The Manhattan Project II

[Five_X]

Yeah, didn't he almost get wrecked by Godmode Johana either right before or after Ilse's death?

Not quite, actually. He did sort of show up then, but it was when Alexei was about to kill Johana because she was trying to kill Katalin for killing Ilse, and Lancer picked her up and carried her off. He saw Alexei and his Saber approaching, and knew that Johana had gotten herself in a bit too much trouble.

When you tease at it like that, it only makes me want this mystery product even more!

You did mention once that you would like to do something a bit more lighthearted or comedic once MPII is over before you ratchet things back up with a Third Grail War story. I'm banking on it being something in the vein of the 13th Labor.

I'll save time in disappointing you and say that the chances of me writing fanfiction at any point in the future range from slim to none. I've got other things to work on, and even MPII itself is far more than what it started out as. I originally wanted to write something fun and enjoyable as an ongoing side-story after MPII, but I might not even end up doing that, at least not immediately, and certainly not as a full-time project.

Instead, I have a number of potential novel projects to choose between; and Cool Winds needs editing and rewriting, too...

[Five_X]

So! Curses have struck, and now I don't have anyone to help me out with the next chapter. Is there anyone (caught up with MPII, that is) who wants to beta and give feedback on the chapter I'll be posting soon? I won't be able to put it up until I've had someone look at it, because I do like some level of quality control!

It'd just be a one time thing, but it'd be really helpful!

[Five_X]

No takers?

[Mattias]

I guess I can give it a shot, but it will probably take a couple of days for me to get the time.

[Five_X]

Excellent! The story is saved!

[Five_X]

Thanks to the hard work and patience of Mattias, I'm able to bring you another chapter! Later than I'd hoped, but that's fine - I'll still be able to get all these chapters written and posted before the 21st of August. Quality is more important than quantity, and it's critical to me for MPII to be as excellent a story as it can be. In that regard, Mattias certainly helped quite a lot.

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

CHAPTER CXI

March 7^th, 1963


The Thursday crowds had thinned out and disappeared after the day's services, leaving not a soul in the chapel save three: a priest, a pagan, and an Englishman.


Of this motley crew, the priest stood at his pulpit as though he was about to give yet another sermon - perhaps one dedicated to the war and its necessity, even after he had spoken to a congregation about the values of peace in the modern world. He seemed to ignore the two magi who sat in the pews, blending into the crowd as though they were father and son. Yet appearances told a far different story than the truth.


Nigel, dressed in his Sunday best, leaned over to Francois and whispered, "I've been here before and didn't have much luck. Maybe you should talk to him first."


A bit of diplomacy before they got into the meat of the day, the two of them coming to George with different objectives, but ultimately both wanting something. Everyone wanted something - but George wasn't in a position to be charitable. This was a war, and he had to ensure it was conducted in a fair manner: a challenge equally as difficult as the ones faced by those who fought in it.


“I thought you knew him,” Francois whispered back, but he looked more conniving than practised and careful. Nigel had experience with this game; Francois had not.


Nigel responded to that with a faint smile. “He's an old friend, from my early days... I think.”


That vague answer was something Francois had to accept, but it lingered in his mind and he wondered about it. Nigel, he'd gathered, had been some sort of a killer. He met people from Spain, from France, from Italy – and it was his duty to kill them, for some political reason Francois had no business in understanding. His family had always been above those things.


Quite unlike Nigel, Francois wore a casual shirt-and-pants set he'd thrown on that morning, dressing himself in a deliberately relaxed style, as if to spite the Christianity of the place in his own way. George caught that, and smiled in amusement.


"Did you enjoy the service, Francois?" asked the priest with open arms, beckoning to the young man. "I hope you could follow. There's a lot to learn from the Bible; you'd know that if you ever gave it a read. Unless... something else brought you here today?"


Francois sneered at George's attempts at seeming sly, loathing that smile.


He stood up from the pews, stepping past Nigel and walking into the centre of the chapel between the rows of seats.


"Someone kidnapped my sister," he said plainly, staring at George all the while. Francois knew this would get the old man's attention, and he was right.


George's eyes went wide for a moment; he wasn't prepared to hear what Francois had said, but then he relaxed again, shrugging his shoulders. Francois wasn't even French - he was a pagan who cared not for his own state. Did he really deserve any help? He should have known the risks this war entailed before he even came to this city. He entered a war of nationalism, and he brought only familial strife. What right to support did he have when he so personally rejected the premise of this conflict?


That was the truth of it: Francois used this war for his own selfish purposes. He deserved nothing in return.


"War comes with casualties. Your sister has become one of them." He repeated this thoughts, aloud now, but every word he said only proved to make Francois angrier, his look even harder and more determined now.


He clenched a fist, barely managing to hold himself back from a show of magecraft. "She isn't a magus! My sister Amelie is just an ordinary person, and she came here because she wanted to be with me, not because I asked her to come along for the war. Isn't it your duty to stop people who aren't magi from getting involved?"


"It is," George said, his smile fading away. "But if you were worried for her safety, why didn't you send her back home? Why did you let her stay in a battlefield?"


That visibly set Francois back, but he didn't lose his edge; he held his ground, not letting the priest get the better of him. He jabbed his finger forward, raising his voice.


"She wouldn't leave! Even if I told her about the dangers, she wouldn't just-"


"You didn't know about the dangers - I imagine she did, and bravely came to support her brother regardless."


George interrupted Francois at once, but the young man didn't have a retort, staring into the priest's soft, brown eyes with nothing left to say despite the open air of silence he was given. George had spoken his thoughts, his deepest thoughts, the ones Francois didn't ever want to admit to. That enraged Francois, and he wanted to lash out, but the better part of him knew that wouldn't solve anything. George was old. With his age came experience; with that experience came an understanding of people that even surprised Nigel.


It was then that Nigel stood, taking up Francois' case in his own way, his not crossed like they had been before - and he still had a pistol, barely visible under his black coat.


"You're both decent people," Nigel reasoned, his arm outstretched towards George, his hand open as though offering it to the man, trying his damnedest to be friendly. "Can't you two get along? I'm on Francois' side - kidnapping a girl is wrong, and whoever did it should be punished."


George was under assault from two sides, but it didn't bother him. He only had to look into Nigel's eyes for a moment to know that he knew - they both were sure who had taken away Francois' sister, and George shook his head. Nigel, even now, didn't have the strength to admit what he knew to Francois. It was so much easier to shift the blame, to pretend to be unaware of so many things when truly he wasn't.


"In the whole world, no one can match your skill at deduction, Nigel. I can tell - you already know who the kidnapper is, and I think it's time that you admit everything now, before it causes too much trouble for you."


The weight of those words was heavy on Nigel. He could feel them caging him in, forcing his hand; he couldn't say anything he wanted to, not with Francois glaring at him, the young man's anger suddenly displaced away from the priest. He had no grudge with either man - he only wanted to know where his sister was and who was responsible, and anyone who concealed that information from him would immediately become his enemy.


Someone who freely let that information be known, however?


Nigel smiled, nodding at George and Francois. "That's just the confirmation I needed. You're quite right - now I'm sure who it was."


A bluff made up off the cuff, but a clever one, and Nigel took a breath, trying to make it seem as though he'd been taken off-guard just a little. Francois was getting impatient - he was not a person who tolerated pointless, meandering talk.


"It has to be Enrico. Only he could manage a ploy like this and get away with it." He stepped a little closer to Francois, shrugging. "If you wanted a target, you have one now."


"Where is he? Where is my sister?" Francois didn't waste time, demanding answers from both George and Nigel at once. He wanted the truth, no matter who gave it to him.


George stepped down from his pulpit, a book tucked under his arm. His eyes were closed, and he took in a long, calming breath. The light was still streaming through the stained-glass windows, it wasn't yet time for the fighting to begin anew. Just like Nigel, he knew what the answers to the questions Francois asked, but he debated with himself whether or not to let those answers be known. Should he favour Enrico, and fail in his goals to ensure neutrality? At the same time, would aiding Francois - who had no love for his own country - be in the spirit of the war?


The only resolution then was to make this not a matter of neutrality, but of morality; and there could be only one answer to that.


"North of here," George said at once, breathing a sigh of relief. "Just at the edge of the city, past the forest. Look for an old, overgrown farmhouse, and you'll find your sister and Enrico there - waiting for you. I'm sorry... you're both right. Kidnapping an innocent – someone uninvolved in the war, even – that's despicable."


How much of that was truth and how much was put on, no one could be sure.


Pleased, Nigel kept up his broad smile, letting out a laugh. "See? You're both French - I knew you'd end up helping each other."


He felt a cold stare on him, and looked to his left to see George, eyes widening, giving him an uncharacteristic glare. There was something that Nigel knew - he knew too much, but neither of them would speak what it was. George felt his breaths start to become shallow, as though he would collapse at any moment; a shiver rolled down his body as he came to understand at last why Nigel had come here. Everything was going in his favour, and there was little George could do to influence what would soon come to pass.


All three were silent as they looked at each other with a measure of familiarity; George could be the only one to respond.


"I am not French," he said, much more quietly than was typical for him.


Nigel nodded towards Francois, catching the young man's attention. "Francois, in your best French, tell him that he's a lying piece of shit."


Motivated by curiosity, and more than a little suspicion, Francois did exactly as asked.


Reflexively George turned towards him, his hand clenching into a loose fist, but by then he'd already defeated himself. He covered his face with his hand, breathing heavily, and he started to tremble. For once, this war was starting to go against him. He was on the losing side, no longer holding the advantage.


To his side Francois heard a click, and he looked over to see Nigel brandishing his pistol, aiming it straight at George. Strange, he thought; most magi he knew would prefer to make a show of their magecraft, not resort to petty weapons. Much more could be accomplished, after all, within the bounds of a good magi's abilities.


"Let's hear a few words from you, shall we?" Nigel asked, unsubtle force behind his words.


Defiant to the end, George furrowed his brow and said, "I don't speak French anymore. I haven't spoken it in years."


"Bullshit you don't." Nigel's eyes narrowed has he closed the distance between himself and the priest. The air felt still, ice-cold and stagnant. Even Nigel could barely breathe it in. The atmosphere was tense enough that the wrong word spoken now would cause it to crash apart into chaos. In the silence, breaths echoed as loud as shouting in the empty chapel, until at last George's booming voice came through.


"I am an innocent man, Nigel Lancaster," he said in his native tongue, slowly at first, then remembering the proper words and becoming as fluent as he once was. There could be no mistaking that French was the language he'd been born with, and Nigel smiled in satisfaction.


He swallowed what little pride he had.


With a pleased sigh, Nigel let his arm hang by his side, and slipped his gun back into its holster. He had accomplished what he had come here for, and it made his body feel electrified, full of energy and enthusiasm - if only for a time.


"That's not French." Francois spoke up in English, frowning, then continued in French. "You've got the wrong accent... the wrong dialect. You speak Romand, George - Swiss French. Who are you, really? Why are you so unwilling to tell us about yourself? Why were you so unwilling to support me in saving my sister?"


Nigel shot him a look of angry confusion - the typical reaction from an Englishman surrounded by people speaking a language he's unfamiliar with and unsure of.


"He's Swiss," Francois translated graciously, not waiting to savour Nigel's annoyance and instead getting to the point. Nigel, at the very least, could appreciate that in a person, smiling for a moment before looking back to George.


The old priest was back at his pulpit, his Bible spread open on the wooden stand; he leafed through its pages as though to reassure himself, not reading the text but repeating something he was familiar with - as he'd found himself in a situation that he'd never suffered before. His fingers shook as he watched the two below, seeming to deliberate silently between each other, and he stared especially at Nigel. The Englishman's suspicion only grew, to the point where he was at last certain.


With a scoff, Nigel looked around at the chapel. "Everything makes sense now: of course a Swiss bastard would be so obsessed with neutrality and all of that pointless shit. And of course he'd end up being a hypocrite, too. It's obvious why you've been helping Enrico on his way in this war; it's obvious why you refused to help me put down a goddamn beast like Roderick."


Seething, he stepped up to the altar, to stand right beside George as Francois watched all this unfold, not knowing what was going to happen.


Thin vines like the roots of plants coiled down his arm, stopping just short of his cuff and his wrist - he couldn't be sure about either man. No matter the situation, he couldn't let himself be caught off-guard if this turned into violence. Too long had he been taken advantage of in this war.


"I know who you are, you son of a bitch," Nigel whispered loudly into George's ear, standing over him, his hand on his gun.


George no longer trembled, his body perfectly still, his mind perfectly calm.


"You should have known since you first saw me, Nigel. You're not what you used to be; do you even remember my name?" He managed to get out one last gasp of superiority, continuing to deny that he had ever lost, telling himself that he had outwitted Nigel all along, when that was quite far from the truth indeed.


That challenge demanded an answer - one Nigel provided more than willingly, enjoying every last moment of this.


He looked over at Francois, and at the pews, as though he had an audience.


“This man isn't George Coleman, some kindly American living a simple life - his name is Jourdain, the puppeteer of Provence, and I hunted him down for years.”


George - or Jourdain - laughed, his old lips creasing into a smile. "So you're finally going to kill me, then? Took you long enough."


He hung his head, like a man waiting for the guillotine to come crashing down; he believed these to be his last moments in this world before he ventured to the next, but in his heart a fire burned that told him to live on, to fight on - so that this war could see its end. When that came to pass, and he saw the dawn of a new, a better age... then he could rest at long last.


Nigel looked at the priest scornfully. "Kill you? I'm not in that business any more. In fact, I bloody well respect you, despite all the shit you dragged me through when I was still a young lad."


Glancing at Francois, who seemed to be distantly pondering something, Nigel shook his head.


"This sick son of a bitch made dolls that looked like real children - then he put guns in their hands. I'll never forget that, as long as I live." He shivered and gave one more disgusted look at George, coming to genuinely wonder if he ought to let him live, or get some satisfaction - payback, even - for what happened all those years ago in the Pyrenees.


"He make dolls, you said? Puppets?" Francois inquired, perhaps out of some curiosity that Nigel couldn't fathom.


The Englishman nodded, with a hint of impatience. "Yes, I said he's a goddamn puppeteer, didn't I? I don't see how this is important, Francois."


Francois crossed his arms, smiling wryly - looking into George's eyes, he could tell that the priest knew what he was discovering, something he'd been trying to puzzle through since this war began. Now, after failing to get answers on his own, he had all the pieces set out before him, and to put them all together was merely trivial. It was an excellent exercise of intelligence, Francois mused, and for a few moments longer he enjoyed the suspense, enjoyed knowing something that even Nigel Lancaster hadn't yet figured out.


"It's incredibly important, actually. All these Servants we summoned? They're puppets, brought to life by Jourdain." He truly relished saying that, especially as George gritted his teeth, eyeing the chapel's open doors, waiting for a moment to escape - a moment that would never come.


In an instant the cold barrel of Nigel's pistol was against George's head. "So you're fucking controlling all of them, eh? What do you say to that?"


"No!" George cried, feeling more and more disappointed with himself as he continued to lose more and more control over the situation. He was at Nigel's mercy; that was something he couldn't accept. Only the threat of death kept him compliant.


Francois held out his hand. "If he has another puppet here and you shoot him, he won't be dead; he'll enter a new body, and we'll have to do this all over again. Don't shoot, Nigel, or else we won't get anything from him."


"You'd best tell us the truth, you piece of shit, or hope that you've got another body down in the basement," Nigel said, scoffing, and he grabbed the back of George's head to keep him in place. He was never the sort of man to play around, and not a single word he spoke was in jest, or exaggeration. Only the slight amount of reason that Francois managed to drum up was enough to keep him from pulling the trigger; this whole time he was itching for a reason, any reason, to kill George on the spot.


Maybe if he brought his body back to London, they'd free him from his debts - a master craftsman and magus like George had to be as nearly great a catch as Enrico.


Francois nodded in agreement, staring at the priest. "Tell us. Right now."


The creeping vine still lingered on his arm as he walked just a foot closer to George, ready to strike him down before Nigel could have the satisfaction. More than anything, Francois had to show that he was serious in this war; he wasn't just some inexperienced child to be pushed around by those who thought themselves to be his betters.


George had no choice left, not if he still wanted to live - and that he desired more than anything else, not out of a fear of death but out of a need to see the end of this all.


He had thought that this had all been wrought perfectly, that he could oversee this with the neutrality he so desired. He should have expected that things would come to the worst, as Dietrich certainly suspected, but George passed that off as cynicism. This would be different, he'd told himself; this war would be the last war.


Nigel had pulled on a single loose thread that unravelled the whole tapestry George created. Never had he prepared himself for the weight of that failure. It nearly broke him.


"I can't control anything," he admitted, spitting out the words. He never agreed to be kind. "I made these puppets, but they're vessels - nothing more than that. The rituals you performed to summon your Servants gave spirits for the bodies I'd made to house. If I tied strings to your back and tried to make you dance, how long do you think it would take you to break free? Minutes, at most. I can control my puppets because they're objects and little more, made to resemble life through a little magecraft - they don't call me a master of my craft because my creations are alive, but because they look like they could be. No one else in the world can make a perfect replication of the human body like I can; and so, no one else in the world could make this war a possibility."


Still not completely satisfied, Nigel paced around, waving his gun about threateningly. He didn't let George out of his sight for even a second.


"You summoned Servants of your own, didn't you? Certainly shows your care for neutrality." His words were harsh, not letting George go yet. The priest tried to stand tall, but Nigel trained his pistol on him each time he made a move. There would be cooperation, or there would be death. Even Francois stepped back, getting wary of the Englishman's simmering anger and suspicion.


George nodded weakly. "An Archer, and a Saber - but only to observe! Sometimes the war requires regulation; I can't leave this chapel as long as the fighting's still going on, and what do you expect me to do if things get out of hand? How would you have handled the monsters Caster created?"


Point taken, Nigel thought, his frown softening; but he didn't give George any sign of his agreement than that.


"Neutrality isn't just standing by," said George, directing a pointed stare at Nigel before the man could cut him off. He glanced at Francois, too, speaking to both. "I wanted this war to be fought between people who believed in their countries, and I thought I'd achieved that. I failed, in the end, no matter how much I tried."


There was wisdom to what George had to say; Nigel had to admit that to himself. He took in a deep breath, kept his pistol loosely by his side, and gave George a firm slap on the back.


"You've got a good old heart, George. Don't let it get the better of you."


That was all he needed to say. Turning to face the door, he marched solemnly away, stopping only when he passed Francois, leaning to whisper something in his ear.


"Take this," he said, pushing his gun into Francois' loose hand. "No matter how old your magic is, Enrico's going to laugh at it. When you find him, get up close, point this right at his heart, and end it. For the both of us."


He gave a quick example, slipping his finger onto an imaginary trigger, going through the phantom motions of squeezing it, then letting go.


Bemused by Nigel's request, Francois reluctantly held his palms out like a beggar; he felt the ice-cold weight of the pistol in his hands, grasping only barely what power was in such a weapon. Never had he even touched a gun before, and he couldn't deny some curiosity he held about them, admiring the polished, silvery steel of this one's construction. Most magi turned their noses up at the weapons of the mundane world, but to actually hold one was a completely new experience for Francois.


"Giving a Colt to one of the greatest living magi?" George shook his head and laughed, though it sounded more like a dismissive snort.


Turning around one last time, Nigel smiled at how little George knew, even now.


"There's more authority in a single gun than in any scripture. Don't underestimate it."


For once, he had no more to say. His business with George was done; he had done his good deed for the day by helping Francois, using the illicit knowledge he'd been given for someone's benefit, not their ruin. It set him at ease, and he let out a relieved sigh.


One by one he struck down his regrets and faced the ghosts of his past. Perhaps, someday, he could be a free man - something his father never was.


When Nigel was gone and out of sight, Francois soon left the chapel, leaving George alone once again, accompanied only by the silence of his thoughts. Alone, he prayed that the sins of those who suffered in this war could someday be forgiven – those who knew in their hearts what they truly desired were good people; they fought for what they believed in, and that was the essence of life.

– –

James trudged through the familiar underbrush of the woods just outside the city, following a familiar path. Even though he'd only been here a few times, it would stay in his heart forever. Behind him followed his father, who had his hand to his forehead to block away the glare of the sunlight streaming through the trees; even though it was nearly spring, the leaves and greenery hadn't returned in full. They wouldn't for a good month to come.


"Are you sure you're not lost, son?" Abraham asked, stopping for a moment to massage away an ache in his back before continuing his trek.


Smiling, James glanced back over his shoulder. "Trust me, I know where I'm going. This isn't like that time I was taking the bus to Albany. Here's a place I just wanted you to see, before this war's over. It's..."


He paused, shaking his head. It took a whole breath to get the last words out - they had too much weight to them, feeling heavy on his heart.


"It's important to me," he finally said, and gulped.


It was getting harder to keep walking, he had to admit to himself, and he stared forward so that his father wouldn't have to see the disheartened expression he wore. By the time he reached the mansion, he hoped he would have his emotions mastered. He took in a deep breath and then let it all out, clearing his mind, listening to the chattering of the birds high up in the branches and the soft murmuring of a creek that flowed nearby.


The beaten path gradually replaced overgrown vegetation with flat dirt and dust, a fork in it leading somewhere right, but James didn't know where that led.


The mansion was close, and his heart stopped in the instant he saw the familiar, shingled roof of the place Eleanor had called home.


He wiped a patch of sweat from his brow; it wasn't even noon yet, but the air was hot and humid; now James couldn't even breathe it in anymore. His father nearly bumped into him, distracted by something off to the side and not noticing that James had stopped on the path.


James ran across the little bridge that ran over the creek, feeling a shiver start to come over him, and he kept following the rest of the meandering path as it sloped up to show him a sight he'd not know for too long.


Closing his eyes, he prepared himself for the moment, listening closely to the padding of his father's footsteps, making sure that he could share in this moment.


"James..." he heard his father say breathlessly, as he felt a hand on his shoulder.


Ready at last, assuring himself that he had mastered the tumult in his heart, he opened his eyes to the sight of Eleanor's mansion. He'd come to pay his respects, in a way, as the war hadn't given him many chances to come here. What he saw dashed away all of his concentration, all of his thought and preparation, in one crashing moment.


What he saw was not a stately home, standing proud yet empty in the tranquillity of the forest.


Before him was the burned skeleton of a building, and the very sight made him sick, like seeing an old corpse. Eleanor's home was charred black, its rich rooms and welcoming halls all ash now. There was nothing recognizable left of what had once been so beautiful, save for a dry, dead fountain that sat as it always had in the mansion's garden - but there were no plants there anymore, the mahogany doors, inscribed with a coat of arms and with a pair of silver handles at their centre, shaped like the heads of lions... they, too, had burned away.


"Eleanor, I'm... I'm sorry," James sobbed, falling to his knees before his father could catch him; all at once those tears he'd held back for so long streamed from his eyes. His heart was laid bare at last, and though sorrow tore through him he felt somehow freed by letting those tears flow freely.


He cried, not having any words to say - nor needing any.


His father cradled him in his strong arms, but the emotion that gripped James was far greater than that; he couldn't stop it now, or hold it back, and that was for the best.


For longer than he could remember, James lay on his knees, sobbing, not covering up his face, his arms limp at his sides as he stared ahead at what had once been Eleanor's home. His tears dripped down his cheeks, spilling onto his jeans and onto the dirt, his cries stopping only so he could breathe in deeply, his throat feeling sore and dry.


This is what he had needed for so long - he had kept his emotions welled up, locked away in his heart, but James wasn't the sort of person to be able to keep his true feelings hidden for so long. He had a weak heart, but that wasn't a flaw - he only had these emotions because his heart still had kindness and empathy and love left in it, something too many others in this war could no longer say about themselves. There was so much pain that he felt when he cried; that was the pain of the sorrow of his loss, the sorrow of what he'd done in the war, leaving his body at last.


This was catharsis, and it was a feeling he'd never known before in his life.


Abraham held his son like he was just a boy, because he knew what he was going through. He'd known this before; it struck so close to home that even though James had said nothing, words weren't needed. They both shared the same pain in that moment, and Abraham took in a long breath, feeling himself start to tremble.


"Crying's what we all need to do sometimes," he said in a small voice, kneeling by James, and in between sobs James nodded, unable to speak at all.


"I loved her, I really did," said James all at once, his eyes starting to dry up as though there were no tears left even as he continued to sob. "Eleanor meant so much to me. She... she was like Emily all over again. I... thought I had a second chance, that I could make up for everything that happened but no, no, no... I couldn't."


All of his thoughts streamed out at once like the tears that had wet his cheeks; he held nothing back, letting his father know everything that he really felt, deep in his heart.


No longer was he crying convulsively, but his emotions were still pouring out of him, and he needed to finish this catharsis - that was something Abraham knew as well. To hold back such heavy, complicated emotions would only make them stronger, and eventually they would find their way out as they had when James saw what had happened to Eleanor's mansion - it was the last thing he had to remember her by.


Not the last - he suddenly remembered, in a moment of clarity as his mind was filled with thoughts only of her.


His fingers slipped into his shirt pocket, pulling out out a dull stone, faded and scratched and aged, but still the brilliant crystal James recalled being given. Eleanor had entrusted him with it the first time they had ever really had a chance to talk with each other, and from that moment he knew he could never forget her.


She was so much like Emily in how was hesitant about the world around her, but willing to explore it and learn what it held. She had an infinite curiosity, an innocent view of the world despite knowing what sadness and cruelty were rife all around, and James cherished that.


“Her name was Eleanor,” he told his father, trying to stifle the emotion in his voice, his words coming out flat. “So I called her Ely – just like with Emily, remember? She was sixteen, with blue eyes and soft red hair. I still remember the hand-washed smell of her clothes, like I'm still holding her.”


Looking at his father while he spoke his confession was hard, nearly as hard as the losses he'd suffered through. Regardless, no matter how difficult it was to bear the pain, he let his father see his face – wet eyes, red cheeks and all. There wasn't any sense in holding back the emotion he felt; this was all part of how he could heal his wounded heart.


With a small, sad laugh, he tried to smile. “When I first met her, she was sheltered and didn't understand the world, but I watched her become such an incredible woman – the world is so much less without her. She was polite and graceful, just like Emily, and... whenever I talked with her, I felt this connection, and I hadn't felt that since... since I lost Emily. They were so much alike – the same hair, the same kind smile and curious, honest eyes. Eleanor, though, had a strength to her, a fire that couldn't be put out by anything; you wouldn't think it if you saw her, but she hardened her kindness and gentleness with true determination. Emily... had none of that.”


“Did you love Eleanor for her, or because she reminded you of someone?” Abraham's expression was at once stern and kind, the look of a father only trying to help his son overcome the problems life had saddled him with.


“I loved her,” James said, and it was a relief to say those words again. “With Emily, so many things could have happened differently. With Eleanor, I thought I wouldn't make the same mistakes I did before – and I didn't; I made new ones. But just like before, I was selfish. I didn't think about her feelings, and I put myself before her while knowing in my heart that I cherished her. How could I be a good husband? It's been two years since I got that last letter from Emily's family, and I haven't learned anything. Why?”


Abraham felt his heart sinking, as even he didn't know what to say. How can a person make themselves change? Sometimes it felt as though even the most difficult experiences in life merely came and went, leaving a person the same as they were before, because changing one's own character takes determination – but what did it mean if James was still the same man despite the sadness that he had struggled through? He wanted to change, but the act of becoming a better person was in itself so daunting that he didn't know how to start.


How could a person go against their own nature to become a better person? The past couldn't be changed; James would always have his regrets, so what purpose was there to bettering himself?


“I'm sure you're becoming a good man, you just haven't noticed it.” James could feel his father's words faltering, and they did nothing to convince or appease him, as empty as they were. Those words were spoken not out of wisdom or an understanding of the truth, but as a guess – Abraham was as human as anyone, and didn't have every answer.


“But I've tried; I've been trying for two years,” James cried, and pressed his hands into his face.


He wiped away his tears, his palms now slick and wet, but his eyes clear. “I did everything I could to never do to another woman what I did to Emily, but my mistakes back then were the results of who I am; if I don't change myself, then I'll keep on failing and getting overwhelmed by guilt. With Eleanor, I was careful and didn't act the same way I did with Emily, but that just led to new, worse mistakes. She said goodbye to me, and she was happy in her last moments, but it was still my fault. My own flaws made me lose the first woman I ever loved, and now because of those same flaws a wonderful, beautiful person died. I'll never be able to change that, and even after losing Eleanor... I still feel the same. Nothing's different, and I worry that it never will be.”


That was the crux of things,; James felt he could say it all succinctly, looking into his father's old, wise eyes for direction.


“Dad, I want to be a better man – I don't want you to have to be disappointed in me anymore.”


Even now he could feel the spectre of regret looming over him, a shadow that darkened everything he did. He remembered the sorrow of two years ago, and it struck him harder now than ever.

-- --

James bit his lip, not letting himself cry. All he'd received was a letter, yet at any moment he felt as though the stains of tears would mark it all over and blur the ink.


If he cried, he'd be a weak man who couldn't handle his feelings.


The weight of what had happened was yet to sink in fully, but still he could feel a stillness in his heart that told him he could never make up for what he did. The letter from Emily's family arrived only recently, while he was on break from university, but he couldn't think of school or his future as long as the immediate consequences of this still struck him, a wound to his honest heart.


His father had been silent the whole time; James wondered about that, looking up at his father who had his arms crossed sternly. A man like him knew how to conceal his emotions - James didn't think of what his father truly was thinking or considering, or how complicated his emotions were.


All he could notice was how his father didn't speak a single word, even after being the first to read the letter.


When it arrived and Abraham had torn it open to see what was inside, his face had gone a shade paler and James knew that it was something bad. It was something James himself had done wrong; he cursed himself for that, his heart aching and wishing he could undo what damage he'd done - to Emily, and to his father's expectations.


Why couldn't he be a man like that? Why couldn't he be a man like his father, who stood up for his beliefs and who loved his family and his country unconditionally? James wanted so much to be like his father - his father who could do no wrong, who had done no wrong. James was so far removed from that, and that was part of what made him so angry and so sad when he read that letter.


It wasn't long, or complex, or drawn out in any way: it simply stated that his engagement to Emily was annulled, and that he would never be allowed to see her again, for her benefit.


His father had read it, too, knowing full well what it meant – and still he said nothing.


James remembered the shouting, the anger, how Emily had cried that night when her family learned what the two of them had been doing, what he'd convinced her to do. Now she was pregnant, and this had happened before they were even married - unacceptable; someone with the moral standards of Abraham's boy would not do; Emily deserved a better, kinder man; James was a disgrace to any good family.


Yet, he still loved her. He had known many women before, but she was the first he'd truly loved, and he imagined himself with a family of his own someday. Because of his own failures, that would never happen. He would never marry Emily; he would never get to love her again; he would never have and care for children with her; he would never see her at all again. The portrait he'd painted in his mind of a happy, idyllic family faded away until nothing was left.


Part of him, a selfish voice in the back of his mind, wished that her parents had more traditionally demanded that he marry her at once, but life would never grace him with any mix of happiness and sadness – one or the other, never both.


His life had all come crashing down, and he believed he could never atone for it.


Each and every insult levied his way was like a knife in his weak heart, but what struck him hardest of all was his father's silence.


James didn't know what to say; nor did his father, but that silence spoke louder than any words.

-- --

What could James say to that desiccated mansion, the place where Eleanor had lived, where they had met and become so close, that could make up for how he failed her? When she had died it was a repetition of what had happened with his fiancée, and the guilt that weighed on him felt like it would crush him. His body might survive, but his spirit would be withered away.


At the height of James' sorrow, even after the catharsis he found in his tears, his father spoke.


"I'm not disappointed in you."


With those five words Abraham broke the silence that had reigned before the war even began, since the night James received that fateful letter.


James looked up at his father, and he could breathe again.


His body felt lighter than a feather, his mind not yet having come to understand those five words. He wanted to know the meaning behind them; he picked them apart, not putting them together, because the very notion of them all at once was too much for him to comprehend.


Those five words had set him free, yet he had no words of his own to respond with.


"I love you, dad... and, I'm sorry," he said, regretting his own words as soon as he'd spoken them. The air felt so hot, his mind spinning, that he couldn't think of anything. The only sentence he could manage felt so woefully inadequate, all of it completely overshadowed by five simple words from his father.


Abraham shook his head, still holding his son. "Don't say you're sorry. We're long past what happened, and you've got years ahead of you yet. You're a smart young man, now, and you're getting wiser - but never expect to be perfect. I never meant to make you think that you should be; I'm the one who should be saying sorry."


In his heart James didn't want any apology, but he knew what that meant was that his father was feeling exactly what he had, not long ago at all, when he lost Emily.


James had since stopped crying, and one last time he looked at the faded crystal in his hand, clutching it tightly as though he could feel the warmth of Eleanor's hand through it - one last time.


He still remembered what she looked like in her soft white dress, wrinkled just a little around her knees, and he remembered the soft lavender scent that followed her around everywhere. Even after she'd passed away, he swore that he smelled that lavender from time to time, and he looked around only to see nothing, only that vivid recollection from his imagination.


Quietly, as though in respectful reverence, he stepped past the fountain, past the broken, burnt doors into the mansion's foyer where once there had been tables arranged for everyone she had invited. He smelled the food and spices on the air, and remembered the rich lighting from the twin chandeliers - now, the sun streamed down through a cracked, blackened roof and through crumbled walls. The mansion held no resemblance to what it once was, but in James' mind, he could recall all of it.


Staying in that memory for just a moment longer, he closed his eyes and thought of her.


"Eleanor... thank you so much. For everything." A trickle of tears would have slipped down his face, if he had any left - but he had cried them all away, and now he was stronger. Now he could face what he had lost, and let it stay in the past, no longer haunting him with every step he took. He would become a better man, he promised himself.


The little stone slipped from his hand into the ash, a single bright spot in an ocean of black, casting away the bleakness of the ruins.


He could leave her behind, now.


He had said his peace; he had cried and felt his father holding him close to his heart; he had let all of his emotions out, that catharsis saving his spirit from withering away.


For all the times he spoke with Saber, shared his thoughts and worries with his father, and stayed asleep trying to let the world pass him by - this was what he had needed most of all. His tears had washed away years of guilt and regret, all held firmly in his heart for no one to see. Finally he could let the past stay where it belonged; finally he could let Eleanor's memory rest with her.


Finally, he had the strength to go on.



In the forest, behind the thick trees, he caught a glimpse – a fleeting glimmer of familiar red and gold amidst the greenery, but he continued to look straight ahead, walking the long road home.

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

That chapter was cathartic for me to write; it was enjoyable to have Nigel, Francois, and George interacting as they do, but the James scene sealed it for me. Enrico's actions from a few chapters back come around finally, but it leads to this changing from a scene of despair into one of hope. James can never make up for or change what he did in the past, but he's settled things with his father, and now he can try to find some way to live out his future.

Yet he still has questions, and he's learning that his father cannot answer them all. There is still the war left, and it will be long and hard; how long can he suffer through it before he succumbs to despair and guilt?

That will certainly be a topic in an interesting chapter to come! Thank you all again for reading still, and I hope this was a good chapter. Now... on to the next one!

[Mattias]

Yeah, that James and Pops conversation really worked out well. Just what was needed. Since you've already heard my thoughts on the rest, I'll just leave with this

"There's more authority in a single gun than in any scripture. Don't underestimate it."

I think the Burial Agency would disagree vehemently with that statement, seeing as their scriptures include sentient unicorn pilebunkers and almost endless amounts of anti-vampire swords.


Oh, I almost forgot, is George's puppet shenanigans related to that city restoration thing he had set up earlier to fix all the damage from the war, or are they two separate things?

[Five_X]

Glad you approve of James now! I hope he's not too whiny for you

George's puppet stuff isn't related to his city-restoration powers. His restoring of the city is something anyone in his position would presumably be able to do the same; it's just about manipulation of the city's leylines, not any ability specific to George himself. Other than his puppets, he's fairly unremarkable in terms of magic.

[Five_X]

It's been a while; I meant to get a chapter out before my holiday, but alas, that didn't happen. :/

Enjoy this one, though! I hope it isn't too much, though; I'm going to post another chapter tomorrow in order to make up for lost time. And speaking of lost time... I can only hope that I'll be able to make up for the five days of lost writing!

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

CHAPTER CXII

Johana saw a light shine against the walls of the hotel in front of her, and she turned on her heel, her practised fingers ready to once more grip her sword.


It was night, and in the darkness few things could be trusted; the palpitations of her heart grew heavier, louder, along with the noise of some machine approaching from the road. Her eyes narrowed, and she stared at what she saw: a man on a motorcycle, sidling up to park against the curbside. The growl of the motor subsided; its rider dismounted and didn't waste a second in noticing who was there on the sidewalk, watching his each and every move.


"Hey... is that you? Johana?" A familiar voice, and Johana could easily put a face to it. The man slipped his helmet off, cradling it under his arm, and took a few steps closer.


"Filippo? I thought you would have left after your Servant died." There was some concern in her words, but also suspicion. She had felt the sting of betrayal already, and trust was not something she could give out easily anymore.


Filippo looked around, and then back to Johana, cocking his head. "Where did your Servant go? Is he... missing? Or fighting someone?"


He spoke clumsily, as though he never knew quite what to say; perhaps in another situation, without the weight of despair on her shoulders, Johana would have been at least somewhat surprised that the man could speak fluent Russian - a fact that never quite struck her even before Lancer had gone away. He had strange talents, but what Johana noticed most of all was his apparent determination - or his recklessness.


Frowning at the lack of an answer, Johana pretended to ignore that slight. "He... never returned to me. In an instant, he was simply gone."


Shifting her feet, Johana felt like there was a block in her mind, stopping her from adequately explaining what had happened, relying on vagueness to speak for her. Could she trust Filippo? He was hardly a threat, considering his lack of a Servant - and, to be sure, she looked him over and saw no obvious signs of still having his command seals. If she wished to, quicker than he could react she summon forth her sword and gut him.


Regardless of its source, Johana had power, and if it meant she could still be victorious, then she would use that power without a touch of regret.


"Just because you have no Servant doesn't mean you're useless," Filippo responded with a shrug of his shoulders. "You know I'm speaking from experience, don't you? I... I want to make a difference somehow. When I go home - if I go home - no one will be pleased to see me, so then... I think I should try to face that without regrets. Is that anything like what you're feeling?"


Instinctively she shook her head, not wanting his sympathy, and her lips were still locked into a tight frown.


Still... what he said resounded with her. Johana pondered that, staring away into the gathering night, stroking one hand down along the seam of her black dress as though that would help her concentrate. Her heart was still beating heavily, as though it had so little life left in it - it had felt that way ever since Lancer had left her, ever since he'd disappeared and forced her to be alone in facing the truth of who she was.


But no matter how she thought about it, she had to face her own guilt.


Perhaps the rift between herself and Lancer - Lohengrin, the knight of the swan - was inevitable. Perhaps they would always have had to part ways, all predetermined by some kind of mythic fate, or the machinations of the gods. There were so many possible explanations, but each and every one relied on Johana being the flawed person that she was. Their relationship had been founded on mutual understanding, but that had fallen to pieces by the end, and Johana had played her own part in that. She could not deny what she had allowed to happen.


It was a tragedy befitting Lohengrin; Johana mused on this, wondering if some people were destined to never find happiness or satisfaction in life.


If that was the case for her, then she would fight it to the end, even if fate wished her to die alone in despair. She hadn't let herself be ruled by the whims of her family and their traditions, and so she would never be ruled by something as arbitrary as fate.


"-still have a Servant, really? It looks like-"


Filippo had been speaking while she had been lost in her thoughts, and she glanced at him, curious as to what he was saying. Now that their eyes met, he lost his words, his mouth open but with no idea of what to speak about.


"Go on," she assured him with a nod, her perpetual grimace softening ever so slightly.


Taking in a breath as though to steady himself again, he reached out for her arm, gesturing for her to turn it over.


Spurred on by interest in those few words she'd heard him say, she did as he asked, stretching out her arm, showing Filippo her pale skin all the way up to her shoulder. It looked so cold to the touch, and he didn't dare even brush his fingers against her, for fear of her likely retribution.


"See?" He pointed to a mark on her forearm, just in front of the joint of her elbow. "They're faded, but... there. Command seals, just as you had when you summoned your Servant. Right?"


Just as he said, there it was: an emblem inscribed like a tattoo in her flesh, winding its way under her skin, still and grey but nonetheless - it marked her as a Master, with a Servant to follow her will, as though Lancer still lived. What had happened to him? Had he left, not wishing to be a burden anymore, or did he see things from a moral perspective and find it objectionable that a knight should serve someone with unholy blood in her veins? Johana had no clear path before her, and she looked to Filippo, her mounting frustration clear from just a glance at her face.


"Where is Lancer?" she demanded, more weakly than her typical tone, her desire to finish this war contending with exhaustion that had been building since it began.


She shivered; the night was unexpectedly cold, a wind blowing through the streets, and it had been some time since she had any coffee. With so many thoughts troubling her mind, she couldn't sleep, and she couldn't eat. She would have none of that until this was resolved; she could only expect that kind of single-mindedness from herself, and she shook her head, tossing her hair about.


Filippo's hands were shaking as he lapsed into thought, trying to figure out a solution to what Johana asked of him. He needed to be useful, somehow, and this may have been his best chance. This time, he could do something right: this time, though the pressure to succeed and accomplish something mounted on him like a constant weight on his weak shoulders, this was his chance.


"May I?" he asked hastily, making a motion with his hand that implied he wanted to touch the markings on Johana's arm.


With just a little hesitance, Johana gave him a quick nod, staring him right in the eyes the whole time. He had to look away, and with the utmost care he pressed a thumb to her soft, pallid skin - it was like touching ice.


He almost pulled back at once in shock, but he mastered himself and closed his eyes, not letting Johana intimidate him, even if that wasn't her intent. With every moment that passed he could only imagine himself failing miserably, becoming even more of a disappointment to himself, but he tried his best to throw those thoughts away, fearing too that they themselves would lead to him making one mistake too many.


Filippo didn't imagine Johana to be the forgiving sort, and he still valued his life.


Breathing in sharply, he ran his hand along the command seals. "Good... it's good. I just need a second to do this, so... stay still. I can do this."


He spoke more to reassure himself than Johana, and she watched intently, seeing what he did with magecraft that was entirely foreign to her. Slipping a few thick, errant strands of hair away from her face, she stared down at her arm, not paying attention to how Filippo himself was reacting - more interesting and relevant to her was what exactly he could do to her benefit.


There was a crack like the snapping of burnt wood, and Johana felt a patch of her flesh turn numb where Filippo's fingers touched; all she could sense from there was an electric tingle, and she could hear the noise of sparks but nothing to indicate a flame.


"I think that's right," Filippo said at last, pulling back and letting Johana examine her arm.


He stroked his hand and fingers, not able to feel them anymore, but that didn't seem to bother him at all - instead, much like Johana, he stared at the markings under her arm, seeing just how they reacted. He was like a scientist examining the results of an experiment he'd conducted, and his apprehension was nearly contagious.


No longer slate-grey, the command seals had become light again, glimmering bluish-black beneath Johana's skin. There was life to them again, and she grabbed her arm there, squeezing hard. She could feel it - and there was even some unnatural warmth around the twisted, delicate pattern etched in her flesh. She traced her finger along it, and stared up to the sky where the clouds hid away patches of the stars above.


Pausing, Filippo had a thought, and a small smile came to the fore, beyond his trepidation and worry. For once he could be confident, and he undid the top few buttons of his shirt, pulling the collar down over his shoulder so that Johana could see what was there.


Or, more appropriately, what wasn't: all she noted was a thin scar, nothing else.


"Mine are gone. If you still have yours, then... try to use them, maybe. Imagine that your Servant was still here with you; put all your thought into it. If you had no Servant at all anymore, then you'd be like me: there would just be a scar there, and you wouldn't feel the twinge of a little connection in your mind."


More cogently than before, spurred on by this confidence his success had infused in him, Filippo gave his explanation to Johana. It was simple enough, and she could understand it. His broad, bright smile curled up his whiskers, but however infectious his happiness might have been for others, Johana naturally held doubt in her heart.


Johana looked at him sharply. "But what if I fail? What if I have to face my battles alone?"


She cut sharply to the point, and Filippo stepped back, keeping his arms firmly by his sides as he felt that he had done something wrong. Racking his brain to find the right words, he came to the only conclusion that made sense considering who he was speaking to - there was something they both knew, that they both shared, and Filippo shook his head in wonder that she hadn't been mentioned yet.


"Remember Ilse? She fought alone, and she-"


"She fought alone, and she died," Johana snapped, as the mention of that one name cut deep into her heart like a knife. Suddenly, she felt the hole inside her empty again, the place that Ilse had occupied still unhealed, a bleeding wound. This wound would never heal, and Johana was all too aware of that. In the face of her feelings, the truth had to be told about what happened to Ilse, of how she met her end so ingloriously.


Johana breathed a heavy sigh, her stern expression softening. "How could I ever forget her? I thought there could be meaning to my life, but her death snatched that away just as I was about to grasp it in my trembling hands. Her deaths weighs on me with the emotion of two lifetimes, and I'm struggling to bear it. She was brave; she was strong; she was bold – but for all those things she is dead."


Her words had an immediate effect on Filippo, who clutched at his chest, feeling heaviness like a stone in his heart, even as he was taken over by lightheadedness.


"You're not her, though," he responded, hesitating, and he seated himself sideways on his motorcycle, sinking into the leather in hopes it would calm him.


The whole time, he couldn't stop himself from staring into Johana's silvery eyes.


"Lancer did more than fight alongside me - he supported me, in his own way." She spoke what came to her heart, not apologizing for her words. Lancer did mean something to her, though in their last night together it seemed as though they would just as soon kill the other. Everyone makes mistakes, and together Johana and Lancer were only doing what they knew was best, what they had been so used to, what they had been conditioned by their lives and experiences to believe was right. Perhaps, like fate, it had always been inevitable that Lancer would disappear and leave Johana to resolve this war with her own mettle - if she found victory, then that would mean that what she believed in was right beyond any lingering doubts.


"What if I'm right? What if you have a Servant again?" Filippo raised himself to boldness again, inspired distantly by Ilse and the untarnished image he had of her in his mind. "What can I do then, Johana? I can't fight like you, or like Ilse could."


He slumped his shoulders, wanting to rest and never have to wake up to see the world again. What worth did he have?


With a faint smile, she agreed. "That's right, Filippo. I don't doubt you would die, but ask yourself this: is it better to live your life in a cage, or die knowing that you'll always be free? Ilse, through her actions, taught me that. Death can be frightening, but how much better is life?"


Filippo nodded, quietly understanding. He felt so weak, so powerless, and he glanced at Johana's command seals, seeing them flush with vibrance and colour.


Part of him envied that, and he wanted to stop this - he wanted to stop her from using what advantages she had and he didn't, because he knew what existed at the end of this. He would have to fight her, and her him; there was no other way it could end. Like a story unfolding before his eyes, he saw all the way to the very last, most tragic page.


Yet, this was life; Johana was too far gone to close her eyes to that story, and with a few words that Filippo could not comprehend, the front of the hotel was illuminated in a flash like a scatter of lightning through the street.


Perhaps - perhaps he could fight.


Here was Johana, summoning her Servant again, but what goal did she have? Filippo never knew. If she won, then maybe she could live a good life, but in his heart he sensed that she, too, had little else waiting for her. This war had become her life, as it had his, both free and unfree all at once. Liberty was something Filippo had never truly known before, and he felt that he could do anything - even as the dread of being devoid of that sank over him.


He had one last thing to live for, and he would strive for it with his own hands, with his own courage, with his own will. For once, he could be strong, just like Ilse was, and die a free man.


A chill rolled down his back, and he could see his own skin covering over with frost like grass on a winter's morning. In that moment he couldn't move at all, his bones frozen stiff, his muscles numb from the cold, and when he let out a shuddering breath, it passed his lips in a soft, white cloud, rising up into the warm night.


When he could see and feel the world again, before him stood a tall, proud figure.


Clad in armour of white and gold, his very appearance radiated holiness; he tightened his fist, masked by his gauntlet, and when he took one step forward, there was the shaking and clinking of a knight's armaments.


In that fist he clenched a familiar spear, but it was different all the same: it once had been bound tightly by pure white cloth, untouched by dirt or by blood; now that cloth unfurled itself as this knight raised his spear to point up to heaven. It whipped back and forth in the blowing winds, revealing a holy cross emblazoned on its face, boldly flowing from the haft of the spear, proving the man's allegiance to God. Everything about him seemed so detached from the Lancer Johana had known, but she knew.


She was taken aback by his presence, and when he looked at her she felt a weight pressing down on her; at the same time, she could see his face lit by the streetlamp above, and it was the same youthful face she'd known since she came to this place.


His thin nose and his full lips; his high brow and curly, tousled hair; they were all the same. His locks were a shade of muddy brown, not dyed the cobalt hue that Johana remembered, but that was a single detail. Instead of radiating the rich, royal blue of the swan knight, he had the plain white of a holy man.


Had any detail in his face, even just a wrinkle, been different from the man Johana knew, she would have eyed him with suspicion, if not anger, but it wasn't so.


She looked up at him, staring into his blue eyes; the markings on her arm were faint now.


"Lohengrin?" she said, curiously, reaching out to touch his armour, feeling the details etched into his breastplate.


The knight shook his head with a smile. "I am not him, my lady."


Even his voice was the same, and Johana took in a sharp breath, finally understanding that this man was the same man who had fought loyally at her side - but though he had the same soul, he could not have been the same person.


His voice was just as she remembered, but the man who spoke those words was not the knight of the swan, and couldn't have been.


Slowly, warmth returned to where there had been naught but ice, Johana's doubts and her curse both subsiding. Now instead of doubt, though, she had no elation, no enthusiasm renewed by the return of her Servant: instead, she was filled with disappointment. Though so many details about him were precisely the same, they were superficial: he had changed, and that was a truth Johana could not ignore.


"My name is Godfrey de Bouillon, and I am here to serve you and no other."


He did not remember her.

– –

Francois hefted the strange weapon in his hand, still surprised by its weight. The pistol wasn't something he'd ever used before, but Nigel had made more than a few demonstrations of how to use it during the war between the generals; that was some time ago now, but Francois still remembered.


Pointing it forward, he gazed down the sights, seeing little in the darkness.


"We're not going to get anywhere like this, Archer." He grit his teeth, and kept the gun in one hand while he stretched the other out forward, his palm open.


From his fingertips five lights shimmered into existence, floating up into the air like petals wafted about on a warm spring wind. They stayed a few metres above the ground, spreading out like little lamps across the field, and Francois nodded quietly. This was what he needed.


Napoleon stood at his side, partly overcome by fascination at the young man's effortless talent with magic, partly feeling anticipation rise in his heart. His intuition told him that tonight wouldn't be as easy as Francois may have hoped - a gut feeling, but if true it would be far from the first time a gut feeling set him on the right path. They both needed to be prepared, more than anything.


"One of us will need to remain on this hill, to cover the other," Napoleon said, stroking his chin as he stood and looked over what would soon be their battlefield. "If we both go in at once, they will no doubt spring a trap upon us, and we will be like rabbits in a snare. If you do not mind, I will make the entrance, and you shall ensure I am not overwhelmed by Enrico and his Servant."


"I do mind," Francois replied, his lips turning up in a sneer, disappointed that Napoleon was only saying what he had expected of him - of course he would want to be the one to rescue Amelie, but this was Francois' fight.


Shaking his head, Francois held the pistol loosely by his side. "I'll go down there. I have to do this - she's my sister, and it's only right that I save her."


Maybe, he hoped, this would show her that she needed to take his place - that she needed to reclaim the family's legacy, not him. It was not only what she deserved, but what she needed now. Humming in agreement with his thoughts, Francois turned away from Napoleon, feeling a cool night wind on his neck.


Shivering, he pulled up his scarf, tightening it about himself, and he fastened the buttons on his parka. It was warmer in the city, but out here the chill was more reminiscent of January than March.


"As you wish," came Napoleon's delayed response, not hiding the resignation in his voice.


Breathing in, then out, Francois prepared himself, shuffling his boots against the grass, getting ready to burst out from the scattered trees into the opening, where there was only a gap of a few metres to the house. It looked empty inside, and for a moment Francois felt a twinge of doubt in his heart, but he discarded that feeling without hesitation.


He didn't glance away from the old farmhouse even once, staring at it intently as he crouched down in the grass, tugging at a long blade with his free hand, pulling it right out.


Setting his pistol to the side, he brought his hands together, the long sprig of grass nestled between his thumbs.


As he held his hands to his parted lips, he kept his gaze on the house, and blew into the makeshift whistle he'd made.


A low hum filled the air, like the faint buzz of electricity, but for Francois it was as loud as a siren. The trees all around were sheathed in an aura of deep, olive green, and Francois breathed in deeply through his nose, holding on to his own silence as the hum continued, its sound reflected back to Francois as a verdant blanket of illumination across the ground that gradually spread all the way to the farmhouse in the distance.


He could see, just faintly, the green outline of three people - two standing, one seated.


As the hum dissipated on the whispering wind, Francois studied the positions of those in the building, seeing them move but slightly; his heart stopped when he knew, without a doubt, that it was Amelie he could see down there. Every part of him wanted to rush into the house and take her away, back to the mansion in the city, but he couldn't be so bold.


He knew Archer would suggest a strategy of careful stealth, stalking towards his target and taking it unawares - a clever idea, and Francois knew it would be the best way to ensure his sister stayed safe. If Enrico used an opportune moment to kill her... Francois couldn't even imagine how he would react.


The fear, however, was rooted in his heart. He knew this man would do anything to steal victory, and he knew that his sister was at his whims.


Picking up the pistol once more, he kept it limp in his hand, and made one crouched step forward, then another. His body was shaking, shivering, and overhead the tops of the trees hid away the stars. He was alone in pitch-darkness, save for the spectral lights that drifted like feathers in the cool air. The quiescence of the scene could have been tranquil and calming, but for Francois it was none of these things; he balled up his fingers into a fist to stop them from trembling.


There was no sound save for the shifting of grass past his boots, and the occasional crack of a twig underfoot.


Francois' deep blue parka blended into the chilly night, and he was unnoticeable even to Napoleon, who scanned the field and the trees for his Master, barely able to hold him in his gaze for long. If only Francois could know that, but he could never convince himself he was unseen.


Every few seconds he heard a noise – unremarkable, nothing of note, but a noise nonetheless, and he shifted his head left and right, his eyes trying to fix on something in the distance but finding nothing; it was that finding nothing that built up the fear in him, but he could not stop again to check if Enrico was still in the farmhouse. He had gone too far; already he was so close to the edge of the tree-line, about to step into the open, where he could see the sky and stars clearly again.


He convinced himself, subconsciously, that he would be seen there. He could hear the pounding of his heart, straining painfully in his chest as he shivered again.


His fingers dug into the rough bark of the last tree that stood before the open field, bare under the starry sky. Francois looked up, then slowly down to the small farmhouse where his sister was being held captive. There was a voice inside him that spoke out against rushing in, that urged him to wait, be slow, and consider the situation, but it was no counter to the rising convictions in his heart.


Right now, he had this one chance to truly show his sister how important she was to him, and how she deserved far better than what she had. More than any moment in his life, he knew with certainty that this would determine the courses they both would take. Neither could be the same after tonight, and in a way that vast change, that inability to go back if this turned out to be a mistake, kept him stock-stiff with fear.


Yet no matter how frightened he was, shivering as he tried to move one foot forward - he convinced himself that what he was doing now could never be a mistake.


No matter what happened, this was for the best.


Digging the ball of his foot into the ground, he kicked off, running towards the shadowed house, still holding tightly on to the grip of the pistol Nigel had given him. It was cold now, but he knew that all too soon it would be hot, and he felt a stab of anticipation in his heart.


A blast of fire and earth erupted beside the building, shaking its frail foundations, and nearly knocking Francois to the ground as he ran forward with abandon.


Steadying himself to avoid a potentially fatal stumble, Francois looked about, seeing the crater that the cannon shot from the hill had made in the ground, and he hoped that the next didn't land so close to where Amelie might have been.


Another explosion ripped through the cold night air,, a wave of heat rolling over Francois, the din leaving no sense in his ears save for an eternal ringing; the world around him seemed to move so slowly, and his heart beat impatiently. He reached out for the door, trying to grasp it and open it so that he could at last see Amelie and she could see him - but another cannonball struck the earth and made a shock ripple through the grass and the trees and the ground below Francois' feet.


Still running, he tumbled forward, smashing into the aged wood of the door with his head and his shoulder, and a moment later he was on the rough concrete floor, staring up at an unlit room, seeing only one figure.


Amelie.


She was in a chair, bound and unable to speak, but he could hear again; he could hear the crashing of splinters, and the rattling of the chair's legs as his sister struggled nearer to him.


Desperate and weak, Francois ignored the dull pain that throbbed through him like blood, and he stretched his arm out again, seeing Amelie as far closer than she was. He brought up his leg, tucking his knee into his chest to get back to his feet; then he heard his sister scream, and his eyes stared forward with sheer anger, demanding to know where Enrico was - until he could only see a boot slamming down on his hand, crushing his fingers, pain shooting down his arm.


He still had his gun in his free hand, and he could feel the coldness of the trigger even as his skin was hot, like the sun beat down upon him.


Enrico, right above him, stared down, his trap having succeeded but not in the way he'd anticipated. He focused on Francois' face and his immobile arm, not seeing in the darkness the pistol concealed by the young man's side.


Francois grit his teeth, feeling his head pounding along with his heart, aching more than he could imagine was possible; in any other situation, the sheer pain would have made him faint, but now he could not lose consciousness. He had a gun, but how much could he rely on that now? What use was it to him if he was the one caught unprepared? Nigel was too much of an optimist; he couldn't have known what Enrico would have done tonight.


Francois convinced himself of that, and in his boundless desperation tapped into his magecraft, a long and slender vine coiling up his arm, out his sleeve and striking at Enrico's foot like a snake.


It tried to tighten around the man's leg, digging its thorns past the fabric of his clothes and into his soft flesh; Francois smiled grimly, feeling he had the advantage at last, but the vine decayed as soon as it touched Enrico's body, withering away, its green turning a pale, ugly brown. It fell to the floor unceremoniously, and then disappeared like ashes on the wind.


He could barely breathe - it was as though Enrico had his hands wrapped around his neck, and he struggled forward, trying to find the strength to continue on.


"Why are you doing this?" Francois demanded, staring hard at Enrico, half-speaking through clenched teeth. "How did you know about my sister?"


He nearly screamed that question out, wanting everyone to hear it, needing to know more than anything how this had come to be - more than anything he needed to have his suspicions validated, so that he could truly understand how misplaced his trust had been. In that one moment, feeling the bones in his hand straining against the concrete, his whole body enervated, his mind overtaken by exhaustion, he felt so much cynicism for the world. There was no benevolence in a world that let this happen.


Enrico frowned, watching Francois not with the empathy of a man watching another man struggle away from death, but with the clinical mercilessness of a killer; it was the only way he could bear this any longer.


"You trust too easily," he said in a soft voice, an accusation yet delivered with some sympathy. "You wouldn't be here if you hadn't already been stabbed in the back."


That was it - Francois felt as though a part of him had been cut away, leaving only the phantom sensation of someone he had thought of as a friend. James was eager to trust and make nice as well, but his was honest from the start; Francois had thought James to be manipulated, not to himself manipulate, and that fact hit Francois harder than anything else. He'd always known that they would come to blows, but this soon? After James had seemed to genuine, so kind, so full of hope for the malevolent world he'd been born into?


Francois made one choice then: he chose to ignore the small thought in his mind, a flicker of rationality, that suggested James had no ill will towards his new ally – in the heat of the moment Francois swept that all away.


Intent didn't matter; James had destroyed Francois' last glimmer of trust.


As he struggled with his arm to move again, Francois wanted to cry, to just lie there and give up, succumbing to all the hardships he'd suffered thus far, letting them overcome him in a moment of catharsis, but then he looked back at his sister.


She pleaded with her eyes, and Francois could see that she looked at him as the only one who could save her, protect her, and make everything right.


That was why he was here. That was why he'd suffered through this war; the same emotion that made him want to give in and let his tears flow freely turned to a pang of fear; what had been his goal for so long now was so close to fruition, and Amelie would see it, too. This was his perfect moment, and there was no way he would let himself squander it. She would understand why she needed the strength he had been born with – if she was a magus, none of this would have happened. If she was a magus, he could be free.


His body screaming out with pain, he laboured against the aches of his muscles and his bones; the whole house shook, dust and smoke filtering in through the doorway, and even Enrico was taken off-guard, if only momentarily.


Only a moment, however, was all Francois needed.


Breathless, he raised his hand up, closing his eyes tight and pointing his gun upwards blindly.


He forgot what Nigel had told him, the advice he'd been given; all that resonated in his mind at the time was the need to kill Enrico, to see him dead and bleeding and suffering, to crush his hand and bind him to the chair - so that he could feel the pain he'd felt this whole war. No one had hurt Francois so personally before, and at last he could strike out, strike out for all the misgivings that he'd gone through for every single year of his life, and for the sad life his sister had to live on his behalf.


That would end tonight, and it did.


Tightening his hand as though to ball it up into a fist, Francois pulled the trigger three times - three snaps echoed throughout the dusty, claustrophobic space, and the air was suddenly hot and dry; Francois' hand felt numb, the concrete beneath him feeling like sun-baked sand.


Again his world turned silent, full only of a dull, aching ringing in his head, and he saw blood on the floor, and the casings of the three bullets he'd fired, glittering like precious gold in the fiery light.


Though he felt no sensation at all in his legs, he stumbled up onto his feet, his face covered in soot, and again the ground shook, half the farmhouse crumbling away in an instant, as though it'd never been there to begin with.


Napoleon was ahead, sabre in hand, and Francois could see the silent spark of steel upon steel.


"We have to leave, now!" Napoleon mouthed, the words not reaching Francois' ears.


His sister was safe; there was only Enrico left, dirtied and bloody on the cracked concrete floor, grasping at his stomach as if to patch up a hole. His teeth were clenched tightly, and he stared up at Francois, no fear in his pale eyes.


"...go or you die!" Francois heard everything all at once; the world returned to him, and he glanced around for his sister, seeing her in Napoleon's arms, clutching him.


The night air was filled with the thunder of the guns, far-off but loud, an unmistakable din. Enrico seethed in muted agony; Amelie took in deep, gasping breaths, free now of her bonds; there was shouting, too, from Napoleon who held Amelie in one arm and with the other fended off a swordsman who had appeared from the blasted half of the house.


Francois wanted so desperately to see Enrico beg for death, because for a man like him bleeding out slowly was too good a fate. He bit his lip, choking back his words as he glanced at Napoleon and Amelie; Napoleon was losing ground, the steel of El Cid's blade edging closer and closer to his heart with each swing.


There was a choice: save Amelie, or kill Enrico and his Servant; Francois, even if luck favoured him, couldn't have both.


For once that night, his conscience won through - he swallowed what pride he had left, and pressed his hand to the wall of the farmhouse; black lines of decay ran through the structure's wooden framework, eating away at the timber. There was a groan from above, from in the attic, followed by a resounding crack and the lick of flames on Francois' arm.


Napoleon's barrage had set the fields aflame, and now those raging fires eagerly ate up the crumbling farmhouse, every piece of wood that had built it now falling to pieces, covering the floor in dust, ash, and debris.


El Cid held one arm to his mouth, coughing as he breathed in thick smoke, and he shot an angry glare at Francois.


The gleaming tip of his sword quivered; for a moment, no one in the burning room could be sure if it would lash out and cut into Francois' heart, but El Cid was much more a man of his convictions than Francois ever was. He sheathed his sword, and with his free hand he clutched at the back of Enrico's shirt, dragging him away, half-carrying him past the crumbled wall.


Stumbling backwards, Francois tried to get out of the farmhouse, his eyes watering, every breath burning his throat. Though he didn't touch the flames, he could feel their intense heat blasting his skin, the hair on his arms gone in an instant as the fire whipped close to him.


Through the burning grass, blurred and unsteady, he could see the figures of Napoleon and Amelie, their clothes burnt black in patches.


Francois kicked off into a run, following his sister; the inferno quickly consumed the farmhouse and its fields, but it stopped at the bare dirt road as Francois ran past, still feeling the heat on his back as though he were on fire himself. Every muscle in his body was aching and exhausted, and he could now only see Napoleon's back quite small in the distance.


He wanted to fall down to his knees and give in to his anger and sorrow - all the emotions that had built up inside him over the last few minutes escaped at once; he felt the sting of betrayal, hate towards Enrico, and perhaps greatest of all a profound disappointment in himself, that he could not be the one to wrap his sister in his arms and take her up and bring her home. Always, it seemed, he'd come so close to doing something great, yet fail in the end, and find himself more miserable than before.


Struggling with his own thoughts and emotions, he couldn't remember a time when he had been pleased with himself, instead continuously falling short of what he wanted for himself.


Tonight could be no exception to that, and it made Francois want to beat himself.


The burning, aching pain of the fire wasn't enough; for all he'd done and tried and failed, he couldn't put words to how he felt, and that frustrated him even more.


If he'd been hurt more grievously, if he'd struggled harder, if he'd been a true hero for his sister - maybe then he could impress her and make her understand how he felt, and why she needed to take his place as the family's heir. No matter how much pain he went through in his life, he knew it would never match the abuse she'd suffered her whole life in the form of ignorance.


He wanted to stop and rest, to recuperate, as even his bones ached, feeling like hot rods of iron stabbing at him from the inside, but he couldn't stop now.


Dust and ash hung on his face, clinging to the sweat that dripped down his cheeks and nose, and he ran so long that by the end of it he couldn't feel his legs at all anymore, wanting to collapse at any given moment, but refusing his body that respite.

-- --

"Enrico! Speak to me, Enrico!" El Cid lay his Master in the field, holding him in his arms.


Enrico's clothes were burnt and bloodied, and ash painted black streaks on his face and arms - the very picture of a man who had been through hell. Breathing through clenched teeth, he was alive, but barely.


El Cid furrowed his brow, searching up and down Enrico's body, seeing where he was shot: in the thigh, the shoulder, and the stomach. Neither of them knew Francois had been hiding a gun, and it just so happened that the Frenchman had luck on his side for once, his wild and reckless gunshots having all struck home, nearly fatally.


Struggling to breathe, Enrico gestured to his side. "Bandages... in my pack."


Quick and dutiful, El Cid didn't waste a moment's time in rifling through Enrico's backpack to find medical supplies of all sorts, buried underneath weapons of war. He could only assume that something like this wasn't unusual for the man, and he expressed some surprise at the sheer endurance Enrico displayed - many other people would have slipped into unconsciousness by now, if not death.


Patching up a soldier on a battlefield was something El Cid had the misfortune of having to become very familiar with; it was for the best, as he tore lengths of cloth and prepared to wrap them about Enrico's wounds; Enrico hissed as his wounds were cleaned and dressed, and he clenched a fist around a tuft of grass, suffering through the pain he knew was necessary.


"This was a failure," El Cid muttered under his breath, knowing Enrico could hear him, letting his disappointment be known all too clearly.


He lifted Enrico's leg, wrapping lengths of torn cloth about his damaged thigh, covering up the red, swollen hole where the bullet had struck him.


Biting back the pain, Enrico tried to smile, managing a few words.


"Better than expected," he said, watching his Servant's tidy work. "Francois has a new enemy... now he's like a bull - blind and angry."


A laugh passed his dry lips, but it quickly turned into a cough, and El Cid was soon holding him down, glaring at him in silent admonishment for moving even a little.


Had all their planning come to nothing, in the end? Was this suffering pointless? Enrico could never think of it that way. These wounds were only superficial compared to the struggles of those back in Spain who had their dreams and their livelihoods destroyed; so long as he still lived, Enrico would fight on, because he would always have something to fight for.


El Cid shook his head, letting out a sigh. There was always something more to Enrico - even in the face of defeat, he always rose back to his feet, never giving in.


The truest quality of a knight, he thought with a faint smile.

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

Don't worry, Enrico isn't dead! Yet.

This was an interesting one to write, because it's got action for once. Also, Filippo gets to do something important in bringing Lancer back - but how!? Well, there's an answer to that one, too.

[Five_X]

Alright, fine, I'll admit - this is a bit of a longer one, I'm afraid. :/

Thankfully, most of the chapter is James driving! I lovingly described the movement of his favoured automobile, and hopefully that comes through. And speaking of things coming through... well, James gets to have an interesting little moment with Saber. Read on, and I hope you enjoy!

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

CHAPTER CXIII

March 8^th, 1963


"I told you I was going to take you for a ride, didn't I?" James laughed, somehow more filled with energy than usual - or so Saber noted, smiling at his enthusiasm.


It was a warm day, and clear as could be asked for, so James had brought her down to the parking lot where his father had left the car. He spun the keyring on his finger, humming as he went, dressed up in his casual jeans and a t-shirt, a suede jacket covering his bare arms. The James of today was so opposed to who he had been just a day before that Saber kept quiet, cautiously watching him and listening to him to try to figure out what had happened.


She didn't mention it, but she had seen him in the forest, at the ruins of Eleanor's mansion. When he returned to the apartment in the evening, she prepared for him to be an emotional wreck - but here he was now, his smile unmistakably genuine.


He ushered her into the car, holding the door open and gently brushing her shoulder, making sure she was seated properly.


She shuffled about, staring at the dashboard and the steering wheel, then looking back to see what was behind her - nothing but the glass of the broad rear window.


Seeing her like this, James couldn't help but laugh. "It just hit me now that you've never been in a car before. I'll try to go easy on you; the Thunderbird's got power and speed, but she's my girl, and she treats me right. I'm sure she won't mind me taking you along."


Saber stared at him, perplexed. "This is an object, James, not a person."


"You don't get it, it's..." James waved his arms, trying to make up an adequate explanation, but he just couldn't. "It's a cultural thing, okay? America is a funny place and I don't expect you to understand everything."


That just made her frown, and she pointedly looked away. "From talking to a machine to patronizing me. Charming."


James only laughed more - much to Saber's annoyance - but he felt a little guilt, too.


"You've got to wear this belt here," he said, pointing to the corner of her seat where he could see a strap and some metal dangling.


Standing with the door still open, he waited for Saber to put her seatbelt on, and she glanced from side to side, trying to find what he'd shown her - to no avail. Scowling at this machine and its bizarre internal workings, she lifted herself up and off the seat, but still couldn't understand what James was getting at, and glared at him impatiently. Though she would never admit it, her silence said enough to him: no, I do not know how this works, so please offer me some help.


James leaned over her, taking in a breath.


He looked down to find the clasp of her seatbelt, but lost himself in Saber's smell - a sharp, yet feminine spice, and for a moment it gave him goosebumps; many times she'd gotten close to him, mostly to get his attention, but never had he done the same intentionally.


Grabbing at the belt, he pulled it quickly over her lap, and fixed it in place. She adjusted it a bit, getting more comfortable, watching James' hands to get a better understanding of how this worked.


She knew he was distracted, but she didn't make any mention of her own thoughts, pretending that nothing had happened - today wasn't the day for what she had in mind.


Being more gentle than usual, James closed the baby-blue door, shutting Saber in the tight space of the car. She still was trying to get used to it, and James could see her sighing, not enjoying the experience. He hoped she would warm up to it; it was a nice day, and the wind was just starting up, so the heat wouldn't be too much.


Plus, she had yet to see what he could do with his hands at the wheel.


Keeping his smile strong, he casually slipped into the driver's seat. Looking in the mirror he could see his apartment's living room window, well up and above the ground; his father was there, waving a friendly goodbye, and James waved back.


"Ready?" he asked, turning to Saber. She was looking about, still unhappy about being in a cramped space, clearly not ready - now was his chance.


With a flick of a switch, there was the noise of mechanical whirring, and Saber held on to her seat, expecting the car to start rumbling and trundling forward; it didn't, and though it did shake, something else soon caught her attention. The roof above her head was steadily pulling back; she glanced over her shoulder, seeing the trunk of the car automatically opened up, and the folding roof getting tucked away in a space that seemed much too small for it.


Somehow, though, it worked – and after a minute the two were brushed by the open air.


Not a moment later the engine roared, no longer restricted to a calm purr. James revved it, pushing his foot down on the pedal, then pulling gently up, smiling like a madman as he showed off the sheer power of the vehicle.


"Do you think this impresses me, James?" Saber said with a huff, sliding loose locks of hair away from her eyes. She seemed to look at everything with an upturned nose, but James knew her better than that; he could feel her even now, giddy with her own excitement, her body tense with a mix of nervousness and a sort of intellectual curiosity. The modern world, after all, was full of wonders - even to those who lived in it.


"Of course! Don't you try to hide it, now," James laughed, and he rolled his fingers along the top of the gear stick before clutching it tightly.


Snapping the car into drive, he didn't give Saber a word of warning before they started moving, pulling right out of the parking lot onto the open street. He checked both ways, slowing for only a few seconds before rolling the car gently onto the paved asphalt, feeling the spring heat negated by a rush of wind across his face.


Saber looked sideways at her driver. "And what makes you so pleased with yourself now?"


She knew, of course; and she felt a weight in her chest as she played the fool, trying to coax the answer out of him rather than being honest - but honesty had never been something that came easily to her, and that flaw could only harm her.


So focused on the road, James didn't even manage a quick glance over at her.


"I talked with my father yesterday, and we went up to Eleanor's mansion - but it wasn't there anymore. It burned down, and I cried, and... there my father was, supporting me. You remember how I mentioned once that I had a fiancée, a couple years back?"


Nodding, Saber waited for him to say more, not willing to speak yet, feeling conflicted emotions starting to rise inside her, emotions she couldn't quell or hide away.


James sighed, as though wistful in his own way. "I always thought that my father was so disappointed in me for ruining what I had with her, and that changed me - until now. He held me tight and he told me that it was okay, that he was still proud of me. I... I don't think I could ask for a better dad, Saber. I hope you had someone in your life like that, to help you along. Then again, I think you were strong enough on your own to handle yourself; you don't need anyone to support you."


Those words struck her, and stayed with her, and though she wanted to voice her emotions there was nothing that felt right to her to say.


She stared forward, watching the passing streets and the passing cars; feeling nothing but the lurch of the Ford as they stopped at lights, and the inertia that pushed her to the side when the cruised around corners; the tall buildings of central Washington eventually faded away into the distance, becoming smaller, becoming houses; then the houses became sparse and turned to trees, and there weren't many corners or lights left.


"I just don't know what I'm going to fight for," James said at last, after so much silence, as though he was talking more to himself than to her.


Regardless, Saber gave her answer, if only to say something. "There is no value in fighting for your country, James. Doing that will hurt you, and it will drain you, until there is nothing left in you but that one goal. So many make the mistake of believing that nationalism is personal, that it is a struggle alongside one's own country, but it is so far removed from that. There is nothing personal in a state or a culture - by definition they reject the individual in favour of the group."


James slowed the car down, still feeling the wind whipping past him, but not so loudly and blatantly now that it drowned out his and Saber's voices.


"But I have to fight for something. My country's something personal to me, because I was born here, and because it's my home, and I want to make America great."


Saber didn't look at him, instead watching the trees flit by the roadside. "Of course you find it personal, because the attractiveness of nationalism is that it can encompass anyone; as long as you dedicate yourself to the state, you are a nationalist. Arguably only religion is more inclusive, and what makes them similar is that they involve a community; everyone wants to be part of a group, to be accepted, and nationalists will accept almost anyone - because nationalism is the religion of the state. Would you fight for your religion?"


Shaking his head, James smiled. "No, but I'm telling you, this is different. If I serve my country, just like my father, then how can I go wrong?"


This is what Saber had feared - James loved his father. He idolized him, in fact, and that was something that he would find difficult to overcome. Always he would follow in his father's illustrious footsteps, for good or for ill, because he wanted to be a man like the man his father was. Was that honourable? Saber found no fault in it, not inherently, but James was not his father - he was his own man, and she wanted him to understand that, more than anything.


Yet after all the times they had spoken like this, James hadn't truly changed his views - and one day spent with his father made him see the world in a different light.


It was frustrating to her, yet at the same time she was glad, in a way, that James had someone who could inspire him and guide him to be a better person.


She only wished that she could inspire and guide him, too - she believed in him.


"I only want for you to survive this war - physically and mentally. I worry that you might become so weary of the world, if you fight for something that you do not truly love." That was the closest she could come to voicing her thoughts, and she took in a deep breath, letting the silence between her and James linger.


Without even a nod, he agreed. Just as he'd said, he wondered what to fight for; perhaps she was right, and perhaps nationalism would ruin him - but it hadn't ruined his father, who was still a good man to this day.


But now whenever James thought of America, and of the things he had done, he could only feel something sinking in his heart, as though it had never been worth it. Deep inside, he couldn't justify those things under the banner of nationalism; when he thought of America, he had so little passion left that he forced himself to think of other things.


"This war will be over soon," he assured Saber, looking at her with a gentle smile, yet those words were more for him than her - they both knew that.


He bound his hopes up with those words, but too often his hopes came to nothing in the end.


After that there was no more talking, either because Saber and James had nothing more to say, or because they had reached some silent understanding; by now, either outcome was equally possible, but now wasn't the time for debates and long-winded conversations. As James shifted up into yet a higher gear, enjoying the long, straight roads on the outskirts of Washington, understanding more than a single spoken sentence was rendered impossible.


For a stretch the trees cleared out, and on his left James saw an old farmhouse - or where an old farmhouse had been. Now it was a charred ruin, crumbled to the ground, the fields around it blackened for hundreds of yards in every direction; only the road was untouched. James shook his head, wondering if whoever lived there - if anyone - would be alright.


So far away from the city, a fire like that would be hard to stop, he mused.


By the time he had those thoughts, though, he had long since passed the farmhouse, and so it passed from his interest, and he focused on the long road ahead.


"Do you like the speed?" he asked, glancing over to Saber and giving her an adventurous smile; she responded with only a nod, not bothering to try to talk over the wind.


It'd taken her long enough to get comfortable, but now she looked at ease in her seat, feeling the seatbelt a bit tight around her, but otherwise enjoying the experience. A car ride was new to her, and this was quite relaxing even if it felt so foreign at first. More than before she felt she was becoming a part of the modern world, experiencing exactly what made it different from her own time. People would always be the same, but society was ever-changing, and these changes were quite the wonder.


James cruised along under the speed limit, happy to go along like this, but he saw Saber enjoying herself and getting used to the car as a bit too simple for his tastes.


He wasn't going to let her have an easy time of this.


Pushing down on the pedal all of a sudden, the engine roared louder than the cold, whipping wind. The speedometer on the dashboard in front of James' white-knuckled hands climbed higher, and higher, and higher, and he thanked whatever deity may have been watching over him that there weren't many police around to catch him going so fast. The criminal justice system wasn't a part of the modern world James was enthusiastic to introduce Saber to.


"James!" Saber yelled, not personally enthusiastic about this either, the force of the car's speed pushing her against the back of her seat, her hair whipping all about. She could barely see anything at all anymore, and that only made it worse.


She tried in vain to clear the hair out of her eyes, and at one point she thought she could see James looking at her for a moment and laughing, seeing her predicament.


Going this fast was daring even for him, but it was nothing he'd never done before. It wasn't since he was a teenager that he'd been given such a golden opportunity to put a car to its very limits, revving the engine and letting it scream, racing down empty roads with nothing in his way. It was the ultimate expression of freedom, something that between his obligations as a magus and his work as a student he had very little of.


This was true liberation.


"Want to see me make this thing go even faster?" he asked, a wild look in his eyes that Saber had never known before.


Without hesitation she shook her head as much as she could, pinned in her seat as she was. She couldn't even hear exactly what James had said to her, but she was sure of his intent, based only on that look in his eyes, and the way he smiled.


Part of her wanted to be genuinely happy for him, because he was happy, and free, and able to express himself at long last - and maybe, if only for a while, take his mind off of the war and enjoy life for what it was. If this let James escape the war for an hour or two out of one day, then she could accept it, but by no means would she enjoy it - not in her whole life could she ever imagine this being fun.


But somehow, to James, it was.


The speed of the car was a shock, to say the least; she could feel her heart struggling to beat, her whole body under pressure from the force of the vehicle in motion; the blood that pumped through her body rushed to her feet, and her head felt light. Her skin was hot, though she couldn't feel it, despite the coldness of the rushing winds – this was like nothing she'd known before, and if she could say anything of this was enjoyable, it was having a new and unique experience in this life of hers.


An experience, however, that she didn't want to last especially long.


"Stop this right now, James!" Saber tried again to speak, but the noise of the engine and the wind conspired against her, and James certainly couldn't read lips.


This was the first time he'd seen something close to fear in her eyes. Not fear for his life; that was worry, and he appreciated that. This was fear for her own life, and he relished that, finding some strange joy in pushing her buttons. Always she had tended to be so sure of herself, calm and collected and in charge of everything - it was truly something else to see her completely unable to take control of a situation, and her natural reaction to that.


James laughed, still wearing his broad, mischievous grin. "I can't hear you!"


Saber could hear just a little bit of that, James' voice for a moment managing to slip out overtop of the overwhelming din, and she let out a grumbling noise of disgust.


Without a further word - because he knew talking more would be an exercise in wasting effort - he eyed the road closely, seeing a patch of dirt off to the side, where someone who lived nearby had made a makeshift parking lot, or something like that. Thankfully, for James' purposes, it was empty.


With deft movements of his right hand, James shifted down, his foot jumping from the clutch to the gas, one to the other, not once touching the brake.


As the car gradually slowed, Saber watched James' motions with some kind of awe, surprised at the expertise he displayed in manoeuvring his car. It was a rare treat to see someone doing something they excelled at, and this was one of those times. James working the gear stick and the pedals at once had all the artistry of a painter working on canvas, every movement of his hands and his feet perfectly smooth like practised brush-strokes, as though he knew every move he had to make well ahead of time.


Without any difficulty, the car did everything he wanted it to - this wasn't a struggle he had with the machine, like trying to rein in an unruly horse, but instead a display of sheer skill.


If he was making any mistakes at all, Saber couldn't tell; every motion of the car was compensated for or directed by an equal action from James, steering into place.


Rolling right off the roadside, the whole car shook up and down, side to side, rumbling on the uneven dirt, and Saber held on to the edge of the passenger-side door, still worried about the speed James was somehow managing to keep under calm control.


She had to wonder if he could handle this, if he wasn't going outside his own depths and pushing his skills too far, as they came to the end of the dirt clearing.


Just a few yards more, and they'd careen into the tall grass and trees, and Saber dreaded to imagine what the return trip home would be like. At the very least, it would keep their minds off the war - if only because they would be miles and miles away from the whole thing until morning if they had to walk back to the apartment.


James kept going; he waited, and he waited some more, his hand no longer on the gear stick, but hovering just behind it, as though reaching for something else.


In one fluid motion, he whipped the steering wheel to one side, turning it hard to the left with one hand, and with the other he wrenched the handbrake as hard as he possibly could, his heart pounding as he hoped this would work as he'd planned. The cool wind blowing in his face was the only thing stopping sweat from running down his face in streams.


He might have looked confidently in control on the outside, but the reality was vastly different.


As the Ford's back end fishtailed, snapping towards the treeline, James closed his eyes, hearing the wheels grind against the dirt and rock underneath.


His whole body lurched forward, almost bashing into the steering wheel; for almost a whole minute he could have sworn that the car was still moving, that it was roaring along at highway speeds, dangerously close to the grass, about to smash right against the trunks of the trees along the roadside.


When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was still alive, and he looked over at the road, still as empty as ever.


Taking in a deep breath, he let his arms fall limply by his sides, then wiped away the sweat that had covered his brow, his hair matted and damp.


Saber, on the other hand, didn't take her eyes off what was happening - she couldn't, not on her life, and caught every moment, the heavy palpitations of her heart almost audible in the quiet that now reigned over them.


No longer was there the din of the wind, or the growling of the engine pushed as hard as it could go; now there was just laboured breathing and the chatter of birds.


"James," Saber said breathlessly, "never do that again."


Her lips showed a stern frown, but the look in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks betrayed something else. Even after the car had come to a full stop, she was trying to process the experience, trying to come to terms with what exactly had happened; this, she admitted to herself, was a kind of exploratory joy, the shock, surprise, and wonder at experiencing something new, something she had never known before. None of this could have happened in her time, but now she was here: riding in fast cars, eating new foods, feeling the hectic pace of a modern city.


Maybe she would've admitted this all to James and told him how strange and foreign and wonderful this was, if only she had the words to describe it.


She looked at him, and wondered if he would think her naive for being so curious about the world he lived in; she was supposed to be above such simple things, supposed to be calm and noble and experienced, but it was only a fact that there were so many things now that she hadn't seen or heard or felt ever before.


This new world made her feel like she could trust again.


Risking the sanctity of the image she'd built up, she smiled at James, who stared out at the road as if distracted - or trying to look away.


But he couldn't avoid her for long; he caught just a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, and then he gave in, looking into her eyes. That was all it took for him to feel how satisfied she was - for once in her long life - and to know that, at least for now, she'd cast away her cynicism and doubt.


In that moment he was taken by her completely, seeing her for the woman she was. He admired her strength of character, and her loyalty, but now he admired the way her soft, blonde hair drifted about her shoulders in the breeze; he admired the gentleness in her hands and her fingers as she straightened out the folds in her dress; now he couldn't ignore how beautiful she was, and he wondered how he'd never noticed her before.


For the first time in weeks, his mind was off the war, and he felt free and liberated, that at last he could be honest with himself.


James shifted forward in his seat, and Saber made a note of the fact that he wasn't wearing a seat belt like she was - but her idle concentration was broken when she felt his lips press against hers, his strong hand on her shoulder - she could feel the masculine roughness of his fingertips through the fabric of her dress.


Her heart stopped. She'd expected something like this - she wanted something like this - but when it finally happened she couldn't have been prepared, and in that instant she was incomparably glad that James had closed his eyes, so that he couldn't see the momentary shock of confusion in hers.


Reflexively she leaned into him, wanting more, but at the same time James pulled back at once, his fingers brushing his lips, and he shook his head.


"I'm... Saber, I'm sorry, I didn't... mean it like-"


Slouching over the steering wheel, he crossed his arms, pressing his lips against his loose fist to silence himself, knowing that speaking any more would only embarrass himself further. He might have blushed, but instead his face went a deathly pale, and he looked to be shivering just a little.


Why did I do that? he thought to himself, beating at his own consciousness. I got carried away - I told myself I wasn't going to do that anymore, not again.


He almost whispered those words, hoping Saber would hear him and ask, curiously - but he could never bring himself to be that bold.


She was silent, and wanted to kiss him again, to feel the warmth they shared in that moment once more, but then she saw the state of him. Neither spoke a word, not knowing truly how to feel or how to react; yet each took the other's harsh silence as meaning they didn't want to talk at all.


James took in a deep breath, and clasped his seat belt around his waist.


Without a word, he drove the car back onto the road with a wide, slow turn, and made his way back to the city.


His mind was on the war again - that kept him free from his other feelings.

– –

Back at the apartment, Abraham was waiting for them with a cigarette and a cup of coffee.
He took a long drag of his cigarette, and let smoke flow out his nose. Putting his coffee down on the counter, he spread his arms wide, and embraced James tightly, giving him a pat on the back, welcoming him as though this was his childhood home. Today he had nothing but smiles for his son, so proud of him - though he was proud for reasons that James wasn't yet sure of.


Abraham looked at James and Saber both, stepping back to rest in his chair again, and he set his cigarette down on an ashtray he'd set out nearby. He offered his pack of smokes to James, who eagerly took one, and soon felt the slight heat of a flame on his chin as his father gave him a quick light.
Tapping her foot in disappointment, Saber was waiting for one of the two to speak, covering her mouth and nose to be free of their shared, obnoxious scent.


"Can you not do that outside?" she asked - more of a demand than anything.


James laughed and shook his head, meeting his father's gaze, not wanting to see Saber for a while. Even looking at her would remind him of that moment, and the guilt would rise up in his heart again and he wouldn't be able to take it. He wondered how he'd manage to stay around her, knowing that she likely felt just as confused as he did. Emotions were too fickle, too hard to understand; James always wished things were simpler, and perhaps more than that wished that he could take back his actions, to never have done them in the first place.


But this war was not about the past - it was about the future, and that was where James had to put his focus.


"I've been thinking, son," said Abraham, taking up his cigarette again, looking at James intently. James was still, waiting for his father to continue, and he let his own cigarette start burning itself out, not wanting to take a drag for fear he'd interrupt.


Taking in a deep breath, Abraham put out his smoke, squishing it in the ashtray.


Does he know? Did he notice? James wondered how aware his father was of what had happened with Saber in the car, or how he'd finally spoken out in truth about his motives for the war - perhaps both. When he was young, sometimes he'd try to tell little fibs to his parents, but always his father knew better, and admonished him until he stopped lying.


James followed the lead Abraham offered, and disposed of his own cigarette in the ashtray, having only taken a few drags from it - admittedly more than a little pressured by Saber, not wanting to make her unhappy, though he wasn't sure why that mattered.


"Ever since you could talk," Abraham began slowly and solemnly, like he was speaking at a funeral, "I've ordered you to listen. I raised you just how my own father raised me, and that was wrong - you're not me. When you were barely up to my knee, I was filling your head with ideas and presumptions about who you would be as an adult, and it's hard for me, but I've got to admit that I was wrong. I thought you could end up just like I did - I wanted you to, and when you didn't..."


Unable to find the right words to respond, James gulped, first resting his hand on the kitchen counter and then starting to lean on it like a crutch.


"Is this about Emily?" His words were hesitant, trembling with quiet worry.


Talking about the girl who had been his fiancee should have been easy for him; she was in the past, and he knew his father was proud of him still, regardless of what had happened with her - but Saber was with him now, and he couldn't see her or think of her in the same way he did yesterday. His throat felt like it was choked up with sand every time he tried to force out another word, and so he waited helplessly for his father to keep speaking. Suddenly he wasn't so enthusiastic about being in his own home, the room feeling cramped, closing in on him, the air hot and stale.


Abraham smiled, as though to set his son at ease. "It's about you. You know it's our tradition for fathers to choose who their son marries, but tradition shouldn't get in the way of happiness. I treated you like my father treated me: he wanted me to be a good, patriotic boy, and he set me up with a girl my age, and I didn't know any better. I thought that was all there was to life, and I went along with it, all smiles."


With every word his father spoke, James' heart beat faster, and he knew instinctively what his father was getting to. He wanted to just glance over at Saber, to see if he could tell from the look on her face that she'd come to the same conclusion; he couldn't, though: if he even so much as looked in her direction, his father would be sure, and James wouldn't be able to pretend there was nothing going on.


He felt an urge to touch his lips, feeling the sensation of Saber's gentle warmth on him again, remembering how she seemed to welcome his touch, and then-


"I thought you loved mom from the start," James said, distracting himself from any other thoughts, trying to drive the conversation. He tapped his fingers on the counter, looking over the spices and utensils that were lined up there, trying to keep his mind away from where it wanted to wander.


He suddenly found himself wishing that he hadn't put out his cigarette.


"And I did!" came his father's reply, with a bit of amused cheer - but that, too, returned to solemnity. "I loved her because I thought that was the right thing to do, and it was what my father wanted. I was just lucky that your mother turned out to be a good woman herself - but then I expected the same out of you, with Emily. Now, I've been expecting you to want to fight for your country and nothing else, but now I see how wrong that is."


Shaking his head, he put his hand on his son's shoulder, staring into his deep, blue eyes, easing away his confusion.


"I just wanted you to love your country. I never thought things would come to this."


If only there truly had been a war to end all wars - James' grandfather believed his war would bring lasting peace, and James' father the very same. Now that James had his own war, what was he to believe of it? Could it truly bring peace that would weather the twentieth century? More likely, it seemed, humanity would relapse into violent conflict yet again, but war is not a problem and product of one society; war has been endemic to civilization for thousands of years, and so to bring world peace would mean changing the very structure and foundations of civilization.


When framed like that, who could claim that war would ever end?


Such was the folly of mankind - to believe that the problem of war could be solved with yet more war.


James held his father, bringing him into a close embrace, and Saber stood by enviously, wishing still that she, too, could have this effect on James. Months now spent by his side, and she could not change the way he saw the world - but his father had arrived to be by his side and now after barely a few days James was almost a new man.


Was he truly? Saber believed so, but she wasn't him; she didn't know how he felt in his heart, and that in its own way frustrated her.


"I still love America, dad," James said breathlessly, smiling now. "I just don't know what to fight for anymore."


Abraham held his son at arm's length, looking into his eyes gently, and took a few moments to gather his thoughts, to figure out just what to say.


Seeing Saber watching them both, he smiled faintly and said, "Trust me, son - soon you'll find something that will drive you, something you're passionate about above all else. Something you would willingly die for, and then you'll know - that's worth fighting for."


James didn't know what to say - what did he have in his life worth fighting and dying for? He could only imagine his family, but trying to think of a time in his life when he felt such intense feelings towards anything brought him nothing; he had no passion, no drive in life, now that he was freed from his obligation to be passionate about his country.


How many other people his age knew what they wanted to do for the rest of their lives, or knew what they could dedicate themselves to and be satisfied?


There was nothing he could think of that he wanted to achieve or succeed at, with no goals set before him; in his life, his family had set all of his goals for him, and now he was left stranded, his family's happiness making him content, but only content.


Could he fight, instead, for his father and his family? There was no true passion there.


He used to doubt what he fought for - but now he didn't know his own place, struggling to find purpose in a world that stripped him of enthusiasm, that told him what ideals to hold and what morals to fight for; his father had been part of what was held up as the greatest generation, an epoch in and of themselves defined by modern heroes, but what place did James have, in the wake of that?


Other generations had donned their uniforms and gone to war, and now James was doing just the same, but to what end? There was nothing he was fighting for now that his father and his grandfather hadn't fought for before him - and despite their valiant efforts, despite their sacrifices and their suffering, nothing of value had been gained, and a whole generation of young men was lost.


There was still war in the world; there always would be.


But the battlefield couldn't be escaped. James thought he could run away, but though he might evade the blood and the fire and the death that greeted him every night, the battlefield wouldn't leave him. Always it would linger there, reminding him of what he had done and what he had not done.


Every night he would fight the war again, his dreams forming the landscape for memories of naught but despair - for what happiness could be found, even in victory?


James was young, though; if there is anything the young have in abundance in life it is time, and James knew this. He knew this, and he knew of the one other virtue of youth he still could cling on to:


Hope.


He hoped - however fruitless that may have been in truth - that he would find some passion in his life. Only that could save him from succumbing to the horrors of the war, because without passion there would be nothing to keep those thoughts and memories deep, down in his heart where he could forget them for a time.


Yes - he would struggle, if not to succeed, then to at least find some justification for all this.


He looked into his father's eyes and saw a man who had found that justification, that passion, many years ago. If only James could be like his father, like his father's generation, but the years and society separated them, like a wall between the past and the future that could never be crossed, nor looked over.


James, and his generation, couldn't look to the past. They had to forge their own future with whatever opportunities and dreams they had, in a world that was not their own.


Slipping away from his thoughts, James returned to the apartment, to his father and to Saber, putting on a smile.


"Did you love Rome, Saber?" Abraham asked, forcibly bringing her into the conversation.


They'd already been speaking, just a few words back and forth that James hadn't paid any attention to, but now his father saw the light back in his eyes. Abraham laughed, and patted his son on the shoulder, bringing him close.


"Oh, and look - James woke up again. Had fun staring at the wall, did you?"


James shook his head, trying to laugh, but instead letting out a breath. "I was just thinking..."


Saber was at ease, now, basking in the evening light that streamed through the windows. She sat down on the sofa with a small plate and a sandwich, something simple that James only naturally expected of her.


"Of course - and I still do," she responded, speaking before James could continue with his father - not that he was in any mind to, and he quieted himself for Saber's sake.


“After all,” she continued, swallowing a large bite, “who could not love the greatest civilization the world has ever known? I am proud to be Roman, and always will be – but not without sadness, because there will never be a Rome again. That is in the past, and for all the failures of Rome that could have been avoided, her successes will live on forever. Rome may have fallen long ago, but she has cast a shadow over history that will never disappear; I am proud of having played a part in her glory.”


They spoke on into the evening, when James felt his eyes grow heavy, his body weary.


His father left for the night, and James sat in silence alongside Saber, wondering what to do tonight – and every night thereafter, for as long as the war lingered on.

– –

Francois nearly collapsed when he stepped through the door to his home.


Behind him was Napoleon, who had slung Amelie's arm over his shoulder, helping her walk. There were bruises on her face, and reddish burn marks from where she had been lightly touched by flame; otherwise, she was healthy, and even managed a smile as she saw they were home again. Her expression, still, betrayed pain.


Weakly, Francois stayed on his feet. His muscles ached and demanded that he lay and rest, but he would have none of that. Gritting his teeth, he hung up his coat by the door and then turned to Amelie, forcing his own smile.


"Thank you - both of you," she said, exasperated. Exhaustion and hardship were getting to her, but they would never overcome her - she was stronger than Francois knew; it made her a little sad that he treated her as though she was helpless and frail. If only he'd truly paid attention to her, he would know that. She had survived nearly thirty years, and what she lacked in the kind of strength Francois appreciated, she made up for in wisdom and an internal, mental strength.


If only Francois could have that, so that he could endure this war; she knew how heavily it was weighing on him even now.


Stepping forward, Francois held his sister tight. The warmth of the mansion returned at last, along with light and happiness, and Francois believed for once that this war would end well. Not only did he have the boisterous confidence of youth, he now had shown that he could make a difference: he had defeated Enrico and saved his sister. What further proof did he need that his goals were only just and right?


This was a war about countries, but Francois didn't believe that a person could truly have a personal attachment to their homeland. What life and virtue was there in a mere patch of geography, compared to the vividness of human love and caring?


Countries were impersonal things, he thought, and felt in that moment so far above the nationalists that surrounded him.


"See, Amelie? The world is dangerous, but you're strong," he told her with an honest smile, gently holding on to her hand. "You would make our family proud. Just imagine: Amelie the druid, masterful and skilled, like her venerable ancestors! I'd be nothing compared to you; I don't deserve the responsibility of these powers."


Was that the truth? Francois felt a shiver overcome him as he avoided real honesty.


It was all a show, but he wanted it to be the truth: if his sister had his powers, no longer would he have all the weight of his family's expectations on him. He didn't want to be forced to find a wife, and have a child - the idea made him feel sick. He didn't want to have hundreds of people judging him every day, or be expected to manage the household and all its varied members. That was all far too much for him.


None of this would be happening if Amelie had her brother's gift. In Francois' mind, he was just fixing a mistake the world had made.


Everyone would benefit, and everyone would be happy.


Amelie slipped her hand away, and her smile turned faint and sad. There was the sadness of rejection in her wet eyes, but she steeled herself.


Francois stepped back, feeling the homely warmth of this place fade away in an instant, leaving him cold. He shuddered, feeling the ice cut down to his bones, his heart beating slowly, heavily. His fears - he knew, his fears were becoming manifest.


"You don't need to help me anymore," she told him, and speaking those words at last seemed to relieve her as she glanced back at Napoleon. "I understand what you're doing, but I don't want it."


In a matter of moments, Francois' entire world collapsed around him. He felt sorrow welling up in his eyes, the sting of his sister's final rejection deep in his heart.


It wasn't a pain he could heal from.


Opening his mouth, he wanted to argue against her, but he could only come up with words he'd already spoken. With every thought that passed through his mind the stabbing wound in his heart widened, until it was gaping, his emotions flowing freely for all to see - now, here, was the ugly truth of Francois.


He shook his head, denying this with all he had. "But I've loved you all my life! This is everything I've wanted for you... so that you can live a happy life."


Falling to his knees, he begged her, looking up into her soft eyes. She nearly began to cry along with him, but she couldn't let herself succumb to emotion. All along she had known what she wanted, but only now had she the strength to speak up and tell her brother that this was her life to live - not his.


Barely containing his sobs, Francois collected himself. He stared at Napoleon, that monolith of a man who hadn't said a word this whole time. His Master, and his Master's sister were both feeling the strain of emotion, and him?


He seemed so unaffected by it, as though he were above it all. Francois saw in him what he wanted to see, and what he saw was a corrupt man, devoid of morals.


Napoleon seemed to understand Francois' feelings, and spoke up. "Your sister is a great woman, Master. Know that she is not rejecting you; she is showing you how strong she is, and that she can live without your wish. You should be proud of her!"


Proud? No, no... Francois could never be proud of her, because that would mean admitting Napoleon was right.


"She needs this! How can she be strong if she doesn't have the love of her own family? I want her to be happy, and then I can be happy!"


"So, this was about you all along, was it?" Napoleon snapped back, his lips curled into a disgusted frown. He placed his hand on Amelie's shoulder when she took a step back, away from her brother; then, Francois could see where her allegiance truly was.


All this time Napoleon had been whispering ideas into her ear, and now she was corrupted by them, made to adopt his way of thinking. Was this truly how spiteful Napoleon was, to turn Amelie against her own brother? What depths would he fall to in order to prove himself superior to Francois, to make the young man feel so weak and powerless? A grudge could go far, but Francois now knew how twisted his Servant's emotions had been.


Francois was overcome by this, gripped by emotion, and he stared into Napoleon's hard eyes with a glare of his own.


"Amelie, why? I only want the best for you! Please, please, Amelie..." He covered his face up with his hand, not wanting her to see him like this.


"You don't know what I want, Francois. I just want the simple life I've always had," she said, trying to smile, but only managing a look of unhappy pity. "I used to be weaker, and I used to be overwhelmed by how lonely I was. Napoleon showed me that I'm more than that. We can both be happy, Francois; can't we just go home together, like before? That's all I want."


There was his proof. Francois had his sister's own words proving the effect Napoleon had been having on her, at once proving his suspicions correct.


The accused man walked towards his Master, looking proud and hopeful all at once.


"Francois, you are a good brother. You will lead this family well, if you treat it just as you treated your sister when you were growing up. But now - now you are not a boy. You are a man, and you have to accept your life. I know you can do great things with it. You could change the world, if you wanted to."


"I don't want to change the world!" Francois shouted, rising slowly to his feet, finding his strength once more. "I... I just want to live like a normal person. Is it so selfish for me to want that? My sister could be great, and respected, and strong, but you're not letting her have that. I've always had the best intentions, for everything."


Then, he looked to his sister. "Can't you see that?"


When his eyes met hers, the finality of this crashed down on him, and it made him want to collapse and give in, and let the cruelties of this war take him. What was left to do in his life, if his own sister didn't wish for the happiness he wanted for her?


All this time, from when he was young, he wanted her to take his place. He thought they could both be happy, but now he was proven wrong.


When he was so close to achieving the one thing he'd lived all his life for, it was suddenly and mercilessly taken away from him.


"This is all because of you," Francois whispered, staring hard at Napoleon, who just barely made out his Master's words. "Everything would have been fine, and everyone could be happy - I could be happy - if not for you. You ruined everything, Napoleon. You ruined my life."


The ugliness of his emotions showed through, now, and he raised his hand as though to grasp something.


Touching the air, there was a prickle of pain up his bared arm, green, natural lines tracing their way up to his thin fingers.


The last symbol he had left on his pale hand glimmered in the light from the chandeliers above - this was his last triumph; he would not be defeated by Napoleon, not now and not ever. He would have the upper hand, and everything would go as he'd planned it.


"Napoleon." Francois stated his Servant's name aloud, arresting the man at once.


Napoleon pushed forward, gently passing by Amelie, confronting his Master.


Feeling a heaviness in his heart as he knew what was going to happen with dead certainty, he grabbed Francois' shoulder, trying to buy some time to convince him this was wrong. Francois could be a reasonable man, he knew, but now he was overcome with emotions and needed to calm himself. He would regret this one command; Napoleon wanted nothing more than to talk down his Master.


Francois shoved him away with his free hand, his teeth clenched tightly, grimacing as his head throbbed with pain. This was his decree; he was declaring war on Napoleon, not by force of arms, but in his heart and in his mind.


There was only one thing he knew that could resolve this all.


The air was hot again, tense and stagnant; with every breath Napoleon took, he felt as though he was drowning, and Francois felt the same – but he stood by his stubborn strength of will, and focused on his Servant. If he looked at Amelie even once, he would falter and fail.


She stared at him, confused, trying to understand what was happening. Now she was beginning to grasp what her brother was about to do, but by then it was too late for any of them.


“Napoleon, I command this of you,” Francois began again, the hatred of revenge in his eyes.


When Napoleon saw that, his shoulders slumped, and he stood stock-stiff, his heart stopping as he knew there was nothing now he could do. One last time, he turned back to Amelie, as though to say his goodbyes to her – but he wasn't given a chance to speak.


“You have never known Amelie Demarais, and you never will. Now and forever.”


With those words, the command was sealed with the same strength that drove Francois' implacable will. It was set in stone, never to change, and now even if he had wanted to, Francois could not change what he had done. The mark on his hand, now, had all but faded away.


He had no regrets. This was his war.

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

Weird, I didn't even have to fix the formatting on that one when I pasted it in. Hallelujah! Or, wait... no, ah, never mind.

Anyhow, James - he finally gets in a kiss, but it just brings up unhappy memories. He's certainly not very lucky in love, that's for sure, though maybe things can change when it comes to Saber. It'll be difficult for him to hide what happened, anyhow, considering his feelings. James just wants to be happy, really.

Then you have Francois. And, well... this is the big chapter for his story, really. This is where things start to go downhill. Just as he got to have a big, awesome moment against Enrico, now he's been thrown down to his lowest point yet. I'm sure than none of this will come back to bite him later on, right? Francois and his sister are going to be happy and cheerful together and all's going to be good, right!?

I'd like to hear what you have to think! Especially considering that there was quite a bit of meat to this chapter all around.

[The Green Flame]

God dammit Francois.

[Five_X]

He just doesn't know when to stop.

[DaBlueSky]

It's been months since I last read this. Guess I got a lot to catch up on. I even forgot the page I was on. Well, back to the beginning, I suppose.

[Five_X]

Don't worry... the story will be finished soon!

[Mattias]

Don't worry... the story will be finished soon!

Hahahahaha! I'll believe that when i see the last chapter in front of me.

So just got to reading the last two chapters, so some thoughts:

Johana and "oh right, he exists" guy try to magic back Lancer, and I assume he's now factually accurate rather than the legendary depiction. This has to be some sort of thing with Filippo's magic, seeing as this is the second time he's managed to re-summon a Servant. Or is it just weird happenstance that he's preformed two of the three occurrences of this (barring Siegfried who does it on his own).


Enrico actually gets shot, although I don't know why he's surprised. Francois has been shown to have some of the most bullshit magic powers in this story, he should have been expecting some sort of attack, the fact he decided to forgo the flashy stuff shouldn't have really changed that. by the way did Napoleon start shelling the farm to give a distraction so Francois could slip in easier, or was he fighting El Cid? Finally Enrico manages to pit James' last ally against him, although who knows how long Francois is going to last as he is.

James lives by the idiom of all girls like fast cars, and Saber proves him right. I don't know how I feel about this development though. As nice as it is too see Saber and James hook up with someone decent/not waving death flags everywhere, I kind of prefer the whole Bro thing they have going on. They're not on the level of Nigel and Hannibal but they still mesh together pretty good (Now at least).

And just a bit of a nit pick, but Pops seems like he's a little too on the nose. Like he exists solely to fix the few flaws of James that he still had going into this section of the story. In two chapters he both fixed James lingering issues with getting close to women and helped him get past his "America, Fuck yeah!" ideas. He just seems a little too custom fit for the story. Like a Deus Ex Machina, descending from out of nowhere to fix emotional troubles and give out bitching rides. Maybe it would be a little different if James brought it up, but as is he just starts talking about it the moment they return from their baiting of local police/makeout session.


Wow, Team France. Just wow. I swear I've heard so many defeated villains give that exact same speech Francois did. And now Amelie is going to die when Francois sends Nappy to protect her, and he has no idea who or what she is. Also what kind of brother is he, never asking her how she felt about it. Not even a "hey wouldn't it be cool if you had my powers and I had none?" popped up while they were sitting around, or drinking, or when they were kids. Way to treat her the same way your family did, bro.

[Five_X]

Johana and "oh right, he exists" guy try to magic back Lancer, and I assume he's now factually accurate rather than the legendary depiction. This has to be some sort of thing with Filippo's magic, seeing as this is the second time he's managed to re-summon a Servant. Or is it just weird happenstance that he's preformed two of the three occurrences of this (barring Siegfried who does it on his own).

The first time Filippo re-summoned a Servant wasn't quite him doing it; Romulus and Remus used their power to summon Gilgamesh, who became Filippo's Servant since the twins died quite quickly. This time, he didn't so much re-summon a Servant as he did... forcefully find him, so to speak. He gave Johana's command seals a bit of juice, and then she used those to have her Servant come back to her. After all, her Servant didn't die; by the rules of his oath Lancer (Lohengrin) had to leave, but it just so happens that this new Lancer has a very strong connection to Lohengrin. When Lohengrin's identity is figured out by his Master, he becomes this other person, whilst sharing the same soul. A chapter coming soon details this more thoroughly, but if you go and read up on the Swan Knight it can give you some insights on his historical relevance.

Enrico actually gets shot, although I don't know why he's surprised. Francois has been shown to have some of the most bullshit magic powers in this story, he should have been expecting some sort of attack, the fact he decided to forgo the flashy stuff shouldn't have really changed that. by the way did Napoleon start shelling the farm to give a distraction so Francois could slip in easier, or was he fighting El Cid? Finally Enrico manages to pit James' last ally against him, although who knows how long Francois is going to last as he is.

Francois is specifically among the most powerful magi in the world, from an ancient family. However, he doesn't know that Enrico's power nullifies any magic, because effectively all magic is under Enrico's control. Like, if Francois is an expert pro-level gamer, then Enrico is an incredibly talented modder. Considering that the majority of magi don't use firearms (and Enrico, Ilse, and Nigel are hardly orthodox in any way!), it's reasonable for Enrico to have assumed Francois wouldn't be carrying a gun.

Napoleon was shelling the house to create a distraction, and then to fend off El Cid, because in a close-combat fight, Napoleon has no chance against El Cid.

James lives by the idiom of all girls like fast cars, and Saber proves him right. I don't know how I feel about this development though. As nice as it is too see Saber and James hook up with someone decent/not waving death flags everywhere, I kind of prefer the whole Bro thing they have going on. They're not on the level of Nigel and Hannibal but they still mesh together pretty good (Now at least).

I get how you might feel that, yeah. At the same time, it's pretty important to the characterization of Saber and James, especially as you'll see later on, around the beginning of the next arc...

And just a bit of a nit pick, but Pops seems like he's a little too on the nose. Like he exists solely to fix the few flaws of James that he still had going into this section of the story. In two chapters he both fixed James lingering issues with getting close to women and helped him get past his "America, Fuck yeah!" ideas. He just seems a little too custom fit for the story. Like a Deus Ex Machina, descending from out of nowhere to fix emotional troubles and give out bitching rides. Maybe it would be a little different if James brought it up, but as is he just starts talking about it the moment they return from their baiting of local police/makeout session.

Yeah >.>

I mean, on one hand, James really does idolize his father, and follows his advice in every way, but you're right in that I could've accomplished that in a much more skillful way. However, it's mentioned a few times already that James' dad doesn't have all the answers. He can lead James to water, but he can't make him drink; James still doesn't have anything to fight for, and if he doesn't find any reason to be in the war, then it'll start eating away at him. I mean, he's having trouble dealing with the things he's done and experienced already - imagine how much worse it would be if he turned around and found that it was really all for nothing to begin with? He'd collapse like an overcooked pie.

Wow, Team France. Just wow. I swear I've heard so many defeated villains give that exact same speech Francois did. And now Amelie is going to die when Francois sends Nappy to protect her, and he has no idea who or what she is. Also what kind of brother is he, never asking her how she felt about it. Not even a "hey wouldn't it be cool if you had my powers and I had none?" popped up while they were sitting around, or drinking, or when they were kids. Way to treat her the same way your family did, bro.

And yeah, you hit the nail on the head. Francois isn't trying to save his sister; he's trying to justify running away from his responsibilities. As you might have noticed, "justification" is a big theme of the story. Certainly the people in the story can go about what they're doing, but can they convince themselves that what they're doing is right? After all, no one in MPII is objectively "good" since they all get up to terrible things; it's all about whoever can convince themselves that they're the least terrible. Ilse tried, and failed, and because she could no longer justify what she was doing, she went and got herself killed.

There's another character who can't justify what they're doing in the war, and you'll get to see that quite soon!

Thanks for the comments, Mattias. I always like seeing them; they're a great help in making the story as good as it can be! I can only hope that I'll be able to finish the story by August 21st... as it stands, I've got to write 1826 words minimum every day to reach my anticipated total. That's even more than attempting NaNoWriMo! My God, what have I gotten myself into...

[Five_X]

I'll have another! Another chapter, that is. It's a fairly short one, again, but it goes into the psyches of a few of the characters. Plus, you get to see Dietrich and George as perhaps they ought to be.

I hope you enjoy it!

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

CHAPTER CXIV

The apparition fluttered in the air like a shadow in the night. It stood, ghastly pale, in front of Johana; there it was - there he was - only metres away, and if she walked further she could perhaps reach out to touch him.


She stretched her arm, feeling a chill on her fingers as though dipping them in the icy waters of the river.


Pulling back with a shock, the apparition seemed to ripple, dissipating into the darkness, its light fading away. It faded away just like that night, how he faded away; Johana clutched her hand to her chest, still feeling a cold touch on her fingertips. She massaged them against her skin, the warmth gradually returning. It wasn't a hot night, but when the wind blew past her it felt tepid on her bare flesh.


"Lancer?" she called, her eyes tinged with veins of red as she leaned into the night, trying to catch another glimpse of his figure. She could remember the pale bluish hue of that apparition; it was him, she was sure of it, though she could sense no spirit near her. Perhaps this was a trick of the light, being so dim with just the moon and the stars to show her the way.


Since the sun had set she had been away on the outskirts of the city, southwards yet still near the banks of the river.


Then she felt a shock in her heart: the apparition had returned, and now it moved. It was pale-white against the dark blue backdrop of the night sky, and Johana knew him. She could sense him, now, too; it was her Lancer, and now he had come back to her again and she could set things right. For once in her life she wouldn't fail. For once she would find a purpose beyond the burden her family had forced upon her.


Lancer, through this war, had shown her a life she had never known existed. In the war she saw how people could live and thrive, how they could find peace in a simple existence. It felt so foreign to Johana, like the warm brush of the wind on her arms, but it was welcome in its own way.


She wanted to find a way to accept herself for what she was – was death truly the answer?


The spirit before her walked, moving in her direction. She was arrested by the sight of him, almost letting a smile reach her thin lips. Raising her arm again, she wished to take his hand and with him at her side end this war.


Her family would suffer; they would see the pain they had caused her, and she would have her questions answered. Then, the deed would be done. She could live as Johana, not as the daughter of a disgraced family with a disgraceful past.


Even in this new world she had discovered, though, how could she change herself?


She felt an ache tear through her arm as it strained her to hold it up any longer, gesturing to the apparition that was now so close. Her muscles cried out from exhaustion, and her body as a whole did the same, begging her to lay and rest.


If she rested, though, she knew the dreams would return - and she wondered if this time she would still wake up.


Letting both her arms lay limp by her sides, her shoulders felt weak and slumped down; she stared at the road at her feet, pock-marked by holes and worn paint, wanting truly to end this all. Could she live as she was? Even now, the idea of death, of killing, was something she relished. That part of her truly was inhuman - it was the bestial side she had, speaking out against the peace she wanted to embrace. It called out like a natural instinct, soothing and tempting her with memories: of the taste of blood; of the sound of a person's last gasp before their death; of piercing flesh, feeling the slightest resistance at first, before steel won out and tissue tore apart, all her handiwork.


Like the wolves of her homeland, she desired the satisfaction of life at its most base, thrilled by the very essence of survival. Nothing else made her feel truly alive; to her, there was no truer expression of life than in its ending, and Johana had taken many lives - too many.


"Master? I am here," came a voice from behind, and she felt the heat of a rough hand on her shoulder, thin fingers embracing her arm.


At once she turned about; the apparition cast itself away into the night, and Johana found herself facing Lancer, who stood tall and noble before her.


Godfrey was his proper name, and he bore all the accoutrements of a good knight, seeming to be nothing less: he wore the flag of his kingdom, the symbol of the holy cross, and his family's coat of arms which lay etched into his breastplate, an image of three birds flying in a row upon a golden field.


He nodded, smiling lightly, his polite demeanour undiminished from when she had first seen him. He was a knight, just like Lohengrin, yet he was different - did he know who she was, past this facade of skin and bones she wore? Did he know that, in her heart, she was a demon, unworthy of a good knight's loyalty?


He could not. Lohengrin had left her, knowing what she was - if this man had the same soul, then he would defy his duty and loyalty all the same.


Worse still, he claimed to be in his own way beholden to God, and Johana was still a pagan, embodying all that a good Christian ought to despise and spit upon. Never would Johana forsake her culture and beliefs for the betterment of another. She was left, then, with only one option to save her from the same fate she had suffered before.


"Your proper name is Lohengrin," she accused, staring into his eyes, testing him.


Lying was something she could sense inherently, like how a beast can sense fear in a man. If he knew her, even in the depths of his mind, she would know.


"I am no such man," he responded with a nod, then looked up to the stars, thinking. "Yet I know of whom you speak: the knight of the swan! Such a figure of legend, none could forget his name. My family's line descends from him, and his fateful union with the lady Elsa. You know your history, Master; this impresses me."


"Ilse?" She repeated that name; her expression softened as curiosity overtook her.


Lancer smiled, more than eager to tell his tale. How different he was from the man Johana knew – how could they be one and the same? Yet, the more he spoke, the deeper an understanding she gained of him and his connection to Lohengrin, to the Lancer that she had fought alongside.


"She was a German noblewoman, the duchess of Brabant. She married Lohengrin, who was to her an unknown knight she had beheld in a dream who made her promise that she would never ask his name. This nameless knight of the swan was popular, loved by all the people of the realm, but he was struck by tragedy. He was forced to reveal his name, and so he had to leave Elsa and Brabant, disappearing into the mist of the rivers, never again to be seen. Fortunately for me - and now you, as it stands - they had a child, a son, and then some years later was born this Godfrey who before you stands, of the loyal house de Bouillon."


He bowed low, still showing his grin to her, acting nothing like the lord he was. Humility was his virtue: even his armour, gleaming in the night like polished ivory, was marred with small imperfections, because he believed it was not his right to seek perfection.


Rather, he was satisfied with who he was - he did not seek to be anything great.


Johana could barely contain the questions she had, the thoughts she wondered about; Lancer knew the legend of the swan knight, but now that she knew it, too, it resonated with her. Everything made sense, now, with her quick mind piecing together an understanding of the honourable knight who had left her, and why he acted as he did.


Godfrey was proud of the life he lived, but Lohengrin was not. Lohengrin passed on as a failure, being given one task - to protect his lady, Elsa - and not even being able to succeed at that, for all his might and virtue.


The man who had served Johana had done so knowing only of his mistakes in the past, and his one desire must have been to get a second chance as a guardian.


Johana herself had been that second chance, but she had ruined it for him; they both believed that they could continue on forever with a mutual understanding of silence between them, but that could never succeed. Lancer cared too much about the woman he was to serve and to protect, while Johana knew little more than impulse and vengeance, suspecting every secret Lancer held with her natural paranoia.


No matter what she had known or done, their relationship would have ended the same way. Johana realized this, understanding it fully, but still it made her sad.


She wore a frown, remembering those last moments with Lancer, wishing she could return to him. It was so unnecessary, so cruel and so trivial, that he was forced to disappear, and she believed that it wasn't what he wanted, either.


That was the past, though, and Johana could not linger there forever.


Now she glanced at Godfrey, who held his spear high, the light breeze unfurling the banner that hung from its haft, a flag flying in the wind.


She had only this man now, who did not remember her. It was because of those lost memories that he could serve her - because of that, Johana could go on, begrudgingly. Still, she wondered if anything she touched would flourish, if there could be stability and happiness in her life, or if death was truly the best and only answer.


If her life would only be filled with sorrow and regret, what worth did it have to her?


Letting out a long breath, she watched the river as it flowed quietly in the night, the face of the moon reflected on the choppy waters like a picture in a broken mirror. Her eyes had returned to a neutral grey, her lips forming a bitter smile as she glanced briefly at her Servant.


Lancer stood ahead of her, keeping watch on the river's edge, his hand to his brow, staring forward. He was in her service, and would protect her just like Lohengrin did - perhaps, if they shared the same soul, then this would be his atonement. He would never have the satisfaction of knowing that he had done well as a knight, but Johana would remember.


So long as she remembered Lohengrin, then he would be a good knight. His one dream would be fulfilled, and he could rest in peace.

– –

Alexei kept a steady watch over the Potomac river, sitting on the parapet of Key Bridge. It was an uncomfortable seat, but he enjoyed the feel of it underneath him, like it grounded him to the very earth itself.


In one hand he held his shashka, a memento of Russia's imperial days; he dug its ever-sharp tip between two stones, and let it rest there beside him.


On the bridge, pacing back and forth in constant vigil, was his Servant, Saber. His hand was ever on the hilt of his broad, curved sword, ready to unsheathe it and bury it in the gut of whomever disturbed his Master. He was a knight of his own sort, loyal to a fault but only to those who commanded his loyalty well. Alexei happened to be the lucky sort of man: Saber found it appropriate to serve him, just as he had served many others in the past as was needed.


This conflict was not his to begin with, but it became his by way of his duty.


Alexei glanced over him, the arches of his eyebrows showing a weariness with the world that the cool night could not relieve.


"There are no bridges like this in Moscow," he mused, partly to Saber and partly to himself, looking once down to the water, and then up to the sky - they shared the same deep colour. "This concrete has artistry to it, like the stonework of old masons. In Moscow we have only plain steel, and concrete poured down to fill a mould, not to make an impression. There used to be great structures in the city, but that is the past - Moscow is a modern city now, and it can't have history holding it back.”


Letting out a sigh, he peered out into the distance, and saw two figures; his old eyes were still sharp, and he recognized them: the vampire, Roderick, and his Servant Sigurd. They walked east to west along the shore of Roosevelt Island, as though searching for something. Alexei couldn't have known what, though it didn't matter.


He would have to fight them, soon. He imagined he would be ready.


"There is the Soviet world, and there is the Russian world." These words meant nothing to Saber, he knew, but he spoke them anyway, because letting his thoughts be heard set him at ease.


He glanced over at Washington to his left, the sprawling city. "I'm part of the Russian world still, and I will be until I die. I was born before the Great War, and I remember the majesty of the imperial realm, how it all seemed to be in its own little world. Then the revolution came, and reality crashed down upon Russia like an inevitable tide. Russia's golden age was snuffed out; like a candle extinguished before it could burn itself out, the memory of Russia as she was lingered, forever perfect. All these failures have been Soviet failures, and it's made me wonder what the true difference is between an absolutist Tsar and the General Secretary. I always thought things would be more free, more liberal than they were before, but that dream was cut short. The revolution was commandeered by men like Stalin, and now I wonder if I still have enough life left in me to author the changes I want to see in the world. I don't want to live to see the future if it is a Soviet future."


He smiled bitterly, the irony of changing the world through war not lost on him.


"There is no difference between an old man and a young man," said Saber, recalling wisdom that he had learned many eras ago. "The only thing that sets them apart is that young men believe that they have yet to live their lives, and old men believe their lives have already been lived. You could die as a youth having barely seen the world, or you could pass one hundred years - what matters is not how long you live or have lived, but what you accomplish with the years you are given."


Alexei nodded, a smile coming to his lips as he meditated on those words. They both were relics of the past, of a time that the modern age had too quickly forgotten, but there was always much to be learned from history.


Every mistake that can ever be made has already been made by someone who lived in the vastness of the past; what is endless are successes, for as long as there are problems in the world, there are great things left to achieve.


Feeling reinvigorated, Alexei stared down at the water, rushing, full of life, and took in a deep breath as though he was about to dive in.


"But I feel like I'm getting older every day. The world passes me by, and I wonder if the pressure, if it keeps building as it is, might be too much for my heart someday. I have my health to worry about, because I'm not as strong as I was when the revolution came. If only I had half that strength, still..."


He clenched his fist, lightly beating on the smooth concrete, feeling its cracks. The cracks gave it character; every imperfection was its own story, just like the scars Alexei himself bore, just like the wrinkles in his face.


Saber turned to him, hand on the hilt of his sword.


Alexei could hear a rush of wind, paired with the shrill call of steel as it was drawn from a sheath. In an instant, he could feel cold metal on his neck, the pointed tip of Saber's blade tracing a light line along an old, faded scar that Alexei still had. It was a battle-wound, something he used to be proud of but now only saw as an emblem of his reckless past, before he knew that he had a life that needed living.


"If you died today, what would your life have been worth?"


There was pain in Saber's voice, as though he understood how Alexei felt, and could see his footsteps set in a path he himself had once walked.


As calm as ever, Alexei didn't flinch when he felt Saber draw his scimitar. Today wasn't his day to die - he imagined that if he were to die he would know it, feel it, beforehand.


"I will never know how I will change the world," he half-whispered, speaking a truth that he had known for years already. "It won't be my own generation who will make history - every generation gets only one chance to make their mark on the world, and we have already had ours. Young people are the future, and all I want to do is set an example for them to follow. If they end up like their parents, or like my generation, then there will be no hope for change in the world."


Saber nodded, and slowly drew back his sword, letting it silently fall back into its decorated sheath. Behind his dark beard lay a smile, one that Alexei could not see, staring out beyond the bridge.


"Your age means nothing, and your generation even less. I lived for hundreds of years, and I saw young men and old men alike all pass me by. Imagine that you have another hundred years left ahead of you – because you could die tomorrow, or you could have died yesterday. Death is only something to fear when it comes for you and your life is unfulfilled. As long as you still breathe, Alexei, you can change the world."


Hearing that, it reminded Alexei of his own thoughts, so idealistic and brave; it was so like himself that he knew now why he must have summoned this Servant in particular, and he let out a bellow of a laugh.


Saber stared at him quizzically, but Alexei merely shook his head, showing his teeth in a wide, pleased grin.


He had turned around from his place on the bridge's edge, facing the street now, away from the towering Washington Monument in the distance, standing proudly over everything. It watched the whole war.


Moving too quickly, Alexei fell backwards, grasping out with his hand in an attempt to find something to hold, but he couldn't; there was nothing for his fingers to grip, and he leaned dangerously further off the edge, teetering towards the water and certain death. He tried in vain to dig his sword deeper into a crevice in the concrete, but that served only to push him further away, towards the river.


A tenseness clutched his heart, but it was only momentary - Saber's rough hand took hold of his arm, righting him and getting him to his feet.


Alexei let out a sigh of relief, glancing once over his shoulder to Roosevelt Island and the Mall. Perhaps he had been wrong before; feeling the solid ground beneath his feet was more truly soothing.


Saber was right - the only important part of death was in the dying.


Though Alexei was growing older, and with each passing day felt weaker and more frail, his mind was ever strong, and that was what mattered. With this war he could finally make a difference, and he could at last see the new, better world he had held in his heart for nearly fifty years. It felt surreal to imagine that he could bring about the kind of change that he envisioned, but he knew more than anything that it was possible.


For humanity, for a generation of people, there were no limits to what could be accomplished.


Standing proud, Alexei stared out at the city beside his Servant, feeling as though he could see the world changing before his very eyes.


At last, his dream would become real. There was enough strength left in him to win this war, and if that was his last act as a living man, then he could be happy no matter how death took him.


There was much to learn from the past, and it was there that Alexei remained - for only through the past, he believed, could the way to a better future be built.

– –

Dawn was still an hour away, but the chapel doors creaked open, letting the light within touch the cobblestone path that ran down to the street. Below the hill, the city was silent, a rare thing for this war, but now everyone was cautious - the war would had to end soon; they could feel it in their blood, and there was a lingering fear that whoever struck out to end it would die first.


More than death itself, what they feared was losing the chance to fulfill their dreams.


George, sitting in the pews with his hand resting on his forehead, could hear the thud of hard boots as someone marched into the chapel, unannounced. He didn't need to open his eyes to know who stood behind him now.


"Dietrich, what brings you here so early? You ought to be sleeping."


He let out a long breath, wishing he could get more time to sleep himself. This was the closest he could come to meaningful rest, and now all these restless weeks were starting to have an effect on him. He'd lost his resolve when dealing with Nigel and Francois, and he could only assume that Dietrich, too, had heavy matters he wanted to talk about. Everyone who came here had a problem, and George was always expected to have the answers.


Dietrich took off his hat, holding it to his chest. "I have to leave the country soon. You did well in getting me here, but returning to Europe is the problem. I have to retire somewhere, George - somewhere no one will suspect who I am."


"I doubt you'll find many places like that anymore," George said, fatigue wearing down his words so that he nearly slurred them. Nonetheless, he kept up his strength and stood up to his feet, feeling the strain on his ageing body. He had to wonder just how long he could last - for too many years he had cheated death.


Facing Dietrich, he shrugged his shoulders. "You could try South America, or one of those places in the Middle East. Otherwise, you haven't got much choice. There might be nowhere left for you to go, my old friend."


His voice was raspy and withered, betraying the truth of his age, and he walked slowly, unsteadily towards the pulpit where a cane was leaning. He needed it, now.


"I would rather live out my last days in civility," snapped Dietrich, disappointed with the hand that life had dealt him - but even he was starting to understand that perhaps there was nothing he could do. Perhaps only death awaited him, and to try to avoid it was only making the pain last longer. Because of what he had been associated with, he couldn't live a normal life any longer. Was he a victim of chance, or was this natural retribution for his own choices?


There could be no answer to that question, not one that satisfied him, and he shook his head.


"I... apologize," he said, still wearing a frown. He spoke bitterly now, past anger. "I never wanted to live like this. I've always wanted to return to my home, but now... the world is not what it used to be. Everywhere I am unwelcome, and in Germany most of all. But I will never bow to the indignity of admitting to any wrongdoing - it doesn't matter what court they bring me to; I will not give in. If I can never grow old and die in peace, then it will not be for lack of effort."


"Do you think I don't have any problems of my own? They know." His voice became hoarse, his words punctuated by the loud stab of his cane on the wooden floor. Walking towards Dietrich on unsteady feet, he let his friend see the desperation in his eyes, knowing that everything was falling apart in the end.


"Nigel?" Dietrich asked, more like a statement of fact. He didn't show any shock or surprise.


George nodded, slowly. "He and Francois figured out everything. They know it all, now: the truth about the war, and the Servants, and who I really am. Can't you see, Dietrich? No matter how far you go, your past will always catch up with you. You can never escape what you've done - or who you once were."


Furrowing his brow, Dietrich continued to frown. He wondered, then, about how things had changed so much after twenty years. All that time ago, their positions were reversed. Now George was the one lecturing his friend during a war that couldn't possibly have fallen any farther away from their expectations. Twenty years ago, they had prepared for the worst; now, they had prepared for the best, and they were left stranded with no clear hope of salvation.


Was that how it would all end? Both of them swallowed up by their pasts, never getting their redemption or mercy. Perhaps it is what they both deserved. Perhaps this was their judgement, after twenty years.


"I can escape this," Dietrich told him, speaking in part to assure himself. "You helped me get into this country. Now you have to help me get out. Your past caught up with you, yes, but that doesn't mean mine will. I want to live. I refuse to die while my country is torn apart, a shattered reflection of her former strength. That is my only regret in life: failing my country. I only want to see Germany united again, and when that happens I can finally die. Can't you buy me a few more years, George?"


It pained George's heart to hear his friend demanding this from him, something he couldn't promise. He knew that, twenty years ago, Dietrich would have helped him with anything, and now it was time to return that favour.


He wished to give his friend a blank cheque, to give him anything he'd ever wanted - this war could have been that, but now it had all turned to ashes before him.


"You'll be safe in my chapel. Stay here as long as you need, Dietrich," said George, reaching his arm out, trying to grasp at him to hold him here. Dietrich was the only hope he had left of keeping this war in check, as without him he feared that chaos would overwhelm everything he'd created, and he would be left helpless as he watched that creation ruin the perfection he envisioned it could have been.


"I have no place here, and I never will. Help me escape, help me start a new life, just as I helped you. My past might come for me someday - but not this day."


It was in that moment George was reminded of why he admired Dietrich.


He remembered how he looked, twenty years ago, standing amidst smouldering ruins. He had been defeated, but he kept on fighting. Not once did he wince or cry out or feel that he could not survive; he kept his stoic frown, not once smiling, instead seeing the world for what it is and still believing that he was better than whatever challenge he faced. His resolve was unbreakable, like that of a hero of old, his passion kept still behind his calm visage even as he strived to achieve his goals with everything he had.


That was the Dietrich he remembered, and that was the Dietrich who stood before him now.


George let out a sigh, and leaned against the pews. "I can pray for your soul, but I can do nothing to help you leave. I have to stay here and ensure the neutrality of the war, even if it kills me. Nigel and Francois know that I'm not a real priest, and that this is all my invention; Enrico is kidnapping innocents, and James' father, the head of the Hawthorne family, has joined the war to help his son. I couldn't have predicted any of this, and I worry that if I step away for even just a moment, this house of cards I've built will just topple over without me to support it."


Crossing his arms, Dietrich nodded stoically. He could understand that - he could feel the weight that bore down on George's old shoulders.


Age was starting to affect George more grievously than it had ever before, far more deeply than could be seen just in the deeply-set wrinkles on his face. The light that had one shone in his eyes was dulled, and his every motion lacked the enthusiasm he once could muster. Now his body was failing him day by day, and he wondered how much longer he could continue. Use of his magic strained him, the debilitating mix of natural weariness and a resulting lack of strength, strength he needed to support this war as he had. Only one of his puppets remained, but it was not suited for him - he had one left if he ever needed to summon another Servant for his use, but now he was so exhausted and worn down that he couldn't survive another ritual.


He had been lucky to survive for more than eighty long years in such good health, but now it seemed that all his fortune was quickly running out, like sand spilling out of an hourglass.


"I haven't got your strength, Dietrich. My time has come for better or for worse, so maybe I'll see you in heaven, Dietrich - if we're both so lucky." He managed a weak smile, and pushed out on his cane to stand straight again.


Dietrich scoffed, taking a step closer to his old friend. "There's nothing waiting for us after death, George. Fortunately, that means we have no hell to worry ourselves about. Live your last days in peace, my friend, but never think of them as your last. Rage against the dying of the light, and make sure your life is fulfilled until the very end of it. Then you might have no regrets left, and you can be in heaven in your heart and your peace of mind."


He held out his hand, and George gripped it with all the strength he had left, shaking it tightly. They shared one last smile - something too common for George, and not common enough for Dietrich.


Letting out a long breath, George laughed, and patted Dietrich's arm.


"Thank you for twenty years, Dietrich. You made them worth living, so please - keep going, for my sake." His face seemed youthful, for a few moments, as he looked up to meet Dietrich's kind eyes.


For once, Dietrich laughed as well. "I hope to reach eighty someday myself. Maybe Germany will decide to become one country again on my birthday - wouldn't that be nice?"


Then they both laughed together, and they enjoyed this last meeting. They knew in their hearts that they would never again see each other - but rather than the weight of sadness laying heavy in their hearts, they resolved together to make their lives worth all this struggle and hardship. They would be an example of that to each other - that they could continue on, that this war truly was good for something, in the end.


The two parted with a smile, sharing one last glance before Dietrich turned around.


He left the chapel, quietly opening its doors and letting them shut behind him without a noise. But the the sound of his boots on the hardwood floor lingered on in an echo, a sound that George would never forget.


The war was ending. Perhaps he still had reason left to hope.

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

And so we say goodbye to Dietrich. This is his last scene in the story, and for his part he played his role well to the very end. Remember him for who he was, not what he was - and hopefully he can manage to live out the rest of his life in peace.

Tomorrow will see another short chapter; hopefully everyone can keep up!

[Five_X]

I can only hope that this is enough reading material to keep everyone here busy. Thankfully, it's only a short chapter, not some 15,000+ word monstrosity.

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

CHAPTER CXV

March 9^th, 1963


The night had been quiet; not a drop of blood was shed. For every day that passed without violence, those who fought in the war could only imagine the next would make up for that. Peace could not last for long, as it was merely a facade under which could be found simmering resentment and a collective need to survive. Everyone wanted to win the war, but many no longer knew why.


Johana woke up agitated, the nightmares having come for her yet again. This time, her mind gave her a rare blessing: she couldn't remember what horrors had stricken her while she slept.


She assumed they were terrifying thoughts, resuscitating old and painful experiences for her to suffer through again, except without any way to escape.


Gradually the red of her eyes faded away, and despite her restful sleep she felt fatigued. She tried to move her arms, but her muscles refused to act, her hands shivering nonetheless.


"Lancer!" she called, exerting herself just by breathing. It felt like the end was near.


It wouldn't be unwelcome, she thought.


Without delay the knight knelt by her beside, examining her neck and shoulders for any wounds. There were none - yet her body was unnaturally cold, even more so than usual. Touching her skin felt to Lancer like brushing his fingers against ice, and he pulled back in shock and confusion.


It took Johana a moment to remember: he didn't know what she needed in the morning, and how her body manifested the symptoms of its many ailments.


There were medical names for what was wrong with her, she was certain, but she had never bothered to learn them. These problems were endemic to her family, and she saw them not as diseases of the body, but sufferings of the soul. This was what she had to endure in retribution for being born as she was, incestual and hardly human at all. It disgusted her still, but she had her penance. She would die soon, at long last, and that set her at ease.


"I will do anything you ask of me, my lady." Lancer raised his head, looking into his Master's eyes, and Johana frowned. He could never be the Lancer she knew.


His devotion almost made her smile, though; still, it was not enough to satisfy her.


"Make me coffee. Eight sugars, and ensure the brew is strong. It doesn't matter how hot it is, just get it to me now."


She bit down on her lips as he left the room in haste, knowing that Lohengrin would have been by her side already as soon as she had woken up. He would have had coffee and cakes ready before she needed to ask for them.


However, she could not fault Godfrey's loyalty and determination. Whatever task he was set to, even if its intent was unknown or confusing to him, he sought to accomplish. He lacked the depth of understanding that Lohengrin had, but Lohengrin was a man whose existence was founded upon struggle and guilt - Godfrey had no regrets haunting him, and he stood taller, prouder, than anyone Johana had ever known.


Though they shared the same soul, Godfrey and Lohengrin were different men in their outlook on the world; Johana wondered if she could adapt herself to that.


She could trust this faithful Christian knight eventually, just as she had trusted Lohengrin until the end. No matter how much she trusted and relied on Godfrey, however, he could never replace the memories Johana had of Lohengrin, because Lohengrin had changed her irrevocably. Her Servant would be loyal and kind and strong for her sake, but he could never match his predecessor.


"Ilse, Lancer..." she mumbled under her breath, remembering what she had lost over the course of the war. It already felt like too much when Ilse suffered such an inglorious, unnecessary death; when Lohengrin left her, her anger began to become despair.


Was it right to fight on for them? Was it what they would want?


Johana didn't know how to respond to loss, having never had such a palpable feeling of it until now. The base, instinctual part of her wished to kill, to repay blood with blood so that she could be satisfied, but Johana's rational mind was taken aback by that rising desire. Again and again she tried to deny it, but it would never disappear, and would not be banished from her mind. If she were to overcome the deaths of those who had meant so much to her, she would first have to defeat what she was and embrace who she was.


Her blood, however, was strong - it would not be denied so easily.


Clutching her pale, thin arm she could see her veins pumping with every beat of her heart, her skin twitching. She felt so cold, as though her heart had been frozen still, but in her chest she was burning hot, scorching her from within.


The pain of her very existence made her want to scream out, but she tightened her fingers into a fist, her fingernails nearly drawing blood from her palms; she thought her teeth, biting down hard, would shatter each other apart, but eventually the pain faded away like a passing breeze. The sun shone down on her from the window, streaming in and coating her in natural warmth, and she relaxed.


Leaning back against the headboard of her bed, she heard the turn of a doorknob, and with a creak Lancer stepped in, balancing a ceramic plate and cup in one hand.


With the utmost care and precision, he knelt down by the nightstand, gently pushed Johana's bedside lamp away, and put down the plate with the cup beside it.


She smiled, just for a moment, appeased by the sight of steam floating up from the surface of her drink. Her cup was filled nearly up to the brim with the cloudy, chocolate-coloured refreshment she couldn't do without. Impressive, in a way - Lancer had never made her coffee before this morning, but by all appearances he had done splendidly.


Gripping the handle of the mug with her thin fingers, she leaned over and brought the edge to her lips, drinking down what she could without making a spill.


The coffee, a torrent of heat, rolled down her tongue and throat, and Johana let out a gasp of instant relief, melting back into her bedsheets.


Soon enough, however, she was back up again, draining a full quarter of the cup before she gingerly picked up one of the small white cakes Lancer had brought, stuffing it into her mouth. Hers was pure enjoyment - even if it lacked any sort of manners, as she didn't hesitate to make her satisfaction with the sweets known. She stared at the cup and the plate with hard determination as she chewed, not even smiling before she swallowed, having savoured every taste the teacake had to offer.


It was as refreshing as she wished it to be, and it still surprised her how well prepared it was.


Lancer smiled and nodded, before her on one knee, watching intently as his Master ate. Here he was more squire than knight, but he didn't mind; he had been charged with serving and protecting her, and he understood this as somehow necessary to her.


If she desired something, so he thought, then it was of the utmost importance.


"It's good," Johana said, swallowing her last bit of cake. "Very good, Lancer. Every morning I require this, or else I'll suffer exhaustion throughout the whole day."


His eyes lit up with new understanding, and with that understanding came determination - he had done his best to serve her, and would continue as he had done. If she wanted him to fight in battle, then he would do so; if she wanted him to make her coffee, then he would approach the task with the same resolve.


"Thank you, my lady." He bowed his head as she licked her lips, tasting but a trace of sugar.


Then, looking into her eyes, he asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you? There is no war in the daytime, so if there are any tasks otherwise that must be accomplished, tell me of them and I will be sure not to fail you."


He spoke every word with an honesty and care that Johana couldn't help but find contagious; Lancer was happy to be there for her, seeing nothing as below him. His humility and kindness weren't part of a facade - she could be sure of that now. Whereas Lohengrin had felt conflicted between his trust and the increasing closeness of his relationship with her, Godfrey had no such interests or pretensions. Without any other goal in mind, he was her knight.


That appealed to Johana, in a way, but at the same time she couldn't help but sense an emptiness in his words. He was dedicated, but she liked Lohengrin for who he was, not for his unwavering dedication. Lohengrin was a man of many emotions, while Godfrey had an unmatched sense of duty. One, certainly, was the better knight, but Lohengrin would always be the better companion.


Sighing, Johana let a faint smile reach her lips, and she ran her fingers through Godfrey's soft hair, resting her hand on his head for a moment before pulling away, closing her eyes.


Without a word she shook her head, and Lancer picked up her cup and her plate, taking them back to the kitchen, closing the bedroom door. Johana was alone with her thoughts again.


She couldn't help but miss Lohengrin.


Godfrey was a man she trusted without any doubt in her heart, but Lohengrin was different. She felt a connection to him, just as she was connected to Ilse, and the severing of that connection, so immediately and so cruelly, left her hurting even now.


Ilse, Lohengrin... they had made her believe that perhaps she could live a normal, fulfilling life. They made her believe that, once this war was over, she could be Johana; she didn't have to die.


Laying down again, she kept her eyes opening, imagining a brighter future for herself.

– –

"Where'd Saber run off to?" Abraham asked, slipping off his coat as he stepped through the door. He could only see James, who was bent over a record player flipping through a stack of vinyls.


James turned towards his father, smiling, and hitched a thumb towards the window.


"She's off doing the shopping. Thanks for the money, by the way. You're... sure that five hundred isn't too much?" He glanced back at his record player to check his music collection, clearly wondering how much he could expand it by with even a slim chunk of that five hundred. At the same time, he worried about how extravagant Saber might be with the money – he'd given her all of it and a list of groceries, not entirely sure how much everything they needed would actually cost.


Abraham laughed, closing the door with a click and stepping over to his son. "No, it's fine. Business is doing well, and the meeting in New York went swimmingly. The company's been in the black for a third straight quarter, you know."


"My investment calculations paid off, then?" James scratched his chin, remembering his Harvard days. He wasn't sure if he was even qualified to advise his own father on financial matters, considering he'd just graduated. "I mean, it was all theory; I'd never actually had a chance to consider it in a real market situation-"


"It was good! Damn good, actually; the whole board was impressed. I, well... I didn't tell them my own son came up with the whole plan, but they appreciated it nonetheless. I'm proud of how far you've come - you're a man now, James, and you've grown up well."


James was beaming at his father's praise, not caring about a lack recognition from some set of company executives he never met - he only wished for his father to be happy with him, and now he knew his father didn't want him to become what he had expected of the boy he raised; as long as James became a good, dependable man, then he could always be proud of his son.


Putting a vinyl carefully back in its sleeve, James slid it onto a bookshelf beside his record player and sat on his armchair. His father, on the sofa now, was across from him, and James opened his mouth, wanting to say something but not knowing quite how to put it into words.


"Does that mean..." he began, but then stopped and took a breath.


He looked out the window, then started again. "Does that mean you're alright with Emily? What I did, and... what happened? I know you say you're proud of me, but I just want to know if you're still thinking about that."


Abraham didn't respond at first, looking over instead to the record player, feeling that a bit of music would help ease the situation. He didn't like how tense the atmosphere was now, but he didn't put the blame on James. Two years ago, his life had changed: he'd made a mistake that he could never fix.


"Didn't I tell you?" he said with a smile. "I'm not disappointed in you, son. If you weren't sad about Emily, then I'd bring things into question, but I saw you cry. A man without regrets doesn't cry, and I can see now how much your own faults have weighed on you. If you're waiting for my judgement, then you've got it: I'm still proud of you. I always have been."


James sighed, and smiled. That weight his father spoke about was real - and when he had seen what had become of Eleanor's home and he allowed himself to let go of the past, that weight disappeared. Now he was free, sitting upright; his father was proud of him, but more importantly James was proud of himself.


In this war he'd lacked self-confidence, making up for it with beliefs that had been instilled in him since he was young. He wondered how he managed to survive months in this tense environment, testing him at every turn.


Then, he remembered Saber. His smile only grew wider when he thought of her, remembering what they had been through, how he used to hate her so much.


And just yesterday he'd let feelings he wasn't sure of flow through, and he kissed her.


Abraham looked at him knowingly, and nodded.


"I wouldn't mind if you married Saber, you know." The way he phrased that, with the tone of his voice, made it seem as though it was an afterthought, a break to another, lighter conversation; Abraham looked at the record player and the uneven shelf of vinyls, but out of the corner of his eye he watched James for his reaction.


If James had been drinking, he'd have spit it out. In lieu of that, his eyes went wide and he leaned back in his chair.


His father knew him too well. He could only imagine what he'd say if he protested:


"I know that look, son; that's the look a man gets when he thinks of someone special to him."


Those words, spoken only in his mind, seemed to be real, and James steadied himself to level a stare at his father. He swore he could see Abraham's lips moving in time with the words James imagined, but that was just a cruel trick of his thoughts.


"You're a good man, and you deserve a good woman," Abraham said with a shrug - and just the barest hint of a shrug as he rested an arm on the back of the couch, lounging. "She's very strong, and just as beautiful. What I'm saying is, regardless of what our traditions are, I wouldn't be mad at you if you fell for her."


James didn't know how to respond, instead silently knitting his brow and glaring.


He scoffed before he eventually spoke. "That means we both have to survive all this... and I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about the war ending, because I'll get optimistic and imagine what life will be like afterwards. Then, if that doesn't happen, I'll suffer for it. I might be depressed or afraid of the world, not wanting to trust anything anymore. I've survived this long, but will I live to see the sun rise tomorrow?"


"You're afraid already," Abraham said, but his words were not an accusation.


His expression was soft and kind, and when he frowned it was only because he could feel what his own son was suffering through.


James wanted to retort and say something clever and upend those three words his father had spoken, but he couldn't. When he tried to speak, his throat dried up and the words slipped out of his thoughts. This time, even trying to mask his emotion with anger or frustration didn't help him; his father had struck at the heart of his troubles, revealing something he'd wished to hide. He didn't want to need his father's help anymore - the problems he faced were his own.


His silence was in itself a confession, and Abraham sighed gently, gesturing for James to take a seat on the sofa. James didn't move, his fingers tapping on the arms of his chair.


They both knew what James felt, but neither spoke. They had reached a mutual understanding, between father and son, but still James wasn't satisfied.


He accepted that he had lost Emily, and that he had failed Eleanor. Why, then, did he still feel apprehension in his heart?


When he said that he was afraid of the future, that was a glimpse at the truth: he was afraid. He may have had feelings for Saber, or anyone, but how could he let himself get close to anyone? This was a war, and anyone could die at any moment. Tonight could be his last, or tomorrow; he could lose Saber or even his father, because life was fickle and unpredictable. As soon as he felt that he had a handle on the situation he'd been driven into, everything turned around on him and he suffered for it.


When Eleanor died, it had been when he had been at his most optimistic and most confident. What value did his feelings have if they wouldn't make him happy in the end, if they would only deepen the sorrow he felt?


It was for the best to set his heart aside. This was a war, and he had to fight. There could be nothing else.


Despite the pain it brought him, for the first time in his life James tried to let go of his emotions, knowing how they had failed him before. Perhaps Francois had been right - this was a war, and bringing feelings into it would only result in sadness and suffering, because those two outcomes were inevitable. The war could be won in a stunning victory, but simply by happening the war was a tragedy – yet one without a hero.


By winning, James would put an end to the hopes of so many brave souls. He couldn't question whether or not this was right anymore - he had to survive, for his own sake.


Still, deep in his heart, he felt a shiver of fear.

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

What is love? Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more. Sadly, that song is a bit out of the date range to be appropriate as a character song for James... but it works nonetheless. Also, we're learning more and more about Godfrey, who makes a mean cup of sugar-coffee.

Thanks again for reading, and I'll be sure to have the next chapter up soon! Progress is as steady as ever.

[Mattias]

So, character building time! Everyone is dying of something!

I actually enjoy and empathize with Johana for once in these two pieces. Before she was just the crazy, sort of lesbian with a huge blood lust, but reading her missing her bro Lancer actually made me start to sympathize with her finally. especially since given her past and general personality I can easily see Lancer as being one of the few people she could be friends with. Now he's gone and his more perfect clone has replaced him, and she still can't get used to it.

Has there been a reveal yet on Alexei's servant? I don't remember one, but with this story that means nothing. I mean, the way he was going on about Russia, I kind of expected him to have a Russian hero, but even amongst normal heroes its hard hard to think of who lived centuries. They all tend to die in their twenties or thirties, to keep the legend tragic. Maybe another Biblical one to go with Kait's Moses?

George seems to have Padme Amidala disease. If he dies, does that mean that the magic he used to bring about the Servants goes too? Or is it self sustaining and he just provided the initial means? Why is Dietrich looking for a new country to go to? America is a big place has plenty of out of the way places he could retire to. Hell it's the sixties, the South probably wouldn't even care that much if he's racist. Besides, everyone was looking for the Commies not the Nazis. By the way was that line of Dietrich's about German Reunification a actual thing? I don't remember him getting a birthday mentioned, and IIRC the Wiseup thread died before he was introduced.

Pops tells James he's alright with having Roman grandkids. You know it might just be because I've been watching quite a bit of HIMYM recently, but James is starting to remind me a lot of 60's Magi Ted Mosby. Heart on his sleeve, always looking for relationships, spending a while moping after each one fails and ends up going for his best friend in the end.

With all the diseases and talk about old age in this section I'm starting to see a tragic ending where whoever wins in the end will drop dead right after either after getting their wish and not being able to see it through, or, for extra tragedy, before they can get their wish out. Then they see their old farm with all their dead family and horses frolicking among the grain as their body is carried away by the Senate.

Yes, I did watch Gladiator recently.

April 21st is the plan for the conclusion, right? You've only got two weeks, I hope you can make it.

[Five_X]

I actually enjoy and empathize with Johana for once in these two pieces. Before she was just the crazy, sort of lesbian with a huge blood lust, but reading her missing her bro Lancer actually made me start to sympathize with her finally. especially since given her past and general personality I can easily see Lancer as being one of the few people she could be friends with. Now he's gone and his more perfect clone has replaced him, and she still can't get used to it.

In terms of power levels, Godfrey isn't as buff as Lohengrin. He's still pretty boss, though... especially against a certain type of foe, as you'll see very soon :3

As for Johana, she just needs somebody to love, she just neeeeds somebody to loooooove, yeah... or, at least, someone who gives her a reason to live. Ilse could've been that, and there are definite parallels between Ilse and Johana, but as you point out, Lancer is/was someone she could find herself getting close to emotionally. She's kind of been deprived of social interaction for most of her life, so that's a decently major thing for her.

Has there been a reveal yet on Alexei's servant? I don't remember one, but with this story that means nothing. I mean, the way he was going on about Russia, I kind of expected him to have a Russian hero, but even amongst normal heroes its hard hard to think of who lived centuries. They all tend to die in their twenties or thirties, to keep the legend tragic. Maybe another Biblical one to go with Kait's Moses?

Man, and here I thought I was starting to make his Saber's identity too easily found out. :/

Saber is from an interesting era, shall we say. He's old enough that living centuries wasn't strictly unusual, but he's very much similar to other heroes who died in their relative youth. In his legend, there are even exact similarities to certain Western figures, which is interesting to consider. He's definitely not Biblical, though. Katalin probably specifically gunned for Moses, since she's Catholic and a Biblical figure is only natural for her.

George seems to have Padme Amidala disease. If he dies, does that mean that the magic he used to bring about the Servants goes too? Or is it self sustaining and he just provided the initial means? Why is Dietrich looking for a new country to go to? America is a big place has plenty of out of the way places he could retire to. Hell it's the sixties, the South probably wouldn't even care that much if he's racist. Besides, everyone was looking for the Commies not the Nazis. By the way was that line of Dietrich's about German Reunification a actual thing? I don't remember him getting a birthday mentioned, and IIRC the Wiseup thread died before he was introduced.

George has the sad and inevitable disease known as age. He's eighty years old in the 1960s, well before modern medical advances. Now that he's been broken down by successive defeats, he's losing his resolve to go on; Dietrich's leaving, too, and so now George has doubts as to whether or not this war was worth its terrible cost. He started it, so arguably all the tragedy that has resulted from it is on his shoulders.

As for Dietrich, his identity is known and he entered the country illegally. There's a reason why so many Nazis fled to South America; even into the 1960s they were being hunted down, and Dietrich would be no exception to that. Here in the UK, it's not an uncommon thing to see a newspaper printing an article about how a horrible Nazi war criminal!!1! is living amongst ordinary Britons today. And, of course, it just turns out to be an old man who fought for the wrong side in the war, trying to live out his last years in peace. Dietrich's in that sort of position, except he doesn't entirely regret what he did. In his mind, as long as it was done to serve his country, it was justified. Oh, and the quip about German Reunification was just a joke. Germany unified historically in the 90s; Dietrich as of 1963 is in his early 50s, so it's not entirely likely he would end up living long enough to see his country whole again.

Pops tells James he's alright with having Roman grandkids. You know it might just be because I've been watching quite a bit of HIMYM recently, but James is starting to remind me a lot of 60's Magi Ted Mosby. Heart on his sleeve, always looking for relationships, spending a while moping after each one fails and ends up going for his best friend in the end.

"It's actually pronounced encyclopaedia. I know this, because my girlfriend speaks Latin and she told me so."

Now all we need is for a slighted Francois to end up directing a terribly biased and inaccurate biographical film about "Jack Dawthorn" who consistently ends up pathetically failing to get women to love him.

With all the diseases and talk about old age in this section I'm starting to see a tragic ending where whoever wins in the end will drop dead right after either after getting their wish and not being able to see it through, or, for extra tragedy, before they can get their wish out. Then they see their old farm with all their dead family and horses frolicking among the grain as their body is carried away by the Senate.

Yes, I did watch Gladiator recently.

Fucking great movie, right? Man, I've got to watch that again. I love Gladiator. Did you watch the theatrical version, or the extended cut?

April 21st is the plan for the conclusion, right? You've only got two weeks, I hope you can make it.

August 21st.

You know, the fourth anniversary of MPII! I've got no doubts that I can manage it - I just need to hitch up my pants and, maybe, start posting these chapters as a much more greatly accelerated rate! Which I'm going to do tonight - there will be one now in a few minutes or so, and then another when I wake up. They cover roughly the same events and, all told, aren't too long. They're certainly a couple of the most eventful chapters in a while, though!