behind each step he took, he held a hand on the holster of his pistol, staring into the dim light afforded to him by a flickering streetlamp.

The wind blew by him again, cascading towards the river, depositing a fresh layer of snow across the unbroken ice. He kept his arm raised to stop it from getting in his eyes, and soon his scarf and coat were coloured a scattered white, the touch of the snow making his skin turn just as pale. The weather conspired with his mind and body to keep him away, but still Nigel continued on.

Spain was never so cold. He missed the heat.

Another gunshot, marked by a bright flash in the gathering dark. With it, the noisy, immeasurable flutter of birds.

This time, Nigel could even hear the ping of a brass bullet casing hitting a concrete floor. The shooter was near. Enrico was near.

Slipping his gun out of its holster, Nigel held it in both, shivering, hands, pointing ahead. He aimed up at the rows of broken windows; if he made a shot at each of them, then maybe a round would hit home. He wouldn't need to see the body, he wouldn't need to see that face, not again, not alive, not with its eyes open and staring, begging, pleading.

That thought made Nigel shut his eyes, and he took in a breath, refreshing himself. He let those terrors go, relinquishing their hold on his heart and his mind, and he stared forward once more, seeing the door to the grey building waver, pushed about by the wind yet not making a noise at all.

“I...” he began, wanting to shout, but finding his voice hoarse. “I should have done this all those years ago, Enrico!”

So much did he want to sound authoritative and in control, but that was long since gone from him. His words came out at first as a whisper, and when he tried to be louder, the doubt that poisoned his mind seeped into his voice, and so Nigel stayed silent. Words were of no use to him. Enrico didn't need to know when he was going to die; it would come, sooner or later, with the shock of a bullet. If Nigel couldn't muster confidence in his shaky voice, then he would still his body, harden his heart, and get this over with.

There was no chase anymore; there was no hunt. Either Enrico would die, or he wouldn't.

But then again, a thought came quietly to Nigel's mind, hadn't he believed that every day since he had met the man? How much more truth was in that assertion now than there was so many years ago in the hills of Spain?

Slamming his heel right in the centre of the solid oak, Nigel gave the door a swift kick, knocking it to the floor, but there was no one behind it, just a lightless room with a desk and a few chairs here and there. There were no shadows or telltale silhouettes to be seen against the walls, nor was there any movement past the empty doorways to his left and right.

That wasn't what mattered to him. He'd taken the hardest step already: walking into the building, where he knew he could find Enrico – where Enrico knew Nigel would find him – he had reduced the trembling in his heart to less than even a murmur. His hands weren't shaking, and he strode forward, self-assured.

Then, he broke into a run.

He didn't bother to hide himself or muffle the sounds of his heavy footsteps, his boots beating on the carpet, soft thuds letting anyone know where he was. If Enrico wished to hide, then it would be trivial to get away from his pursuer – but they both knew that was far from the case.

Eternally opposed, they had forged that kind of mutual understanding, and still they went about this charade of theirs as though it meant anything anymore.

Nigel repeated to himself under his breath, silent enough that Enrico couldn't manage to hear no matter where he was, his goal: kill the Spaniard. Fit him in a bag. Ship him to England. That's all he needed to do, but it was the one thing that he'd never been able to accomplish in all his time. It had been eight years since he was given the simple task of killing this man, but it seemed he was capable of doing anything, everything, except for that one task. With all his skill, there was that one thing he couldn't do. Why was that, he wondered – and he wondered, too, if it was a question of skill or rather the sheer weight this had on his heart and mind.

He was still alive, his body was healthy, but his soul felt drained from the experience.

His footfalls echoed in the narrow stairwell going up one flight, and another, and yet one more, his boots beating down on smooth concrete; at the third landing he bashed his shoulder into a door with “Fire Exit” written at its top, hearing so close the crack of one final shot.

The door's hinges creaked, but it gave way, swinging wide. Nigel was panting, a hint of sweat touching his brow despite the cold, and now he found himself on a rooftop, not at the very pinnacle of this office complex, but with a stretch of shadowed concrete before him. At his back was the rest of the building, rising several floors higher, but Nigel knew he had no farther to go.

Nigel's pistol was at his side. He didn't have time to raise it before he saw the man ahead.

Standing against the knee-high barrier along the roof's perimeter, Enrico stared right into Nigel's eyes, the same look he'd given the man when they first saw each other in a market in Jaen.

Back then, neither could fire a shot, not in the bustling crowd splitting them apart, but tonight was a remaking of that one moment but with nothing obstructing either of the two men. There was silence; the only light came from the streets below, the moon obscured by the white and the dark clouds far above.

The snowstorm had died down, its howling winds subsiding, like the pulling back of the tide before the crash of a tsunami.

Like a pair about to duel, their hands were on their guns, but neither made a move. The first to move would be the first shot – or so they wanted to think. Nigel still wanted to believe that he could do it, could squeeze the trigger without his heart stopping as he did so. His arm ached, pain stabbing at him, but it was not from his wound – it came from deeper within.

“I'm still alive after so much time, Nigel,” Enrico said, his uncovered face barely visible past the screen of flurrying snow. “Do you really want me dead?”

In a different time, more than a few years ago, Nigel would've responded with a quick little quip and a gunshot, and the chase would begin again in earnest, with Nigel tracking this one man through highlands and lowlands, through deserts and along coasts, through forests and down rivers. He felt so young back then; he felt like he was doing something, being productive, being helpful, working a tough job that needed a tough man.

He imagined that, in his later days, his own father must have felt just the same. Eight years of life just wasted, ruined, lost. Even if he went home after this, what would his place be? What would he do, how would he make up for those vanished years of his ageing life?

Nigel shook his head, but it wasn't a response to Enrico.

“I kill you, and I can go home. I can see my family again – I can see them for as long as I want, not just a few short weeks out of a year. All I have to do is pull this trigger and watch you die.”

His shoulders seemed to slump, just barely, and there was a look of tiredness in his weary old eyes. He had the look of a man who, if you let him rest, would sleep for days on end just to shake off the exhaustion of years of unending work and stress, and still be weak with fatigue. Even now he was barely holding on, his voice lighter than he meant it to be as he spoke, but Enrico could hear him.

Enrico's lips moved, but whether he smiled or frowned then was left unknown.

He stood as tall as he could, but even he showed signs of failing – unlike Nigel, however, there was a confidence left in his posture that his long-time foe lacked, and had lacked for years already.

Enrico took in a deep breath, looking to the side as he spoke. “I never wanted to kill you, Nigel. Not once. I've been hounded for longer by my own government than you, but I've evaded both up until now. Only you made this personal; I want to see you dead because you want the same of me. If you let this go, then we can both live, can't we?”

“Bullshit,” Nigel spat, anger rising in his heart, beginning to overcome the guilt that held him back. “As long as this war lasts, one of us has to die. You haven't got a family, just a poor, broken country too far gone to repair. If not for you, I wouldn't be in this war. Some other fool would take my place, and everything would run its course without me.”

No personal detail was hidden between the two, not with Nigel's aptitude for tracking and sleuthing. He knew who Enrico was; he knew why he fought, but that was just information.

“You can save your family, but I can save my country. I can put an end to the oppression and atrocities that have choked Spain for decades, but dead I can't accomplish anything. Leave me. Leave this war. Stay, though, and I'll kill you. After all, you won't give me any other option, not when gunshots start ringing out. Can one family, the happiness of just a few people, matter more than that of millions more? You'd be doing exactly what I do, if England was as sad a state as Spain.”

Now, Nigel shook his head, not moving too far or too quickly for Enrico, making sure not to agitate the man. He wouldn't let himself be proven wrong, not about his own family.

“You're trying to read the future,” he said, the disdain clear in his voice. “You can save Spain, but what might happen to her just decades later? Kill one dictator, and another will rise to replace him. Times have changed, Enrico; empires are falling, even Britain's, and we all have to realize that. Spain won't ever be as great as she once was, and all you can do is try to restore some of her dignity. This war won't do that for you. I know – you're right, saying that I'd think the same as you, if I were in your position. I really would. But does this solve anything? Only time can change a country... for better or for worse.”

Those words were nothing Enrico hadn't been told before. Could he have lived his life in ignorance of them for so long? Of course not. Yet here was Nigel, lecturing him; here he took their familiarity too far, and assumed Enrico's own experience and motivations.

After all, they were different – inherently different, too much to understand each other truly.

Even with a gun aimed to his chest, Enrico didn't flinch. “You have your family. I have my country. You're a man trying to persuade me to live according to your lifestyle, not knowing my perspective. I live for Spain just as you live for your family; how can you say that what I'm fighting for is worth less than your own cause?”

Could Nigel have given an answer to him? Perhaps. In a different time, a different mood – perhaps. But now, his breaths heavy, the wound in his arm still aching, he found no will to argue.

“You can't say that you-” he managed to say, but he was silenced by a single footstep.

Enrico had paced forward, not far but far enough to make Nigel's trigger finger twitch, the sights of his pistol lined up with his old foe's chest. If he fired a shot, he couldn't guarantee that it would be the result of a conscious decision; part of him just wanted to end this, quickly, but Enrico was far from done.

“How can you judge me?” demanded Enrico, fire in his eyes. “You knew what you were bound to before I was even born. You knew what your family would be bound to when you're gone, you knew the service they would have to endure through, and what did you do? You married, and now I hear you have children. Here you are, Nigel, building a life for yourself, assuming that all will be well for you. You assume that your oath will end with you, but will it? Your father probably assumed the same thing, and you know his fate. Knowing that it would be eventually extinguished, you still tried to bring happiness into your world, knowing the misfortune your wife and your children would be fated to – will be fated to – if you fail. How is that more reasonable, more permanent than what I want?”

Trying to breathe, Nigel felt a tightness in his chest, a whole, frothing mix of anger, sorrow, and passion all trying to cry out at once. How dare he? Never had Enrico spoken like this before.

He scoffed, shaking his head as though those words were worthless. “Doesn't a man have the right to happiness? You could be happy, too, just like I could be, but you persist with this all; you just don't understand-”

Even a direct, scathing insult could hardly be worse than what Nigel just uttered.

“You don't understand!” At once, Enrico's voice froze Nigel in place, the man's attention arrested, the words he tried to speak to further his case refusing to leave his suddenly dry mouth. This was wrong. This had all gone wrong, and just faintly his arm began to tremble, and soon his whole body with it, barely perceptible, something not even Enrico could notice – not yet.

“It took me years to learn why you were hunting me, and even then it was all still incomprehensible. For nothing I've done personally, you chase me across my homeland, needing me dead for some foreign purpose I'll never know of. I am a magus, but does that matter? It doesn't, not to me – I am Spanish first and foremost, and while I know I could live a life beyond service to my king and country, I could never do such a thing and be happy. You have no right to say what will or will not make someone happy, or satisfied. You can have your hypocrisy and your family, but is it justified to ruin the lives of others in order to achieve that? How much is your own happiness worth, if it means destroying mine? I give everything for Spain in a time when the country I love is falling apart, and nothing would satisfy me more than to see her become strong once again, free from the shackles of fascism and dictatorship. Yet the world turns a blind eye to the troubles of Spain and Portugal, and it seems that I am the only one in the world capable of bringing about the change that my people need.”

He clenched a fist, no longer reaching for his gun.

Staring forward, Enrico asked once again: “Would you throw away the hopes of millions of people to save your own family? If I have to kill you to save them, then so be it. Even if I have to kill one hundred people like you, or one thousand, I will still have freed thirty million more.”

Every single fibre of his body, every muscle Nigel had, wanted to lash out now, to shoot Enrico dead on the spot and have this be done with.

But he couldn't.

Despite his trembling, despite his finger feeling the cold touch of the trigger, so easily able to squeeze down for a second and end all this, it was as though his nerves had frozen solid, refusing to move at all, having gone stone dead. He could see, he could feel, but he could not act upon what his body wanted.

It was because he was guilty – nothing more.

What Enrico said was true. It was more true than anything he'd heard; those words struck him so deep that he couldn't respond, he couldn't rouse any adequate words from his intelligent mind. He was left looking blankly, wordlessly, at Enrico, wishing he could say something, but just like his fingers his lips would not move, and he could not make a single sound. Anything he could say or do would just be one more testament to how wrong he had been about Enrico, how thoroughly these past years had been misunderstood – and how much guilt had piled up, enough to drown himself in.

If Nigel was anything, though, he was stubborn, and he raised his arm up just a bit too far, and finally in that moment feeling and movement came back to him.

His finger squeezed tight; the hammer of his pistol slammed down; a shot fired into the dark.

When the flash subsided, Enrico was gone, leaving just a breath of wind behind him, Nigel now alone on that rooftop.

That was justice, then. That was what had to be done. The decision had been made, and it could not be changed. History was made and a future that could have been was written away, disappearing into the hypothetical realm of thoughts and dreams. A dozen different things could have happened that night, perhaps, but what mattered more was what didn't happen, and what remained in the wake of this.

Enrico was out there, somewhere.

He couldn't have killed him, not even if he wanted to, and perhaps he should have, but there was no chance, not now.

His fingers numb, Nigel's grip on his pistol loosened, until the gun slipped down into his holster, and Nigel trudged back to the stairs. Hannibal was fighting, somewhere along the river, and he was brave and he knew what he needed to accomplish. Nigel? He saw his goal and he turned away from it, letting it pass away like smoke on the breeze, drifting.

Maybe, if the wind had been stronger, if his aim had accidentally been closer...

The flash of the gunshot faded into the gathering darkness, slipping away like an idle memory, until the snowstorm raged once again, covering the city like a rolling wave. Everything disappeared into the mist-like curtain of snow, and with his wounded arm Nigel tugged the fire door open, passing into the quiet contemplation of the empty building.

– –


Even in the midst of the blistering winds sweeping the river, the clash of steel on steel could be heard from a mile away.

“If you want me to bleed out, you'll be waiting a long time, I'm afraid.”

Hannibal swatted away El Cid's latest strike, a hit from above, meant to be followed up in a flash by a swipe from his second sword. He'd made that too obvious, however, and Hannibal could already tell how he would react.

Tizona nearly slipped from El Cid's grasp, the shock of the flat side of the spearhead sending a ripple of pain through his arm, and there was no way he could recover his balance quickly enough.


Not going to bother with bringing his spear to bear, level and steady to pierce the knight's heart, he dug his foot into the ice, and kicked off into a short dash, ignoring the throbbing pain of his blood-soaked leg. Every move he made left a red streak on the ice, a painful reminder of how El Cid had gotten the advantage over him just one key time. He knew that he wouldn't be as mobile as him regardless, but this wound made that all worse.

One cut, however, could not bring him down.

Nearly leaping forward, Hannibal crashed into El Cid, his shoulder hitting the middle of the man's chest, knocking the air from his lungs and bringing him down to the ground, sliding back on the ice. Stopping as soon as he'd made impact, Hannibal braced his spear, tucking it under his arm and stepping inch-by-inch forward.

El Cid was dazed, but he was too good a fighter to let a heavy fall put him out of it. Acting on instinct rather than conscious thought, he rolled to the side, building momentum, then pulled in his legs to whirl about, starting in a crouch but raising to his feet in a moment, his blades cutting the air.

Blood was only seeping in drips from Hannibal's wound, the sheer cold of the night numbing it. He smiled, seeing his foe standing again, and advanced.

“You aren't going to break this ice, Hannibal,” El Cid said, tapping Tizona against the river's frozen surface. “And I doubt your soldiers would help you here. What else can you do?”

Hannibal just laughed. “What, are you trying to educate me? You think this is my first duel?”

“I can make it your first loss.” Testing how far Hannibal might go, a slight wreath of flame surrounded Tizona's blade, and El Cid brought its tip right against the steel of Hannibal's spear. The light reflected brilliantly off the metal, and El Cid smiled, his grip getting tighter – their weapons would have to back up their words, and the night was still fresh.

In perfect rhythm they matched one another: Hannibal with his stalwart defence, his feet never leaving the ice; El Cid, with his unpredictable flourishes and rolls and dashes, bounding over his enemy's spear.

Their steel sang out, masking the noises of effort and exertion. Pushing their bodies as far as they could physically manage, they were panting, sweating, swelteringly hot despite the plummeting temperature.

But not once did either give in, one way or the other.

Their muscles ached, their blood pounded through their veins, and their bones felt like they would shatter at any moment.

The two men – heroes, far more than just men – didn't fight as Enrico and Nigel fought.

Between them was the romance of battle, the pursuit of higher ideals, the idea that yes, in the end of all this, something good could come out of this violence. It was an old idea, an outdated idea, one that had survived for far longer than it was relevant, lingering into the present day – if it had ever been relevant at all.

But could they accept that? It wasn't in their nature.

What they had accepted, long ago, was that they were nothing without war and bloodshed. No one remembers Hannibal the politician, Hannibal the administrator; no one remembers Rodrigo the tolerant, Rodrigo the father. In his case, even his proper name is rarely recalled, in favour of what merely amounts to a title, and one dedicated not to the man himself but to his fame, his knack for skilled violence that in popular memory obscures all else.

Violence, war, and death: these three things defined the two heroes who fought on the ice that night. If they had lived at home in peace and contentment, they would be as quickly forgotten.

They were known for little more than their ability to fight and convince others to fight beside them, and so they had to live up to this legend. They had to accept that fighting was all they had, in the end. No matter what they truly wanted for themselves, fighting was what they were expected to do, and so they had to convince themselves that, yes, it was for the best.

They could not always accept that so easily.

As they struck sword upon spear, parrying and blocking and dodging and striking, they let themselves slip away into that fantasy, that the world was a place just like their legends, just as they are remembered – a place where violence is honourable, expected, and wise.

Reality, however, was never too far away, and their duel wouldn't see its conclusion; the ice beneath their feet let out a long, loud groan deep below, like a ship on the ocean slowly breaking in two until it sinks beneath the cold, steady waves. Then a short, sharp snap followed, and another, cracks forming now on the surface of the thick ice, their epicentre just beside the Key Bridge, many feet below where the water was most frigid.

Chunks of ice heaved up along with the spray of water like rain cast into the snow. The Potomac was no longer placid; now it looked like a mountain moments before the crash of an avalanche.

“A Servant?” El Cid wondered aloud; Hannibal agreed, just nodding as he stared at the breaking floes, floating up on the great wash of water that now existed in the river where it once had been a solid glacier. It had been revitalized, if not thawed, but how?

Hannibal stared down between his feet, the ice clearer than ever, even with the falling snow.

“They know we're fighting here.” He wanted to say more, perhaps try to reason why this was happening, but there was no time. Just as his mouth opened to speak a second sentence, he could see a dark shape below, rising up from the arctic waters, something he'd never seen or heard of before. This, he couldn't have predicted, nor could Nigel. It was a Servant, it had to be, and it was for certain no monster – both Hannibal and El Cid could feel the very presence of a spirit.

They both stepped back, moving in the direction of the shore, but with the shaking of the ice even that was proving difficult, especially as they tried to ascertain who was behind this.

In that moment, the long, worn prow of a ship burst up from the deep.

– –


A rolling wave of wind overtook the surface of the river. That wind shook the trees, tossed the water, and blew through the hair of one woman who stood on the bridge, gazing upon this whole spectacle with a smile. She drew her hand through her locks, keeping them out of her eyes, and turned about to the man at her side who stood with perfect stillness even as she looked ready to jump with joy.

“That spirit, Lancer? He is here, now. He thought I could not see him, all the times I've been here, but he was terribly wrong.” Her smile only grew wider.

Lancer looked on, seeing the ghastly image of an old, rotting ship before him, its masts teetering up into the sky, each plank of wood that made its frame groan as it rocked from side to side. A grey mist covered it like a blanket of smoke all around, and yet for how formidable it appeared in the darkness, it bore not a single gun in its sides, and lacked any decoration. It was a ship without name, without purpose, and it floated there, sails in ruinous tatters, unmoving in the river.

“Is this the work of one of your pagan gods?” He did little at all to hide his disdain, but even then his venom was directed more at this aberrant vessel than at Johana herself; the ship's very appearance disturbed him, and even he wasn't entirely sure why.

Johana laughed, looking back for a moment at her Servant. “No spirit can hide itself from me, Lancer, and this is the gift of no god. My family has always been attuned to the greater and lesser spirits of the world; all I did was help make this one manifest.”

“Why?” the man demanded, his grip on his spear getting tighter as he stared down at his Master.

Tilting her head, it was a while before she responded – at first she just looked at Lancer, confused, as though her reasoning should be perfectly obvious.

Then she shrugged, gazing upon the spectacle once more. “I hope I don't have to lecture you on the nature of spirits, Lancer. But tell me: here we have an ancient spectre, old and famous enough to be written into stories, and where else would such a spirit wish to appear? At a gathering of souls such as this, of course. Only those practised in magecraft can sense spirits in their natural ethereal state, and of those, fewer still can be sensed in return. This one was in limbo, having been summoned here by the surge of spiritual energy, and left stranded; he wants attention, it seems, and my presence has let it be known that he will garner more than enough of that by manifesting here.”

Lancer stepped forward, leaning over the rail just slightly to get a better view of the ship. It nearly made him shudder, and he shook his head, confusion still written on his face.

“Was this necessary?” he asked, his voice quiet as though not to catch the spirit's ire. “What do we gain from letting this chaos run rampant? I see no opportunity to take advantage of this disarray, so what is it you see that I do not, Master?”

“Svůdný Vzduchu.” Lancer furrowed his brow, making his disappointment at this lack of an answer more than apparent, but he had no time to respond.

With a crackle of light, her old iron sword materialized in her hand like mist turning tangible.

She let out a satisfied sigh, and matched Lancer's glare without hesitation. “Do you think I intended to scheme from the shadows? You can't kill a spirit unless it has some form to be destroyed – just as you are here, physically manifest. Some blood will run down my blade tonight, I hope... I look forward to its taste.”

Hearing that, Lancer could only grit his teeth as – yet again – he was well outside of his Master's bizarre machinations, and so he decided that he just wouldn't speak again. If he did, there was no guarantee at all that he'd be heard; more likely he would be ignored as usual, with Johana going on with her way of doing things, no matter how little sense she was making. Perhaps this was to expected, considering her nature as a pagan, but Lancer still wondered if there was something more.

The birds circled above, the vast albatross high above them like he was their king. The noise of their cries was just another level to the din, but to the two on the bridge, it hardly mattered.

Johana held her sword above her head, leaping up onto the bridge's stone railing as the wind whipped through her hair; she looked down with unmasked relish at the spectral vessel below, leaning forward just a little as she readied herself to fall to its deck.

And behind her, Lancer began to crouch, knowing he'd have to follow her no matter what.

“Hey!” came a shout, and Johana was about to glare at Lancer for interrupting her, until she saw two silhouettes, barely recognizable in the blizzard.

What she could recognize, most importantly, was that one wielded a sword.

She held hers more tightly, and stepped back down to the bridge, watching ahead to see what those figures might do; her eyes narrowed, and she spun her blade about, letting it cut at the thick, misty air. A fight was what Johana would get, one way or another: below the bridge, or atop it. These new prospects made her smile, and with unnerving grace she made her way towards the shapes in the distance, their features becoming more and more detailed as the distance between them closed.

There Johana was, like a wolf smelling spilled blood, and she upped her pace, breaking into a sprint, her sword still at her side, its tip nearly dragging against the asphalt.

“Get away, Servant,” she shouted, grimacing as she saw a glint of steel in the darkness. “A Master should fight a Master – that is the way of this war!”

Her foe scoffed, and pointed her own blade forward.

Nodding, the snow-covered swordswoman, clad all in red, wore a cocky, confident smile, staring down Johana without a hint of fear. There could be no doubt: this was a Servant, and Lancer knew just as well, coming in from the side with his spear at the ready.

Johana stopped at once, just a moment of apprehension overtaking her, before she slowly strode forward once more, her pale, thin figure almost disappearing into the white snow.

“Threaten him again, and I will kill you. Make one more step, and I will kill you. I have cut down thousands of your ilk before; you will only be a number to me.”

For only an instant, Johana paused.

Then immediately afterwards, she laughed and kept on walking, one foot in front of the other, her very presence imposing and morbid all at once, despite her simple appearance. She hardly looked special, but there was something about her, and the way that she carried herself, that made the swordswoman's Master shiver, his breaths getting faster and faster with every further step Johana took.

“James!” yelled the Servant, and he at once stood to attention, right before he was grabbed roughly by the collar and shoved over the side of the bridge, tumbling down to the ice and water below.

There were only three left on the bridge now – two against one.

“You only make this harder for yourself,” Johana said with a chuckle, standing side-by-side with Lancer, the pair poised to attack. “Is this what you'd call 'fairness', or are you truly so afraid for that weak bundle of flesh and bone you call a Master?”

Saber scoffed at Johana's words, shaking her head. “I am Gaius Julius Caesar. I fear you no more than I fear a bleeding cripple; unfortunately, my Master down there is not quite so resilient.”

Johana just shrugged, smiling at Saber's sneer. “Well, at least someone bothers to be afraid.”

Her demeanour changed in an instant, however, when Saber reached up with her free hand to the back of her head, untying and casting away the red ribbon that held her hair up. The loose slip of fabric fell to the cold, rough ground, where soon a glimmering, regal cape touched, awash for but a moment with hot flame. The licking fire covered the edges of Saber's shortsword, and she pointed it right at Johana, just daring the woman to keep walking forward, a wordless but unmatched threat.

As if in response, Johana's sword crackled with electricity, snapping at the empty air, and Johana narrowed her eyes, levelling her emotionless gaze at Saber, a strange intensity in her visage.

Lines of red, like pulsing, beating veins, poured into her silvery eyes, and her breaths grew ragged, her chest rising and falling heavily, as though she'd been stabbed in the heart. She knew the threat she was faced with, but she ignored Saber's silent command and made one step forward – and one more, trudging on ahead, and this time Saber made good on her promise to cut her down.

An ordinary person would have seen a single flash of light, or perhaps even less, as Saber bolted forward with a single step, swinging her blade forward to cleave Johana apart.

Or, that was what she wished to do.

Saber was stopped at once in her tracks, her feet grinding into the asphalt, trying to push on forward, but no matter how much she demanded her body keep going, it simply could not comply.

She had both hands gripping Crocea Mors, holding it down to cut her foe right in half; with a single hand on the hilt of her longsword, Johana held Saber back, her eyes now having turned a full, bloody red.

Clenching her teeth, putting all her strength against the defensive might Johana wielded, Saber could only wonder in wordless awe how this woman managed to be so incredibly strong – thoughts that she didn't dare speak, not wanting Johana to know her surprise. Even in her eyes she held a look of fierce determination, as if this was something she'd expected all along. Grace in the worst of times was what she could always manage, if nothing else, clearing her mind from doubt or confusion in order to think and strategize with the utmost clarity.

“How long until that sword gives way?” Saber stared right into Johana's deep red eyes, not a hint of fear or confusion in the visage she wore.

That gaze, something beyond human, made Saber's whole body feel like ice, all the way into her bones. As though her blood had frozen over, her heart stopped, those bloody eyes holding her in place, staring into her, past her human figure and into her soul – they evoked painful memories, stinging at her nerves, and her fingers began to tremble, loosening around the hilt of her sword.

Seeing his moment, Lancer dashed ahead, spear held low to the ground, and he brought it up as he approached Saber, ready to skewer her. Her thigh, her stomach, her chest – he picked through his individual targets, needing to debilitate, if not outright kill, this new foe. He had no idea how she fought or what her ethos was in a battle, but he would not let his Master be the only one to contribute to the hopeful victory tonight.

He pulled his arms back, ready to thrust forward, digging the head of his spear past Saber's ribcage, going through her armour, but that was not such an easy feat.

Saber gave him a quick glare, freeing one hand from her sword to grab the haft of his lance, pulling it towards her and over her shoulder. With a grunt and a frown, she whipped it forward, right at its wielder, beating him in the stomach with a blunt blow. Then, she tossed the weapon to the side, like an unruly child's toy.

All the muscles in her arm tightened up at once, feeling the sheer pressure of Johana pushing back with her old blade, sparking against Saber's cold steel. The heat from Crocea Mors, still flickering with flame, was almost unbearable, but Johana wouldn't let herself be pushed back.

Even a Servant could not oppose the strength that she concealed within.

Before either of them could fold, however, a piercing whistle filled the air, so shrill as to hurt the ears, and there was the muffled rush of wind as an arrow passed overhead, up into the night sky.

"Good eve! I say, this Mariner," came a voice, frail but still loud over the whipping of the wind; yet as he spoke, the wind grew calm, the snow fell only softly, and the clouds above seemed to thin out to let the stars show themselves at last.

All eyes went to that man - on the bridge, and on the last remnants of ice in the river.

Though his tone wasn't unkind, he did not smile and he did not laugh, speaking out to all as one would an audience in a stadium, all gathered tonight to hear what wisdom he may or may not have had.

"And night it groweth cold; but hear my tale, erst still I sail, into past paths so bold." He bowed - almost reverently - and his eyes turned up to the birds in their flock, flying in circles around his ship expectantly, going about their monotonous motions as though called unwilling by a force far beyond their ken.

The man - more precisely, the spirit - was standing upon the deck of his ghastly ship, himself wreathed in a fading bluish light. All who saw him knew, instinctively, that he was not quite of this world, but not yet of the next, either; his beard was grey but tinged with ancient frost, and as his breaths passed into the air in rising white clouds, the chill of the night grew deeper and deeper.

From his simple garb, the cloths of a sailor, a tunic and a black belt of snake's skin, he could not be recognized, and his voice and proclamations didn't immediately spur ideas as to his identity, if he was a Servant in his likeness.

He nodded, as though he could read some of those thoughts.

-- --


James closed his eyes and tucked his arms in front of his face, whispering softly a few words that only he could know. Everything was, at once, turned numb.

His teeth chattered and the whole rest of his body shivered as he knew without thinking that he was close, so close, to slamming into the cold ice, but something was wrong. He held on to that feeling for a good few seconds longer than seemed right, and he opened himself up, his eyes straining against what they saw.

There was a lurch far down in the pit of his stomach as he realized that he had passed into the river's depths. The ice had disappeared, it seemed, and he could see only vaguely an outline of the keel of a ship in the green waters that surrounded him. There was no feeling in his skin still, but there was the phantom pain of stinging cold, and his head was overcome with dizziness as his body was turned around by the rushing of the Potomac's unrelenting currents; his ears, too, were so full of liquid that he couldn't hear a thing, lost in the dim chill.

Though he was muffled by the water all around, he parted his pale lips and said one more incantation, and his eyes opened wider with some surprise - his arm glowed blue, there was a flash, and he kicked upwards, bringing himself right near the surface.

Clutching his stomach with his free hand, he punched upwards with the other, and there was a solid impact, stopping him. He'd touched ice.

It only stopped him, however, for a second, before the ice looked to sublimate into something akin to paper, turning thin and tearing into little bits that floated down and away with the river. James beat into the bottom of a floe, and made for himself a hole he could climb through. He threw out his arm and pulled himself up and over, warmth coming over him again, and along with that warmth the freezing cold of being able to feel again, his spell of numbness to dull the pain now wearing away.

There were words being spoken, somewhere above, but he couldn't quite understand them, making out only a few.

With awe, he turned to his right, and saw in the middle of the river a huge ship, built from rotting, exotic timbers of long ago and far away. It wasn't a vessel he knew or could recognize, but a shuddering that felt like it came right from his heart told him that he had seen it before. But how? He wondered that, and tried to get up and stand, slipping here and there clumsily, but at last steadying himself on two feet.

“You knew me once, and so you knew: the name I bore was feared; few names I wear are quite so fair as that of old Blackbeard.”

There was a brightness in the man's eyes, despite his otherwise grim visage, and he hardly seemed as violent as any other spirit. From what could be understood of his bizarre, rhythmic manner of speaking, he had a tale to tell, and would tell it in full before all those here.

But as this spirit talked on and on, a shiver of realization went up James' spine, a feeling colder than the icy touch of his wet clothes tight to his skin.

Rubbing his bare arms, trying to keep warm, he was lost in thought until he looked back up at the man upon that ship, and found his true name as clear as the scant stars above.

"It is an ancient Mariner," said James, his voice rising to a yell, his mind compelled by some old and unknown force to speak these thoughts he had. "And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stopp'st thou me?'"

Those bright, piercing eyes cast down at James, seeing his small figure on the floating ice, held in place by his own magic. James swore he saw, small and indiscernible, the lightest touch of a smile come to that spirit's lips, but in moments it was gone again. Still, his eyes held some cheer, if it could be called that, and the Mariner turned to the bridge once more to face those who had been fighting barely minutes before. His presence had brought all things to a standstill - everyone present, all Servants and all Masters, if not entranced by the Mariner, were held there in curiosity, if nothing else.

"The name I bear is spake in truth, for long have I here lain. A myth am I, by sea or sky, but for what mortal gain? This heart of mine is made more warm in knowing I am known; for in my tale, so did I fail, my body gnawed to bone. It is a case of memory, lest others trod my path - these warnings heed, to keep as creed, lest others face God's wrath."

Even in the shadow of the bridge, James could hear the sound of an impatient growl, and imagined with it a sneering frown.

Steel struck stone, echoing in the night. "You are an impudent spirit! What is your purpose here, other than to tell an old story? I made you manifest, so follow my will or you will be unravelled like so many others of your ilk."

"My nature is not of vi'lence, for I am not so cruel." There was no longer any light in the spirit's sunken eyes, only the darkness of disappointment. "But if my ire is your desire, then take it - be a fool."

Nothing could have angered Johana more. Here was this spectre, and she'd hoped he would be more malleable, or more willing to go out and battle like all the other spirits, but she never had that much luck. This Mariner had a story to recite, and no one except James had an inkling of how long that could take, or if he had some secret hidden away. Was this a trap, maybe? He would keep their attention with his ancient, worldly tales, all the while sapping the spirits of the listeners, attacking their souls rather than their bodies. It wouldn't be Johana's first experience with that sort of cunning, and again she stood on the bridge's edge like she had before.

Lines of bright, hot electricity sparked from one side of her sword to the other, running up and down its edges, and she pointed the tip at the Mariner. He did not bother to move, his eyes, deep and dark as the sea, fixed on her without emotion.

"Then I banish you."

Lightning shot out from her blade, the thunderous crack nearly deafening those who were near; the flash and the din made James duck down and cover his ears, still shivering, until he finally looked back up again.

The smell of smoke filled the night-time air, and James saw a column of black clouds rising from the ship's ragged deck.

Her sword raised up above her head, Johana made her leap, jumping from the bridge onto the vessel's bow; she ran down to the deck to meet the spirit, and gave only a passing glance to her Servant - metal clashed on metal as she saw his spear collide with Saber's shortsword, their weapons ringing out, overcoming the echoes of the thunder that had filled the night only seconds before. After that one, long pause, battle could once again resume, and Johana licked her lips at these newfound prospects.

On the ship, between its towering masts, Johana rushed at the Mariner, not letting him speak another word. His back was turned to her, and she saw her chance - but in moments he had spun about, a long, thin sword held in his hand, and a crossbow in the other, a bolt nocked and ready.

"Is your desire for death so vast? I'd gladly kill to live, but why have thee such ire for me? I'll not some mercy give."

Johana slid her sword down the cutting edge of the Mariner's own, all the way down to the hilt, and without hesitation she grabbed his blade - the sight of blood running through her fingers and the sting of pain only made her more eager to fight on.

[Five_X]

– –

Where the ice met the mud and grass of the river's edge, Hannibal and El Cid stood, with no animosity between them. They watched the tall ship in the distance, beside the Key bridge, and saw the small figures all around it on the road and on the deck of the vessel, flickering sparks marking where they clashed.

The chatter of the birds above had turned silent, and the weather had calmed to perfect stillness, to the point that the ringing of steel on steel was the only noise in the night. It was remarkable, in a way, how quickly things had changed about - and this old ship's captain was the one who had caused all of this, so it seemed. This city over the past weeks couldn't have been unused to bizarre weather, but tonight had been something else, a blizzard of unreal proportions, and now it had very nearly disappeared just as it had come into being.

Ghastly in his appearance, the spirit was made manifest, and El Cid looked over at his erstwhile foe, who leaned heavily on one leg, taking the weight off his wound.

"Not interested in our fight anymore?" he asked, patting the hilt of one of his paired swords. "It was going well, I feel, but no one is watching anymore. All eyes are on that galleon, I must say."

Hannibal laughed, giving the knight a rough, friendly slap on the shoulder.

"And, to be fair, there's not exactly much ice left for us to duel on; the atmosphere we made is just gone completely, there wouldn't be any flair to it if we tried to get back to things here on the sidelines. Do you fancy seeing what this fuss is about the captain over there, and why all these birds seem to have an unhealthy fixation on him?"

Smiling, El Cid shrugged, drawing a sword, letting it drag its way up its sheath until he pointed it straight at the ship far ahead, motionless in the stirring river.

"This steel is a master smith's finest work, and it's imbued with magic. Do you think you stand more of a chance against a spirit than I do?"

Wondering that himself, Hannibal cocked his head a bit, and turned to the ship.

"If anything, he seems to enjoy the cold, so you have the advantage. The odds are favouring you, El Cid, but I think I can manage. A manifest spirit can be killed like anything else we put our weapons to, even without a truly physical form. You'll just have to be content with him not bleeding when you dig your blades into him - if you get that opportunity before me, of course."

They shared one last laugh, and Hannibal set off, stepping and leaping from one chunk of ice to the next, not at all noticing a small figure amongst the water and the white floes. He sensed something nearby as he ran, but compared to the aura of old, potent magic that the ship and her captain gave off like plumes of thick smoke, this was barely anything at all.

El Cid himself paused, too, but it was for an entirely opposite reason: he sensed nothing at all. Specifically, he couldn't tell where his Master was; Enrico wasn't in the vicinity, and with knowledge El Cid had, the cunning, tricky man could be anywhere in Arlington by now, if he didn't manage to cross over to Washington - considering the huge ship blocking the way.

He held his head up, staying still for a few quiet seconds more, but he heard steel ringing out through the wide, empty night, a call for him to join the ongoing battle.

Perhaps his Master was alright - Enrico was resourceful, more so than anyone else he'd met in this lifetime or even his first. If any man could survive, if not succeed, with everything piled up against him, it was Enrico de Seville.

After that line of thought, he had been staying by the riverside for some time, and Hannibal was well ahead, descending into a fog that had passed low over the water, obscuring the lower half of the ship's hull. From what he could see, El Cid could tell Hannibal was close to being ready to leap up onto those wooden planks, bashing the sharp edge of his shield into the cracks between them, clambering his way up while the Mariner was occupied - someone had been daring enough to step onto the deck of the vessel of which the Mariner was the undisputed master, challenging him where he was most at home, most confident, and most resolute in his defence.

Whoever that was, El Cid thought, they deserved to be commended for that kind of bravery, reckless as it was.

For he was just about to dive into that himself.

Dashing forward without any heed for anything that might get in his way, he swept his second sword from its resting place in its sheath. Holding both of his weapons out to the side, he let their deadly tips point forward as he focused on the figure atop the tall ship in the fog, seeing the distant sparks of crashing iron as that Mariner kept on with his duel - a distraction, El Cid knew, that would leave him unprepared for two Servants about to make his night far worse than it had any right to be.

Unlike Hannibal, who had dug his fingers into the withering cedar and climbed it, old fashioned - he was still there on the side, about halfway from the top - El Cid had no shield to dig into the wood and steady himself, but instead had something better.

He didn't lose any speed as he approached the vessel in a full-on sprint, the cold night wind fluttering through his hair as he counted down the seconds in his head.

At the last possible moment, he leaped straight up. Hurling his arm forward, he stuck the first few inches of Tizona into the bound planks of the spectral ship's hull, then with the momentum of his jump not having died yet, he swung about, only loosely holding the hilt of his sword until he had traversed even further up the side of the ship, slipping Tizona free at last. Then it was Colada's turn to be stabbed into the wood, finding the straight impact fairly soft and easy to get worked in deep, deeper even than Tizona. At this point, El Cid was nearly level with Hannibal, who relied more on upper body strength than clever finesse to haul himself up the slippery, wooden hull.

One sword pierced the sea-soaked planks, and then El Cid let his strength show, using the momentum he'd built up to keep a much steadier pace than Hannibal, digging his second blade into the cedar in the same moment he withdrew the first, following this simple routine all the way to the very edge of the ship's deck, staring out from the shadow of the mast at the two combatants already struggling to overpower the other.

He squinted, trying to see more detail into the Mariner's form, but he always seemed so distant, as though he were there and not there at the same time.

His foe wore a black dress, going down past her knees, torn slightly at the sides, perhaps for improved mobility. She had a sword in her hand of raw iron, a piece of work that must have been centuries old, far removed from the elegant steel of more modern ages. Even El Cid's twin blades, forged in his lifetime, were far more refined, and he could only wonder who she was - a Master, or a Servant?

To keep pace with this spirit, she must have been a Servant, as no ordinary magus could manage that kind of speed, strength, dexterity... but somehow she managed all of that. El Cid could sense nothing about her that betrayed her as any kind of spirit herself, not even one manifest into a physical form like himself.

She was something else, and as El Cid ducked down, closing in on his two foes, he was watching the woman more than the ghastly Mariner.

That could have been his undoing; in a pale, subdued flash of sickly bluish-green, he disappeared.

Before anyone could have reacted, there he was, up on the prow, his crossbow in one hand, its black-tipped bolt aimed for the newest combatant in this struggle - the knight, and his heart protected only by mail and cloth.

El Cid had just begun to turn about, and he knew from a sinking, deep feeling in his heart that something had gone wrong, and he raised his left arm to block any unexpected strike from behind. It was a quick, instinctual move that would have kept the tide of a sword fight in his favour, but this was not that kind of duel, not like the romanticized clash of steel he enjoyed with Hannibal.

He tried to move, but just as he pivoted around to see the Mariner, tall and proud and pale in the moonlight, there was a whistle in the air.

The bolt was invisible in the darkness, not even a glint off of its tip, before that tip was buried deep in El Cid's chest, striking him and nearly making him fall to a knee, clutching at his heart. The bolt had missed, barely by an inch - enough to stave off fatal bleeding, but it was only the first. The Mariner would nock a second, and a third, until there was no one left on this ancient ship but him.

After the bolt hit home there was a cast of silence over the whole river, the galleon and the bridge alike.

El Cid looked down at where he had been struck, seeing the blood roll down his tunic, darkening it with sickly red. Still on the prow of the ship was the Mariner, another bolt materialized out of thin air to lay in his crossbow. He aimed it forward, no smile nor frown marring his pale, icy visage, but only the cruelty of dispassion.

"You challenge me on mine own ship?" He spat, some emotion showing through. "Just let me tell my tale; for if you heed my words like creed, then off away I'll sail."

This much was true: on this vessel, having risen from the depths with its fell captain, the Mariner could not be matched, not easily. Just as a magus in their home is always a force to be reckoned with, the Mariner was tied to this ship, bound to it by invisible chains, and in his eternal drifting, the two had never parted. It was as much a part of his legend as he himself was; if he could be considered something like a Servant, having been summoned here, then the ship herself, ancient and worn apart, would be the centrepiece of his magic as a heroic spirit, his legend made form.

So, then, it only made sense that while his feet walked upon its creaking cedars, he was truly powerful, right here at the heart of the tale he so wished to tell.

He wished to tell it, and in the silence that covered the grey night he nearly had an opportunity, but it was not to be.

From the other side of the deck ran Johana, her bare feet digging into the planks, not once slipping; she held her sword in both, bloody hands, her eyes the same crimson. Her movement was fluid and quick - she had a purpose, to kill, and her mind was on nothing else but the slaughter of this spirit who had, in a way only defined and understood by Johana herself, wronged her and so had earned death.

For a moment, he met her eyes with his own, and he saw into them like two endless pools of blood, spilled into the sea, and froze at once.

Taking in a sharp breath, he turned away, looking at his other foes, a whiter shade of pale having cast over his face even as he held up his crossbow. On one knee, heaving with each breath, El Cid held up his swords in a cross in front of himself, said a small prayer to God, and stared with unmoving eyes and a vicious grimace at the Mariner.

"The Lord will not let me die this day, not at the hands of a tormented soul like yourself."

The Mariner shook his head as though disappointed, and loosed another bolt.

Thunder boomed in the sky above and the waves shook the whole of the galleon, but the steel-tipped thorn still flew home with an unchanging course; still, El Cid did not close his eyes, with sweat on his brow and snow in his hair. His was the face of determination, even in the face of nearing death.

El Cid jerked back, and his vision was overcome with blackness.

He felt like a strong hand was pulling him backward, and he knew his eyes were open, but he still could not see. There was a flash in the corner of his eye; lightning, striking down in the distance.

There was no sound of the Mariner's bolt sinking into bloody flesh.

Instead, there was the clatter of something on the wet, slicked deck, and El Cid brought his head up only to see the figure of Hannibal, shield raised, standing tall like a sentinel on guard.

His blue cape, edged with silver, fluttered like a proud flag in the whipping winds, getting faster and stronger with each moment that passed by. It was the work of the Mariner, no doubt, but Hannibal would have none of it, and he glanced down at his old opponent, a smirk touching the edges of his lips.

"I'll correct you: Hannibal will not let you die this day, friend." Setting his shield down to lean against his leg, Hannibal offered El Cid a hand, which was gladly taken.

The knight rose, unsteadily, to his feet, and by then the Mariner had far more trouble coming for him than two Servants; he was already meeting blades with Johana once more, the inhuman red glow in her eyes a clear sign that something was not right with her - she was regressing into something else, exactly what Lancer had seen before when she tried to kill Katalin.

"Do you think your petty ice is cold, Mariner? Do you know the depths of winter; do you know the feeling of despair as the chill takes you?" She said those words in a voice not quite her own, and at once her Servant Lancer stopped.

He heard what she had said, and how she had said it, and kept Saber in place even as she sneered at him, the flames around her blade only a flicker now.

"You want to protect your Master? She hardly needs that - and she is hardly aware of you now, in her state." Saber laughed, witnessing the pretensions of this Servant, and in his distraction she threw her foot forward, snapping it against the side of his knee.

He went down easily, then glared at Saber, trying his best to keep Johana at least in his peripheral vision. At that moment, she was what mattered.

"I have to save her from doing something foolish, even by her standards."

As Saber brought down her sword, its edge lining up with the back of Lancer's neck, he burst forward, smashing the railing of the bridge and leaping over to the ship. Saber's blade cut only against the curve of his armour, and she clenched a fist in frustration, standing on the edge of pavement where it dropped off to the sheer ice and water below.

Grinding her foot against the ground, she got into a position to follow him, but suddenly stopped when she saw.

When Lancer made landfall, slamming onto the ship's creaking deck, it listed to one side from the impact. He looked about frantically for his Master, not paying any attention to the red swordswoman who had once commanded his interest. She was unimportant - just one battle that could be fought later. Johana was his Master, and no matter if she was a pagan or a fool, he was pledged by sacred oath to protect her, and that oath would only be broken with his death, and not anything else.

His heart pounded, threatening to tear itself from his chest, and he stared up, the wind blowing into his eyes.

Up above was the pale blue shape of the Mariner, frost covering his cutlass, the imposing albatross perched on his arm, kneading its claws against his sleeve in preparation to swoop down - but for what purpose?

The bird spread its wings, rising high on the winds, then made its way, circling, down.

Lancer saw Johana there, right on the prow, her sword covered in blood and ice, and Lancer knew well that the bloodstains there could not belong to the spirit she fought.

Something was going to happen, he was certain of it, something that even Johana was not prepared for. Lancer eyed the jet-black albatross, hovering like a nightmare in the darkness, until it beat its wings, tearing down from the sky far above to attack. It tore at Johana with its claws, digging into her arms, buffeting her with its huge wings. She tried to smack it away, but the hardy creature wouldn't relent, managing to stick a pair of claws into her flesh, scratching her chest and neck with its other foot, huge talons drawing streaks of red all across her.

A distraction, Lancer imagined, but he didn't leave himself time to think. He had to act, before the Mariner swept down himself to cut her down with his old, rusting blade.

Without hesitation Lancer dashed towards his Master, seeking only to protect her, and with a dazzle of brilliant blue light, he stabbed the albatross in its side, letting it hang there, struggling like a fish on a hook. It screamed and lashed out with every part of its body, whipping the air with its wings, filling the air with feathers, but it was to no avail.

Slamming his spear head-first onto the deck, he crushed the bird, tearing the life from its black, quivering body in an instant.

In that same instant, lightning rippled across the sky in the dark clouds above, followed at once by a roll of thunder, loud and vicious. Lightning struck the water, and the moon up past the clouds was huge and bright, illuminating the whole scene; from below, far below, black shapes like eels crawled up the ancient cedar planks of the ship's crumbling sides, and the smell that came with them was of decay. The tallest mast, where the Mariner stood, was cracked by lightning and fell to the deck, then sunk overboard into the river - and the Mariner himself was on the prow, holding his cutlass high.

"The curse that bound me once is this," he said, his voice low, like a man choking, "and now it is your time, to feel the ill of your own will, this Mariner's old rime."

Ghastly fog filled the air, obscuring everything, hiding the vessel from the outside, and hiding the whole world from those who were on the ship; only the moon high above, and perhaps faintly the city's lights, could be seen past the murk.

Arms and fingers and heads of bone spilled out from the galleon's vast hold, all rotting and sick. The lightning crashed down more, and more, and more, the whole sky a cavalcade of lights, though the stars were nowhere to be seen. The ship lurched to one side, then the other, a spray of foamy water overtaking the deck each time, soaking its aged planks. All those who stood on the ship did their best to keep steady, but in the face of all this they could not.

This was the wrath of the sea, brought to bear on one place, this ship as the conduit for the fury of the deep.

Even Johana, her eyes draining of their pallid red, was shocked still; she held her sword in her trembling hand as the bones and the black, slithering eels made their way across the ship, claiming it as their own.

Far below, still at the mercy of the ice, James felt nor saw any of that.

The fog had surrounded the whole of the vessel, but the shapes of the eels could not be seen sliding up from the Potomac's black waters, and while the lightning and rain were overwhelming, filling the air, they were all obscured. James couldn't see any bones, and the ship, to him, looked perfectly still.

Despite that, he could tell in his heart that something was happening in there, some kind of cruel and despicable magic brought on by the Mariner. He knew that old tale.

The birds had scattered, gone to whatever corners of the earth they had come from, and James touched the ice, slowly raising his hand from its surface. As though spilling out from his palm, a bluish-white sword like glass appeared, though calling it a sword is perhaps too generous, and too romantic - it was a sharp piece of ice, larger than the daggers and spike James had formed in the past, as long at least as his arm. It had a tapered point, the whole of its body transparent, save for what could be called the hilt, where James held it.

The cold was nothing to him. He did not feel it, and it did not matter.

He'd had enough of standing on the side, being shoved away when the fighting came. He was his own man, and there was Saber up on that ship, subject to the mercies of the ancient Mariner. James wished to end this, but he knew also that he couldn't bring about that wish unless he fought - so fight he would, and he gripped the icy blade tighter, its edge gleaming like steel.

He stood tall, ready to take a step towards the ship, when at once it exploded.

A massive ball of fire rose up from the river, and there was the splash of silhouettes into the flowing water, drifting away with the floes.

The blast knocked James to his back, throwing his weapon out of his hand, and at once Washington and Arlington were lit up as though it were a summer day. The heat made sweat drip off his brow, and the smell of smoke filled his lungs.

"What... what happened? Saber?" he spoke, but realized he could not hear his own words, the explosion having rendered him deaf save for a ringing in his head, and so he mouthed thoughts without knowing at all if anyone could hear. His whole body ached as he tried to right himself, getting back up like he did before, but he couldn't hear his groans of effort and pain as he got on one knee, slowly standing once more.

He nearly fell back to one side, unstable on his feet, but his own condition wasn't what caught his attention.

The ship was there, but it wasn't - the aged vessel, with a spectral magnificence to it, was nowhere to be seen, and in its place was a ruin slowly taking on water, a mound of wood in the shape of a galleon, its sails oily rags aflame in the night, everything above the waterline shattered into a million splinters. The fog had been all but cast away by the fire and the wind, disappearing up into the grey clouds.

The ship's bowsprit, in the shape of a woman pointing into the deep water, was somehow untouched, her paint having long since faded and peeled away.

On that prow stood the Mariner, his body wrecked and bloody and torn, just like his ship had become. Once an imposing figure, tall and proud and speaking his tale with all the hale wisdom of a sailor who had seen it all, he was now just an old, decrepit man, beard made more of frost than of hair; he looked to be crumbling just as his ship was sinking deep into the river, never to be seen again.

He wielded his crossbow weakly in his hand, and he saw across from him, near where the hold had been, the shapes of Hannibal and El Cid.

The Mariner knew they were not the cause of his ship's demise, but he hated them anyway; he hated what they were: true heroes, who would be revered and remembered for great deeds. They existed in human consciousness and achieved immortality of the spirit because they were revered as legends, and respected as great men and women of their age.

The Mariner would be none of those things. He was immortal only because he was cursed, cursed since thousands of years past, to wander the earth on his lonely vessel, never able to die until the end of time.

Shooting at Hannibal, trying to catch him off-guard, the bolt flicked weakly off the man's bronze shield, deflected into the water, not even making a sound as it sank.

His chest rising with each heavy breath, the Mariner knew he had little time left, and he screamed a ghastly scream, seething and gargling, throwing his cutlass at those two legends below, hoping to catch one in the neck and end their mockery of him.

But the blade, like the bolt, was caught; El Cid parried it with Tizona, and the cutlass caught flame and dissipated into white ashes on the wind.

The Mariner was no more, and so like his blade, like his very ship, he turned to ash, bluish-white like snow.

All that he was and could be turned into nothingness, and the night breezes took him away, perhaps to raise again as a spirit in some foreign part of the world. Some place he could tell his story, was what he hoped, and that was his final thought.

Johana and Lancer were nowhere to be seen, having disappeared into the night in the midst of all the confusion; he had likely picked her up and swept her back to their hotel, for even Lancer was worried about what she had nearly done in that night's battle. How far would she have gone, if she had not been stopped? The thought of that chilled him, but sparked once again his suspicious curiosity.

He wasn't the only Servant to be worried about their Master - Saber ignored Lancer's escape, and ignored El Cid and Hannibal, seeing them on the melting ice, parting ways amicably like two old friends.

Her cape had shielded her from the fiery blast, but James had no such blessing.

Running down the length of the bridge, she leaped without thinking onto the shore of the river, her feet padding against the ice, eyes searching left and right for any sign of that brown-haired head of his. This would not be the first time his life was in danger, but now more than ever Saber found her heart pounding in her chest; her cape slipped away, turning to ashes in the night as she continued forward, shouting James' name, needing to find him at once.

"Looking for this one?"

She heard a young man's voice, along with a laugh. It wasn't James' voice, she could tell that much from the accent - it was Francois, and on seeing him her body seized up, her eyes going stiff, unable to tear themselves away from the man.

This feeling was one she'd felt before, but did not want to ever suffer again. It ate away at her, but like so many other things she let it pass away with a skillfully faked smile, and a bow of her head.

"James?" she said, stepping gingerly forward.

There he was, sitting on the ice, grimacing but not wounded, as far as she could tell. His clothes were soaked through, and he was shivering, hands gripping his arms, trying to keep in all the heat he could. His skin was pale, his teeth chattered like a hammer, and perhaps just a bit of his hair looked singed off, but he was alive, and as healthy as he could be given the circumstances they were all in.

Behind James, ostensibly being the ones who managed to find him first, were Francois and Napoleon, but untouched by the weather or the water, or even the explosion itself - and for good reason, Saber realized at once.

She shook her head, giving a sly glance to the general. "Ah, so that must have been it, then? Coming to our aid in the very last moment, arriving to save the day, just as per our... bargain. Trying to be a true hero, are you, Napoleon?"

That lightened her spirits, and the two shared a laugh.

"Yes," he said, taking off his bicorn hat and doing an exaggerated bow. "It was all my effort, Saber, and James here was certainly eager to thank me for it; he came at me with his fists, yelling about how you were on the bridge. He put it together quite easily that my cannonade had been the one to sink that dreadful ship, but I am glad to have done it."

Saber reached a hand out to James, who took it at once, letting her pull him up to his feet. There was just a moment of hesitation right afterwards as he had his arms held open, leaning in for an embrace, and then pulled back with an awkward smile at her.

"Ah... I'm a bit wet for that, aren't I?" He shrugged it off, and thanked Francois and Napoleon both for their help, seeming proud that he'd cemented this alliance.

After shaking Napoleon's very much dry hand, he gave Saber a knowing look, saying without need of words, 'I told you so.'

Francois, however, didn't seem to be part of the minor celebrations and congratulations, instead staying quiet, looking on with the slightest frown on his face as Napoleon and Saber and James chatted to one another about the battle and that night; they all burst out into a laugh when James told them about how Saber had thrown him right off the bridge, and save for Francois, the atmosphere was light, kind, friendly, and - most importantly - genuine in all those things. It wasn't the weather, which had turned clear and placid, or the cold, which was gradually turning to warmth, the very hint of dawn on the edge of the horizon, far away.

Something got to him, but he didn't make it obvious - not at first, not to James or to Saber.

"It's good, then, that we just ended it all at once, isn't it, Archer?" Francois suddenly cut in without warning, just after Napoleon had mentioned the barrage he had unleashed upon the ancient Mariner and vessel alike.

Napoleon opened his mouth, just about to say something, his brow furrowed - nothing kind was on his lips, that much was clear as the skies above.

Before he could say anything, though, James perked up, turning around to give a quizzical glance to Francois.

"Hey, I thought you called him by his real name... Napoleon, you know? What, did something get cold between you two?" He raised an eyebrow, internally suspecting something had happened between the men - it was clear in their body language, and when he looked over to Saber, he could tell she'd surmised as much as well. Their behaviour was off; the Francois and Napoleon he'd known from the meeting in Eleanor's mansion weren't like this at all. Even Francois, compared to the day he walked right up to the apartment, hardly seemed himself.

Non-committal, Francois shrugged, his expression not betraying his beliefs. "What Archer and I have is just a contract for mutual profit. This war is business, a deal that has to be done; there isn't anything personal or emotional to it. War in general is never personal. This is the arrangement with us, isn't it, Archer?"

"I agree, this... is nothing personal. Just a contract, just business, as my Master says." The pain of saying those words was like getting shot in the chest and wrenching the bullet right out. It pained his mouth merely to open to say what he'd said, and then he gave the most forced, ugly smile he had ever managed in his life.

He knew it was personal. No war was just business, and the look Saber gave him told him that he was right in every way. He had to be right.

And so here was Francois, trampling all over that, knowing just what power he had.

The two of them had to show a united, unbroken front, and Napoleon needed that just as much as his Master did. It disgusted him, this 'arrangement' that they had, but he smiled, and he followed what his Master had to say.

James, being James, wasn't quite ready to have any of that, and Saber silently urged him on, smiling not to match the atmosphere Napoleon and Francois tried to create, but because her own Master was starting to know the uses of being a thorn in someone's side.

"But you used to call him Napoleon. You used to be a lot closer, right?" Now James was frowning, having stood up, closer now to Saber.

Napoleon shook his head immediately, and Francois did the explanations. "Yes, and what about that? Everyone is different, James. Take yourself, for example - you call Saber... well, Saber, not by her real name. And she often calls you her Master; what does that say about your relationship with her? Nothing more than it says about Archer and I."

While James tried to come up with a rebuttal, the only things he could think of sounded more like complaints than real continuations of a debate, and in all honesty, Francois was his friend - he didn't want to argue with him, or make him mad. James could be stubborn, but more importantly than that to him, he'd proved that this alliance could work and was profitable.

Profitable... just like the contract between Francois and 'Archer.' Business, was it?

Saber bit back her words - as much as she wanted to speak and point out the hypocrisy that the two were batting back and forth, she saw how James felt. He was willing not to question anything, so long as he had a friend he could rely on. That struck her hard, when she thought about it; James himself would never admit it, but he was far more like Saber than he realized - or would ever admit to her face.

"I care about you, James," she said, eyeing Francois, speaking as though she was announcing something. "For me, this war is personal. Your struggle is personal to me, no matter what name we know each other by, and that will not change. There is no contract between us that can be voided; we have already been through hardship, and I believe that all hardship can be overcome with tenacity. Not everyone can understand that, but I do, and I stand beside you."

Something about that made James smile, even though he knew she was trying her best to subtly spite Francois and his young arrogance.

He passed it off with a laugh, and directed his grin over at his ally.

"So, Francois, when can I call you up next to bring in the big guns? We might need them soon." He held out his hand for a shake - just like concluding a deal.

"What for?" came Francois' reply, and he immersed himself in the light atmosphere once again. He was nowhere near a good actor, and this was the deepest of reliefs. "Have you got anything planned that I might want to know about, hmm?"

James thought for a second, still smiling, keeping this friendly. That's how it was supposed to be - friendly. This was personal, no matter what Francois had said, and it always would be. That is just the nature of war, to forge bonds and to break them, for war is the extreme of all things - of kindness and of cruelty.

A cool wind passed over the four, fluttering through the leaves. The ice had melted, the day was warming, and the clouds were nowhere to be seen. There was the sense of something new in the air - like something had changed fundamentally, and couldn't ever go back. James likened it, in his mind, to opening up a good book for the first time, not knowing that the world contained inside will change your way of thinking forever.

Looking over at the thin red line of the horizon, he finally sighed. "No, just... a feeling, is all."

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Welcome back to MPII, and thanks for reading through such a massively long chapter! I apologize for the delay, and I know what you might be thinking - 'how can he finish this by August now!?' Well... let's just say this isn't the only chapter I have ready. This current one is roughly equal to the next three chapters in size. It'll be a while before you see something big again; this marks the last 'big' scene in the story with loads of characters and all that.

I hope you enjoyed reading, and I'll be seeing you all again very soon...

[The Green Flame]

Oh boy just when I was wondering if it updated or not. Good stuff, good stuff. Buddy Cop film starring El-Cid and Hannibal when?

[Five_X]

Buddy Cop film starring El-Cid and Hannibal when?

You're more likely to get a film franchise out of Nigel and Hannibal in that sort of genre.

[Sunny]

Congratulations on starting up again! And building a bit of an advance, too, from the sound of it!

That was a pretty big sequence to come back to. it felt like an hour special, lol. Though i felt a little unclear on whether the Mariner was an actual participant or an interloper, the way Johana talked about it.

Either way, it was a pretty strong sequence, and the two events lead into each other very nicely. You can definitely tell everyone's arcs are just going to keep building momentum from here, eek.

[Five_X]

All your questions shall be answered... in the next episode, of the Manhattan Project II! And the next one, and the next one, and the next one. I've got a backlog of about 4-5 chapters waiting to be beta-d.

[Bloble]

Poor Mariner. He just wanted to tell a story.

[Five_X]

He's not even a real hero

[Five_X]

Writing speed: SUPREME

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CHAPTER CVI

March 5^th, 1963


The shimmering reflections of light could barely be seen, far above, spilling through the surface of the water. Whether that light was of the moon or of the sun, it danced through the waves, reaching down just far enough to caress her face, like the warm touch of a lover's hand. That light was her only connection to the world above, the dry world, the world of life.


Here she was, far below, the chill having numbed her flesh all the way to the bone, nearly all feeling lost. Her skin was a pale, sickly blue, but she did not shiver, and she did not struggle as the rays from the surface became so much farther and farther away.


Surrounding her was only darkness. This column of luminescence she was drifting, drowning in captured only her, but all the water to her sides and below was black and murky, as foreboding and impenetrable as the pitch blackness of pure night. Her mind strayed not once to thoughts of breath, or thoughts of warmth, but was clear of everything - empty just as her eyes, red like blood, always had been and would be.


Before she knew it, there was a hand reaching up, a slender, pallid arm at her side.


It grasped for the rays of light as though to catch them, and she realized at once that this was her arm, her hand, acting without thought.


The vision in her bloody eyes was covered over with a haze, and to the sides she could not even see the darkness - only blank nothingness, far deeper. The vision of the surface remained her only connection to anything other than the water, and she could feel the lightest brush of a current against her face and through her flowing black hair, blending into the depths.


A stray mess of those locks passed in front of her eyes, and the arm tossed them away with a gentle sweep of the fingers on its hand.


There was something else, though, that still obscured the gleam of the light, the light she craved, the one thing that caught her eye, made her think. That light was where she belonged, but now it was gone - why? She could feel the blood in her veins pumping, flowing throughout her body, the only other sign that she was living.


There was a shape of teeth in the nothingness, and beneath her skin a sharp tingle, like pins and needles, of immeasurable pain, but she did not scream, only holding on to her expressionless visage, as though nothing had happened - but now in her eyes was a look of almost desperation as the light still did not return and she realized that this meant that she was dying.


The teeth of the maw of the darkness sank into her flesh, and tore at her neck, and ripped her throat into the water, filling it with red.


The water was hot, boiling, but that heat came from within, and it felt as though she was on fire. Every drop of blood inside her felt like it was burning, like pure flame slithering through her body and spilling out. The black turned a sharp red, but she could not taste it and she could not smell it, only see the tinge of the waters all around her and how that nothingness finally disappeared. The claws and teeth were still there, though, and they dug into her, her body unmoving and the ravenous beast that was nothing rending her flesh as though she was a corpse.


Like a corpse. She was dying, but in fact already dead, and could feel nothing. There was no light anymore.


She was drowning. The licks of flame cut her body from the inside, but then pain turned to numbness again as she could at last see nothing but red, red, red.


Again, all thoughts passed from her mind, the last time they ever would.

-- --

She opened her eyes and the light returned, her vision a blur, and she sucked in a deep, deep breath, feeling air slip into her lungs at last.


There was a strange hum, constant but quiet, like a steady morning breeze that barely gets noticed. It was an ambient sound, and she moved her head about, trying to find it - in the water she'd heard nothing, but now that she had returned to the realm of the living there was something else, and she needed to understand it.


"Johana? You have awoken, this is good." More sounds, these she could hear clearly, without any interference. The hum still sounded out in this place.


Johana turned to where she had heard the words, and brought her hands to her face. She could move again - and feel, her skin soft and hot, like sand warmed by the sun. She rubbed her eyes, wiping them clean, and could see again. There was a blue shape, kneeling beside her, and he was Lancer, and she knew him well. He was a suspicious man, but had sworn himself to loyalty, and that was enough.


Recollections swarmed her as she fully understood, once again, where she was - and who she was, all important memories returning to her.


She was Johana again.


"Here, drink," said the man - her Servant, Lancer. Resting in his hands was a black mug, filled with a steaming, tawny liquid - coffee. Yes, she remembered coffee.


Without hesitating, she slipped her fingers into the mug's handle, gasping when she felt its heat against her palm. It was made only recently; he must have been watching her this whole time, and made this when she finally began to stir once more. Last night, when she was outside, in the fresh, wintry air... she couldn't remember anything from that night, no matter how she tried. She could recall, only vaguely, standing on a bridge, but after that there was only an endless blank until she fell into the water in what may all have been a dream.


Johana sipped the coffee, humming in satisfaction. "Six sugars, yes? And milk?"


Lancer couldn't hide a smile as his Master was alive and well, and knew again who she was. Catching himself in his mind's wanderings, he even laughed, nodding, showing her his fingers - sprinkled with brown coffee grounds, after his apparent several attempts at making a proper drink.


Johana smiled back, appreciating the effort, and let the warm liquid flow through her, rejuvenating her whole body, leaving her buzzing with new energy. The sweetness rolled down her tongue, such a familiar taste that she could never imagine forgetting it. Coffee had been something her family never indulged in, but it was perhaps the most exceptional of the various innovations Johana had found in modern civilization. Certainly, she could understand its popularity in this part of the world.


"Any teacake, Lancer?" Johana asked, pointing to the nightstand beside her bed, where there was an empty saucer - not for coffee, now, but for other sweets that took her interest.


Sadly, he shook his head. "I apologize, Master. I was intently focused on making this drink for you; I had to recall your methods of preparation, and I wished to have it ready just for when you woke. Next time, perhaps?"


Johana frowned a little, sitting up taller in bed. "There had best not be a 'next time' to be honest; these dreams eat away at me, and I wonder how much longer I can face them. Do other people suffer from these? I can't imagine they do. I am unique, I feel, in the worst ways possible."


"Hmm..." Lancer wondered, pondering this. His Master spent every night locked in these nightmares, inescapable until her restless sleep ended, but before that release she must have felt as though she could do nothing to run away from the terrors that shook her every time she closed her eyes.


"I dreamed of drowning, and dying," she said at last, her voice soft and quiet, as though this night in particular had been different, somehow. "I could feel nothing, and my blood filled the waters around me until I was surrounded by a red darkness."


She shook her head, pressing a hand to her face, stroking her temple. "You may not believe this, but these things horrify me."


"What do these dreams of yours mean, then?" He pressed her for an answer, not roughly but with genuine concern for her, even as he desired an answer of his own.


Before he could even get a response, he continued his question. "Last night, and a night before, your eyes turned red, your skin paler than it had ever been. Why? Do you know why this happens? Is it because of your family?" One question had become far more, and Johana buried her head in her hands, her messy hair falling about her pale shoulders.


"I... I don't know, Lancer! I am an abomination, and I'll see to it that I only last as long as I need to. My family practised the breeding of brothers and sisters, keeping their blood within one family, and according to those disgusting creatures that called me their daughter I am the greatest progeny this bloodline has seen. I am the culmination of something sick, something that should not be, and I am twisted as a result. You have to understand, Lancer - I am no more pure than all those who came before me, than the whole rest of my family. They called me the reincarnation of the founder of this line, and I have no idea what that means."


Sighing, she stroked the hem of her dress, feeling the tears in its fabric, wanting something to distract her from this conversation, from what she knew herself to be.


Then, she looked at Lancer with her silver eyes, as forlorn as she had ever been.


"All I know is that the blood running through my veins makes me have terrors every time I sleep, makes me incapable of forgetting what happened to my brother, and makes me deformed not in body, but in mind."


The weight of this topic was heavy on Lancer's shoulders, and he sat himself beside Johana, just near her feet, staring over at her - he tried to assure her with the expression he wore on his face and in his blue eyes that yes, she would be fine. He would understand this, and he would make her know that she was not deformed. She should not have to pay for what her family had done for generations.


That was not her own sin, even though she had inherited the tainted blood and pagan ideals of her ancestors.


"I am surprised, though," said Johana, bringing her mind - temporarily, but still - off of the sickness that plagued her. "You brought me my coffee, and sat beside me for all these hours. Why do you care, Lancer? I am a pagan, I am incestual... I am everything your Christian heart should wish to purge from this unholy world. What, exactly, makes me different?"


Lancer's smile became more distant, less happy, but reassuring - more than anything, it was an honest smile, an expression that could tell no lies.


He took in a deep breath, and held the mug that was suddenly offered to him - empty, needing to be filled up again, but still feeling warm.


"You are my Master. I am a knight, and I am sworn to serve you. No matter who you are, no matter what you do, I will follow you until my death. I have failed in this duty once, and I swear to God and every authority upon this Earth, that I shall never fail again." He bowed his head.


Johana, despite what she knew about her Servant, her knight, was stunned into silence, coming to understand the depth of his dedication. She had never encountered such old, medieval oaths and promises, these guidelines that came to be called chivalry, but Lancer was not a man who lived by any specific code. No, he lived as he did and served his ward not because of social obligations, but as his own personal motivation for living. If he had any one goal in life, it was to serve, and serve with honour and dedication.


She wondered what to say - no words came to mind that would be appropriate, not any that she knew of.


So, she told him simply, "Thank you, Lancer."


There was no malice, no underlying, selfish motivation to her smile - it was simply kind and gentle, two things that perhaps Johana longed to be, but was fated to always be at odds with, if only by the circumstances of her birth and her life. Lancer felt her fingers brushing against his, and their eyes met, an unspoken, unknown connection between the two that had never quite been there before - something neither could name, understood only by how it set them both at ease, despite the constant stresses of the war.


After minutes of silence between the two, Lancer rose up to his feet all at once, giving a courteous nod to his Master and letting her soft, warm hand slip from his.


"The war demands me, I am afraid," he said to her, his armour fading to the illusory suit that Johana had fashioned for him. "I must scout the city, and see what may have changed since last night. With the battles being as they are, the greatest threat to your life is not a direct confrontation, but an unexpected strike – the acts of desperate, dying men."


Johana didn't want to think of the realities of this war. Her goals were her own, and so many others had so much to lose; they would fight until their very last heartbeats, not once giving up any moment sooner.


Her smile had faded into a more serious, stern expression. "Protect yourself, Lancer. I can only fight this war with you; without you, things become much more difficult, and I don't want to burden myself with that hassle."


He smiled for her, his spear for an instant showing in his hand - before dissipating into the air, gone entirely. That was all he needed to explain to his Master that no, he wasn't in danger. It was daytime, and even the most frantic in this conflict wouldn't dare wage it while the sun was up. Those who still remained would never endanger what chances they had at fighting, and if this war became known to those who weren't involved in it, all would be ruined.


Lancer walked towards the door, his hand on the brass knob, but was stopped at once by a last word from Johana, who raised her finger, remembering something.


"While you're out, as well..." She pointed to the mug Lancer had placed on the nightstand, "Could you find some teacakes? I have no ideas where they are sold in this country, but try to acquire some. This isn't a matter of personal taste, you should know - I have a physical need for these sweet things. However, even if my body was different, I... might just still enjoy them."


Her Servant shook his head and laughed, quickly stepping back to the small table to pick up the mug and saucer and bring them into the kitchen.


"I promise," he told her, and with those two small words, he left her for the city.


Johana lay there in bed, wondering what to do, wondering what she could do, knowing that this war she had embroiled herself with was nearing its close. There was nothing she could do to escape it now, but that may have been for the best. It saddened her, somehow, knowing that these things had to end, knowing what she would have to do if victory was hers. It was almost daunting, but she had faced so much worse in her life.


Alone, listening to the droning hum of the ceiling fan, Johana lost herself in contemplation.

-- --

"James!" Saber laughed, seeing a familiar mat of brown hair popping out of a slowly opening doorway. "Now this is certainly a surprise, to find you awake before noon after a night like we had."


Groaning, James shook his head, running his hands over his face and through his hair, trying to get rid of his grogginess, but it was to no avail. His limbs still wanted to be at rest on his comfortable, blanket-covered mattress; his mind, too, wanted away from all these concerns and away from the speech Saber was definitely about to give him about diligence and how she motivated herself to do great things in her time.


But, as he thought, it was better to get up in the morning - even if only five or six hours of that morning had been spent getting needed sleep - than annoy Saber any more than he needed to.


He trudged out of his bedroom, rubbing at his chin, feeling all the hair that had grown, and sighed. It seemed he'd been given a choice between the war and cleanliness, and as per Saber's apparent wishes, the former had won out by a mile.


She could tell that just as well as he could, laughing again when she saw the sad state he was in – but her laughter stopped short once he wobbled his way into the kitchen.


"My..." she muttered, not unhappy with James' traditional morning shirtlessness. He had a sort of rugged masculinity to him, something she hadn't seen before, hadn't been able to admire quite yet. He looked like some beast, unkempt and wild, so different from the James that she had come to know, the tame and gentle man she called Master. She had not lied last night - regardless of what contract bound them in this conflict, they fought together not because of their own obligations, but because they had managed, at last, to find some mutual understanding.


“To be frank, I was surprised to not find you dead of hypothermia when I checked on you earlier.” she said as though it was nothing important, slipping her fingers through her untied hair.


He shrugged, chuckling a little. “You think a guy with ice powers is going to freeze to death? Think about that again – but... thanks, for being there to care for me.”


“It would be a travesty and an embarrassment for my Master to survive so much only to die after deciding to swim in an icy river,” was her quick, off-the-cuff response – notably not mentioning his comment about caring about him – as he stepped into the hallway next to the door, close to the kitchen, clearly more interested in something else at the moment.


There was a mirror on the wall; James took one glance at it, saw the man reflected back at him, and his shoulders slumped.


Giving Saber a forlorn look, he let out a low, frustrated grumble. "God, I look like an animal. I'm going to go shave and wash up; I'll be back out in about half an hour, alright? Hold the fort in case anyone shows up - people seem to like visiting me at bad hours these days, don't they?"


At first Saber smiled, holding back a chuckle as James muttered something to himself, clenching and loosening a fist, clearly disappointed with his looks. That was something else that came as a surprise - he was attentive to his grooming, but this wasn't something that ever came up before because, after all, in most cases he took care of himself. Perhaps that was another side effect of his renewed focus on the war, but it wasn't as though Saber minded.


Then, seeing James walking towards the bathroom, she got an idea.


"James! What do you know about fashion in my era?" A question thrown out towards the hallway, seemingly out of nowhere, but it caught James' attention; he stopped at once, half-turning around out of only the barest of interest.


He shrugged. "Not much, really. That's the sort of thing my father would care about, so ask him if you get to see him."


"It was important for men of Rome to be clean-shaven," she began, following after James and ignoring the fact that he was, in turn, ignoring her. "In my time, all patrician men would have someone shave their beards, styling themselves in what they would have called a 'modern' fashion, seen to be very Greek and thus very civilized."


This time James didn't bother to look back, or stop to listen to her. He was currently busy with getting himself ready for a shave and a hot shower, and part of him was just a little annoyed at having someone badger him about this for the first time in his life since his father taught him how to work a razor. Much as he liked Saber's company, this was something private, not for someone to gawk at just to get an idea of the differences between ancient and current societies. At a time like this, he had to wonder just what Saber was even on about.


He turned to the bathroom's wide mirror, plucking his safety razor from a cup beside the sink. Running his finger along its edge, he nodded; it was getting a bit dull, but it would do for now. The curly brown hairs all over his face were getting thick, he mused, so he might be longer than just a quick half hour.


Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw Saber brandishing an old straight razor, the kind he'd been taught to use years ago by his father. In her other hand was a wooden chair from the kitchen, lugged over into the bathroom; its legs hit the floor with a pair of dull thuds, and Saber gestured to the seat. If her point wasn't obvious already, then she would just have to give up.


Putting his own razor away for a moment, James laughed awkwardly, looking away with a bit of embarrassment showing on his cheeks.


"I find it only reasonable to shave you, James. Come, let me do at least this for you." She held the long blade delicately, its edge glinting under the bathroom's light; clearly, she was at least somewhat familiar with its use, and that - if nothing else - set James at ease long enough for him to be coaxed into sitting down, staring into the mirror.


Saber stood behind him, looking like the most bizarre barber James had ever visited. Having a woman shave him was unusual in itself, but with Saber offering to shave him, it entered a different realm of strange for him.


Regardless, he couldn't turn this down - it would be an interesting experience, at least, and most importantly it would give them a few quiet minutes to talk.


Saber picked up a cloth from beside the sink, wetted it under the faucet, and dabbed James' face, rubbing his cheeks, jaw and neck to get it damp. A few drips fell down from his chin onto his chest, and he started to close one eye, wondering if Saber was exactly the most skilled person he could have doing this. It would be more expensive to go to a barber, but at least he could rely on their having real training and experience, rather than relying on supposed practices from two millennia ago.


"Are you sure you've got this?" he mumbled as Saber wiped along his neck, almost scrubbing at him with several passes, getting the skin under his hairs wet enough to ease up for shaving.


She chuckled, and ran her fingers through his cropped hair. "You can trust me with my sword when your life itself is in peril... but when I hold a little knife, you suddenly are overtaken with worry? I hope that does not make sense to you, either."


With a sigh, he acquiesced, relaxing and letting Saber do what she needed to do.


She laid the cloth just below his neck, resting precariously on his shoulders and collarbone, but it would do. The wet warmth of it was strangely soothing, helping put James at ease, and he almost closed his eyes, feeling the uneasy trust between the two build into something stronger, bit by tiny bit.


There was a stout white jar right by the cup where James' safety razor was kept, promising an 'extra rich lather' on its label; she took this and let some cream pour into her cupped hand, all while looking about for the last part of the equation she was putting together. Rubbing her hands together, she knitted her brow, not finding just what she needed to make this right - without it, this would all just be a waste of her time and James'.


However, when she glanced once at the mirror and saw his big grin, barely managing to restrain a bout of laughter, she knew what was going on, and smacked the back of his head.


Moments later, he'd dropped the shaving brush into her quite eagerly awaiting hand.


Lathering the smooth cream onto James' face, she rubbed it in with her fingers, covering his mangy hairs with it, everywhere those hair grew getting a white, almost foamy covering. With a pleased hum, she ran her hands under the tap, the warm water washing away what cream was left so that she could take up the brush and finish what she'd started.


"So, I was wondering," James started, trying not to move his mouth much so as to avoid interfering with Saber's work.


"Yes? If it is again about my experience with this, then just let my deeds speak for themselves," she replied, almost snapping at him, brushing at his jawline in tight, controlled circles, building up the foamy cream across the areas she soon would cut.


He resisted the urge to shake his head, grumbling instead. "No, it's about who we fought last night. Do you know who he was?"


Saber shrugged, swirling her brush lightly under James' chin. "I know not his identity, save for that he is a sailor from long ago. He is probably a man of little fame, but one thing interests me about him in particular."


She went silent there, perhaps to build up a sort of curiosity in James before she spoke again, or else to concentrate on making a good lather around his face so that she could make a clean, delicate shave without missing any spots. In this, as with everything else, she would only settle for perfection, as any other outcome would be severely misusing her skills - even if this of all things was what she decided was worth using those aforementioned skills on.


"What interests me is that he had no body. Not a physical one, that is - not like I was given upon summoning, and not like the one that you were born with. That indicates that, in fact, what brought him into the world was not a summoning, but more of a calling. Spirits are normally brought from another realm to this one, so to speak, but this one bypassed the need for that entirely." Saber, still holding the brush, flicked her hand at the sink, a few droplets of cream spilling into the basin before she washed off the bristles just as she did her hands.


"Huh." James found himself understanding it now, knowing Saber's implication. "So what you mean is he never died at all, like you and Napoleon and the others, but kept on living, but... well, not quite, since he's a spirit?"


Seeing the flash of realization crossing James' face, Saber could only smile, and she picked up her razor just to make him remember that there was more than a conversation going on here.


He straightened up in his chair at once, seeing the blade inch closer to his neck.


Saber winked at James' reflection in the mirror. "What must be the case is that his being alive to this day is an intrinsic part of his legend, what makes him famous. So, while the concept of this man and his story passed on just as I did, the actual man who inspired those stories still exists in this world, albeit as a spirit."


"Well," James began, ready to impress her with what he knew. "He was cursed. His legend exists in the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a poem written almost two hundred years ago by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. In the poem, when the Mariner kills an albatross he earns the wrath of the sea, and later his life is gambled away, his soul owned by a ghastly woman known as the 'Night-mare Life-in-Death.' The Mariner's crew die, but he survives with his ship, forced to wander the world forever as a wraith and tell his tale of curses and penance to those he comes across."


Now, it was time for Saber to put the pieces together. She wondered about what James had said, taking this time to carefully draw the straight-razor along his neck, shearing off the mat of hairs that had been growing there, leaving a slick sheen where the blade had visited. James felt the work she'd done, and hummed in approval, even smiling a little even as he could still feel the cold steel of the blade against his soft flesh.


One thing that James said, however, didn't seem to make sense.


"If this Mariner was invented in a poem, two hundred years ago, as you said, then unless he has the sheer fame and dogged willpower of Napoleon - which I highly doubt he has - then how was he capable of holding his own against four Servants? He is, as you said, an ancient Mariner, which implies that there is more to his myth than what your musty poem might immediately imply."


James drew a line along his jaw, feeling the work Saber and done, and gave a small nod of approval. Knowing she'd done well enough, she went ahead and made little flicks around his chin, shaving away the hairs with enough precision not to cut James' flesh, not spilling a single drop of blood. His face was getting almost completely clean, only covered up for now by a few spots of beard and moustache and the lingering foam of the shaving cream.


"Well... you're right on point with that one. And he said he used to be the same Blackbeard we fought before, so – well, I guess he's got to have something special about him, but even I don't know what that is. Maybe my father would know, or... ah, that's right, we could take-" He gasped, thinking he'd been nicked, but saw no blood, and let out a long, very much relieved sigh.


Saber chuckled under her breath. "We are not wanting for time, James. Relax, please, and gather your thoughts."


Taking advantage of the momentary silence, she pulled James' skin taut to slide her cold razor along the small underside of his chin; something made her scoff in annoyance, and she turned on the faucet once again, letting the razor rest under hot water for enough time to wash the hair and cream from its edge, returning its sheen.


Taking in a deep breath, James started over. "What I was going to say was, we can just take a trip to the library like we did that one time. Remember? They've got a bunch of books there, so I'm sure if we spend the day mingling with the literature, we'll get something out of it."


Now there was a proposition that Saber could hardly disagree with.


"Certainly - excellent idea, James." Angling the razor diagonally, she shaved small, equal flecks of hair above his upper lip, very gradually replacing his unkempt moustache with silky smooth, completely bare skin.


James smiled, seeing himself all clean and proper in the mirror. "I'm glad you think so. You can't say no to a good few hours or so lost reading books, now can you?"


"I am sure there will be fun for both of us - but no neglecting research in favour of basic entertainment." Saber looked over her handiwork, and nodded. "Once the Mariner is dealt with, perhaps there will be some time for leisure."


Far from what he'd looked like when he walked into the bathroom, aching with morning exhaustion and lethargy, James' skin was fresh and his eyes bright. He was a changed man, physically and mentally, and this little discourse between the two was enough to get him ready for the day ahead. There was a new verve inside him, and he felt like running a mile to burn off this energy and enthusiasm he found himself newly imbued with.


"What do you think?" he asked, turning his head around to look at his impromptu barber, looking into her eyes, beaming.


She brushed her fingers along the hard line of his jaw, gently grasping his chin to turn his cheek towards her - and answered his question with a light kiss.


"Very smooth," was all she said, a certain coyness in her eyes and in the curl of her lips. James' face, still slicked with some foam, turned a bright shade of red, and he looked away into the mirror, then realized that she could still see him no matter what he did, and he closed his eyes; that was the only way he could truly escape this.


Saber was incorrigible.


Standing up all of a sudden and pushing the chair back, he got back on his feet, put his head beside the faucet, and doused his hair and face with the coldest water that would come out.


He pulled back up and shook his head, letting out a long breath just as he shivered. The cool, sharp scent of shaving cream was in the air, contrasting with the heat that had seemed to overtake the bathroom's tight atmosphere, the mirror even looking a little fogged up around its edges.


"That's that, is it?" he said, almost too quickly to be understood. "Well, I've got to have a shower now, so it might be best for you to wait, right, and I'll be with you soon? We can leave in a few, but I just need to wash up."


Even he didn't really know what was coming out of his mouth, other than the constant thought that he needed to get Saber out of this small room they were stuck in together before anything escalated, because he knew that would happen. He'd learned from his mistakes; he wouldn't let these things happen again, not with her. With Saber, he knew how much he respected her, and wouldn't change that. He wouldn't let himself see things any differently.


With a light shrug of her shoulders, Saber turned about on her heel - gracefully, in a way, like a dancer making her exit from the stage. In a moment, she was no longer where she once stood, the door closed, the straight-razor balanced uncertainly on the edge of the sink basin. Bits of hair and white cream were on its edge, which hadn't dulled in the slightest.


No matter how she could be sometimes, James knew now that he could at least rely on her skills as a barber.

– –

Before them was the Library of Congress, standing tall with its jutting columns like some monument out of history. Appropriate, in a way, for a building dedicated to the preservation of old knowledge in all its forms, and it was exactly that knowledge which James and Saber came to seek.


Myths and legends, too, were history, the tales told by a lost culture telling of their ways and their society long after no one is left to speak for them. The Egyptians, the Babylonians, and the Persians, those high cultures of old, had left their mark on the world, but to truly understand them best required delving into what writings they left behind, the assorted bits of knowledge like a torn map, that when put together formed a coherent image of a culture long gone.


"Just like home, huh?" James said with a grin, poking Saber with his elbow as they stepped inside the library's scholarly halls.


The must of old books filled their senses, and within there was not a single noise save for the flutter of turning pages, becoming for a few seconds a din - that was how still and tranquil it was. It was a place where you could get lost between the bookshelves, only returning a week later, and a whole year wiser.


Of course, there was nothing perfect about the building. It was a Tuesday, and children from local schools were packed in a gaggle near the building's entrance, all carrying bundles of books, their teachers trying to herd them like loose cats.


The librarian on duty at the counter, her hair in a mess, looked to be just as busy as the teachers, checking each tome handed to her by little hands, filling in a slip and sliding it into the book, reminding each and every one of the schoolchildren to return their books when they were done. Each nodded profusely, clutching what they'd borrowed to their chest and putting the rest into the low-hanging, hefty school bags.


James had been one of those kids once, and he laughed, shaking his head. He waved to the librarian - someone he knew from those old days - but she was too busy to notice, and James shrugged his shoulders, his queries lying elsewhere.


The smell of old, worn books was one he knew well; it was the smell of knowledge.


How many times, after all, had he visited this place? Sometimes he came here just to enjoy the atmosphere - the scents, the sounds, the idea that yes, someone in here at this very moment was learning something new. And sometimes he would come here, crack open a paperback or a dictionary from the shelf, and find himself learning something new all the same. The library was, to him, a place of infinite possibilities, a place where history was real and could be felt and heard and understood.


Nowhere else did he feel so at home.


Saber gave him a quizzical look, staring at the floors and rows of bookshelves, piled all over the place in an overwhelming menagerie, and without a word she asked James, 'where do we start looking?'


But that wasn't a question that James even needed to answer. He gave her a wink, and headed into the depths of the library like some old conquistador hunting for gold, a glint of excitement in his blue eyes, even as he felt calmer than he had been in weeks.


Unlike the conquistador, however, he returned to his post with armfuls of what he had searched for - his post being, in this case, a small, round table flanked by a trio of armchairs.


Laying the books on the table, he recounted their names with intimate familiarity: the Mythologies of Bulfinch and Hamilton, a collection of Coleridge's poetry, a pair of texts on the Age of Sail, and a thick study on Biblical narratives. There was no corner that James hadn't already covered, and even Saber, with all her knowledge and experience of the world as it was thousands of years before, found the sheer weight of the information kept alive in this place to be stunning.


It took her some minutes to find the words, her deft mind more interested at first in poring over these books, learning from them, finding all they had to teach and coming to know it by rote.


"This is all we need, right?" James stood, hands on his hips, looking proudly over his catch. "Let's get reading then, S-"


There was only one thing that could distract him from this peace; he stopped at once.


His heart began to pound, his body feeling hot, as though he was in a tight, confining space with no way out, and he looked around, first to Saber, and then to the very object of his dismay.


At another table, just a few metres away in the shade of a tall shelf, was that blue-haired Servant who had, along with his Master, come near to ending Saber's life.


Lancer, it seemed, hadn't even noticed them; his nose was buried in a book, his eyes focused downward as he read each and every page with an academic thoroughness. He sat there casually in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, and only once did he glance up from what he was studying so intently - and even that was just to take a quick look at the two other books he'd taken out for himself. Why exactly a Servant was interested in spending time in a library, James and Saber both had no idea.


"Saber..." James whispered, leaning over the table. "What's he doing here? You think he might be planning an ambush on us, or something?"


She shook her head, barely seeming interested. "No, of course not. A war is about more than fighting, James; it is about information, and very likely he is finding some information of his own, though on what I cannot be sure. Is this an ambush, or a trick of some sort? Not at all. Look at the man, and you will plainly see."


Reluctantly, James turned to look at Lancer again, while trying to hide as much of his face as possible behind the biggest book he'd borrowed. He stared for a good few minutes, but nothing - Lancer didn't even notice the presence of anyone else in the room, much less the eyes seemingly intent on boring holes into him.


"Well... let's be especially quiet, alright? If he sees us, we'll definitely be in for a nasty surprise when we head home later." James frowned, trying his best not to look over at Lancer again, for fear the man was staring his way, now.


Saber let out a little chuckle, smiling. "Your suspicions, James, are entirely unfounded."


At once she turned her chair to the side and stood up, waving at her erstwhile foe, still remembering how the edge of his spear had come so close to spilling blood the night before. Those memories were fresh in her mind and in James', but both had completely different reactions to those events, now that it was daytime.


"Lancer!" Saber called out, getting his attention without a moment's delay. "What brings you to such an esteemed place of learning? And without your Master, as well."


James was cringing behind his book, his face nearly level with the table, breathing in the polished pine scent. Whatever he did, he wanted to make sure that no one thought he had any attachment to this woman who was suddenly being so loud and boisterous in a library of all places. For all intents and purposes, James was unrelated to her, and he wanted things to stay that way. Never once had he broken the library's rules of silence, and being associated with someone who had done so was an utmost shame.


Immediately, and quite to his relief, someone elsewhere in the building shushed her, and then presumably returned to their study.


"Ah, the proud eagle of Rome herself. Can a man not enjoy his time spent at leisure, reaping the rewards of modern knowledge? Apparently you think not, and this is a dreadful shame, Saber. If I may reverse the question, what brings you here, in particular? And with your Master, as well." His tone was quiet and respectful, and if nothing else, that made James trust him just a little more - only a little.


James, at least, could sense that Lancer wasn't being hostile, perhaps only annoyed by the fact that he was interrupted.


Trying to be sly, Saber gingerly walked around Lancer's table, running her fingers along the cover of one of the books he'd set aside, then glanced over his shoulder to see his current reading - and without hesitating he put that one down, as well.


"Oh, how secretive... my Master and I seek only knowledge, just as do you. Is there something you have to hide? Our duel in the night was quite the spectacle, but this eagle's talons are not out in the day; you have nothing to fear from either of us."


Lancer nodded, as though agreeing with her, but he wasn't all smiles. "A swan like myself, noblest of birds, would never fear and eagle.”


He watched her growing smile with some curiosity, and then his eyes glanced back down to the book he'd brought out for himself, trying to recall exactly which line he'd stopped reading at.


“There is nothing I am hiding,” he continued, putting the thick volume aside for just a moment to look respectfully up at Saber. “I want only to be left in peace. I was curious about the identity of a certain figure in this war, and their true nature – I have failed to find that thus far, and so I shall read on until what I am looking for. Pry any more than that, and I can assure you that these lips will speak no answers to your myriad questions.”


"Interesting, interesting." Saber rubbed her chin, looking around at the bookshelves all around her. "We were investigating something ourselves, wondering about the identity of that Mariner and what legend he originates from. I sensed in the early hours of the morning, after his ship had been destroyed, that he was still lingering here, weak but manifest nonetheless."


Again Lancer nodded, silent but letting her know that he'd ascertained the same.


After hiding away behind Bulfinch's Mythology for the entirety of this conversation, James finally put the book away, and got the attention of both Servants.


He didn't stand up, if only to not bother anyone else. "Why are you two talking? I thought this was a war. Aren't you two enemies, then, and supposed to be fighting? Saber, you even told me that I'm supposed to be taking a more proactive role in the war... and now here you are, going against that completely by chatting up someone who tried to kill us last night."


Somehow, he didn't mind talking about this subject matter in a public place, but only because he knew for a fact no one would be paying attention - not in a library.


"James, that sentiment is just as naive as your earlier pacifism." Saber didn't slip any politeness into her words, but constrained herself to not speak too loudly.


To their surprise, she didn't get a chance to continue talking.


"Your Servant is exactly right," Lancer said, opening his book again, his focus still on James. "War is not waged in absolutes. We may have fought the night before, but that was night-time. During the day, we are not meant to strike out against each other, and I abide by that rule without err - though I admit, others may not. I have no personal quarrel with either of you; I only wish for my Master to win this war, and at this very moment, there is no war being waged. I do not hate either of you, as you have none nothing to earn that ire - but even if I were to despise you, I would not strike you while the sun is still in the sky."


James rested his head in his hands, groaning, then looked up at Saber with a sort of pleading look in his eyes.


"I still don't get it. This is a war, and we're fighting each other to win it. I've had to kill people to get where I am! Aren't you saying that just because it's the daytime right now, all of that is pointless?" He slipped up, his voice raising more than he'd intended, but he didn't even notice - and, thankfully, neither did anyone else.


Saber met his gaze, a sad frown on her lips. "This is war, precisely. Ask yourself this one question: are you fighting strictly against Lancer or anyone else who is involved in this war, or are you fighting to be victorious?"


At first James didn't want to answer, but as Saber's eyes bore down on him, he knew that he had to say something, anything, and his shoulders slumped as he tried to scrape together some kind of argument even when everything was stacked against him.


"You... you said this was personal," was what he managed, and he had to take a breath. "When we talked with Francois and Napoleon, you disagreed when they said there wasn't any emotion to the war, that is was just business. Isn't that what you're saying now, too? That it's just a matter of getting something done? I should fight hard against anyone who's against me, because they're my enemies and I need to win, that only make sense. Doesn't it?"


Now James couldn't be sure of anything, and he looked away, staring vacantly at the title of one of the books he'd taken from the shelf - anything to distract himself from the inevitability that Saber would say something to disprove him.


Why couldn't war be simpler? Why couldn't anything in life be simple?


Saber walked over to her Master, placing her hand gently on his shoulder. "I understand your feelings, and they are not wrong. But in a war, a soldier does not fight to kill the soldier who first charges against him; that is one process in the larger whole, a single step in the larger path to winning the war. Certainly, we must work to kill Lancer - and I mean no offence to you by that, Lancer, only fact - but he is not the reason why we fight. You did not step into this conflict hoping to end the life of one man or woman; when this all began, you did not even know the name of anyone who stood against you, and only now you do. I understand that - this war has become personal, and it is easy to mistake that for the conflict itself being personal, but no. You fight for your country; you said as much yourself. Think of Lancer, think of everyone you must fight, not as your enemies, but enemies of your country. If you met any one of these people on the street outside of this war, just in daily life, would you want to strike out and kill them? Of course not."


Nodding silently, James began to understand, his heart easing up as Saber's words gave him - if nothing else - some assurance that there was some sanity to this conflict.


"James..." She looked down into his eyes, no happiness in her expression. He could tell that when she spoke, it was from experience - sad, unfortunate experience. "Never mistake belligerence for hate. No matter what happens in this war, do not hate those you fight, because they have their own motivations for being in this war. Sometimes you will be forced to fight against your closest friends, James, and if you equate conflict with personal hatred, with a vendetta of your own, how could you strike down those friends? You could not, so... please, James. This is all I ask of you, all I want you to understand. Have sympathy for your foes - they are not in this war to kill you, but to meet their own goals, and those goals I doubt are too different from your own."


What she spoke of reminded James of Dietrich, and how he wasn't some old Nazi battling for his defeated regime and ideology; he was a genuine man, a person who only wanted to go home again, who lived in a world where right now that just wasn't possible.


Just like Dietrich, Saber had her own experiences with conflict that had shaped her. She must have fought her own friends at some point, and James could only imagine that must have torn at her for the rest of her life.


"Thank you, Saber... and Lancer as well, I'm... sorry. I want to win this war, but, I'm not going to hate anyone, not for just fighting. I promise."


That promise was less to the two Servants with him in the library, however - it was a promise he made to himself as he thought of what his father would say on this matter.


Lancer nodded; he didn't speak a word of it, but he was impressed by this young man, and the relationship he had with his Servant. James could learn, and he could change - few people could manage that these days, and Lancer admired that about him. With no more to say, Lancer returned to his studies, reading something - as far as James could tell - about rituals and traditions amongst the early Slavic pagans.


All three sat around their tables, not saying much to each other at all, but enjoying the quiet and the peace that had returned. It was calming, and for hours James enjoyed that, basking in what might be the last time he could be like this.


He wished, more than anything else, that this war would end soon.

-- --

"So it relates to something older, then?" Saber wondered, barely halfway through talking with James even as they neared the doorway to their apartment building.


They both hoped they'd get more time to chat about their findings down the halls and up the stairs, and James laughed, all smiles once again.


"Yeah, that's it," he said, recalling the story he'd pored over in the library. "It was about a Jew who insulted Jesus, and this Jew according to the legend was cursed by God to wander the world for the rest of time. I'm not saying the Mariner is this same guy, but they're clearly related, giving the Mariner some precedence for being actually ancient and not some two hundred year-old invention."


Saber nodded, enjoying the company, smiling just like her Master. "And that explains why he is so powerful despite being fairly unknown. Of course! Excellent work connecting that all together, James. You are much smarter than you let on, you know."


He just shrugged his shoulders, giving her a wink.


"Hey, I graduated from Harvard, you know? Everyone knows me as a math kind of guy, though, but... well, it was my father who told me all sorts of stories, and got me to read since I was young."


James stepped ahead of Saber, wanting to reach for the door, opening it wide so that Saber could step into the apartment's lobby first, with him following after.


However, he didn't even get that far. He stopped right where he stood, looking at the parking lot blankly - it was as though he couldn't even believe what he saw. His arms hung slack by his sides, and Saber stared at him, trying to gauge what he was feeling, what had made him stop so suddenly.


She followed his eyes to where he was looking - at a car, blue and white, parked right next to the apartment's entrance, very nearly out of sight.


James, though, wouldn't have missed that car anywhere.


There was a deep, hearty laugh from someone neither he nor Saber could see, and then a figure stepped out from the other side of that car. James nearly dropped right to his knees in that very moment. He didn't know how to react, what to say or do; every thought vanished from his mind.


"It's been too long, son. Good to see you're well."

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

And so the Dad enters the scene. What does this mean for James? Well, you'll get to see soon enough! I hope you enjoyed this chapter' it's not a whole lot plot-wise, but I enjoyed writing the scenes that there are. The shaving bit was one I made up fully off-the-cuff; it wasn't in my notes, but I came up with it as I was writing and thought it'd be a great way to frame the scene. In my opinion as a writer, if you're going to have a memorable or interesting scene, something you want people to pay attention to, then you have to frame it in an interesting or memorable way.

No one's going to go, "ah yeah, remember that great scene where James and Saber talked?" That's just... not how things work in my opinion/experience of things. James and Saber talk a lot together, and the content of their talks isn't enough to differentiate one from another - Saber's try at being a barber takes what could have just been a regular chat and turns it into something interesting and character-building (in my biased opinion, of course ). This is a fairly new "philosophy" I've been trying to adhere to when writing important scenes that are, more or less, dialogue. Other emotionally intense scenes, like action and character death especially, tend to frame themselves as long as they're written well enough, but for important dialogue scenes, the content of the various characters' speeches is only as memorable as the framing of the scene itself.

That's my set of notes for this chapter - look forward to the next one, due out very soon! I've got a whole backlog of these things built up by now.

[Ace]

Is there a recommended reading order for this monster? At what points should I switch over and read an Invocation chapter?

[Five_X]

Is there a recommended reading order for this monster? At what points should I switch over and read an Invocation chapter?

Once you get to the General Dialogue arc when all the Servants and their armies go around bashing each other, start reading Invocations chapters then. Feel free to read them interspersed with normal story chapters, as long as you finish Invocations around the same time or before you finish General Dialogue.

[Imperial]

So it's just general purpose side stories? I was afraid I was going to need a fullblown flowchart.

Five really wants to VN.

[Five_X]

No, Invocations isn't a side-story at all; it's just the main character of that, Johana, was originally supposed to be a minor character but ended up fitting into the story much better as a major one - but it would be difficult to get people invested in a character who literally just showed up, so I wrote a bunch of chapters for her as though she'd been in the story the whole time. A sort of "What was Johana doing when X happened?" kind of thing.

The only side-stories are the ones I've got put up in the Omakes section.