The Manhattan Project II

[Five_X]

Assassin is a deadguy.

[The Green Flame]

Forever doomed to obscurity. Was he the only Assassin we saw? Well, outside of Sigurd's brief stint (I think)...Man, I need like a checklist of who's who at this point, I'm just forgetting everything.

[Five_X]

Too many characters ;__;

Yes, he was the only Assassin, but he didn't even get to kill as many people as he'd hoped! Poor guy.

[Five_X]

And now we have another! This one isn't that short, but I think it's an interesting read, and it was fun to write. The scene it leads up to, in the next chapter, is definitely one of the harder ones.

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

CHAPTER CXXII

Nigel had stuffed his hands into his pockets, wishing with every step he took that the snow would stop falling. The wind, while not blistering, never once let up that night, and so for a chilly moment Nigel had to expose one of his bare hands to the cold in order to pull up his scarf to better cover his neck.


He shuddered audibly, pushing his hand back where it belonged.


"I lost my gloves in Babylon," he explained to Hannibal, who walked beside him. In his silver armour, Hannibal hardly seemed to feel the weather at all - Nigel could only imagine crossing the Alps in winter had something to do with that.


Sighing, he suddenly had another thought. "Come the end of the war, though, no one's going to believe me if I tell them that. No one will believe me if I say I fought in Tenochtitlan while it burned, or that I spent a month wandering about in a Mesopotamian desert, or that my best damn friend is Hannibal Barca. Even if I win this war by some stroke of good fortune, no one will know it ever happened. Magi will probably make note of it, and the people who live here will remember a few days when it was very very hot and others where it was very very cold; but otherwise, all the efforts of everyone who fought and gave their lives for all the things they believed in... all that will disappear."


Hannibal was oddly silent, and so Nigel jabbed his elbow into his friend's arm, trying to get at least some kind of response or reaction out of him. It was lonely, otherwise, like he was just talking idly to himself.


"Ask any soldier what he went through in war, and he'll tell you, but you won't believe him. War brings out the best and the worst in everyone, but it's so vastly different from normal life that someone who hasn't been through the same strife can never understand. The war I fought against Rome was the most harrowing experience of my life, and I can only imagine my men felt the same. There is so much in war that's left to chance, that happens through miracles and hellish misfortune, that it's impossible to believe that what happened on a battlefield could ever be real."


They stopped walking for a moment, and Hannibal looked all around. There were at the foot of the Arlington Memorial Bridge, staring out at Washington, seeing just a peek of the National Mall. The snow made the pavement slick, so they pressed forward cautiously onto the bridge, seeing the broad river before them, rushing and churning not far below.


"I understand what you mean," said Nigel, shaking his head. His breaths were little clouds, brushed away quickly by the wind. He shivered again, and felt around in his pocket for his pipe before giving up, the wind getting too strong to light it.


"Let me give you an example, then, Hannibal," he continued, pointing up at the sky as they reached the middle of the bridge. "Can you imagine setting foot on the moon? That's what we've been aiming for for years now, but I don't think anyone can quite comprehend what it would be like to experience that, to experience being off this planet, being in outer space. It must be incredible, breathtaking - and more than that, it's indescribable. You could tell someone how it felt when you walked about on the moon's surface, feeling its chalky soil under your feet, looking at broad craters with your own eyes rather than through a telescope, and then staring up at Earth, seeing our own home from such a vast distance – but that could never convey the real experience."


Hannibal narrowed his eyes, agreeing with a nod - perhaps hesitantly.


He, too, looked up at the moon above, now momentarily visible as a cloud drifted out of the way, letting the cool, white light beam down. All the stars were obscured; only the moon could be seen, and that lent it a brilliance rarely observed.


"The difference is, people want to imagine incredible things like that. No one wants to believe that the horrors of war are true, that nations send people to die, that when those people die, it is never quick or beautiful. In war there's no noble reason for death, just your body being bled or mangled in just the right way to ensure that you either die before you realize death was even approaching, or over hours or days, suffering alone in pain, with everyone around you knowing that you will soon be gone. To visit the moon is to uncover the secrets of the universe, to learn, to broaden the reach of human understanding: to gain. War is all about loss, loss that keeps piling on and on until you wonder if what you're fighting for is justifiable anymore."


A morose spirit weighed on them both, slowing their pace. It felt as though simply walking across the bridge into Washington took hours, and that morning would be here soon, sooner than they found battle.


Nigel took in a deep breath, looking up at the moon one more time. He didn't think he particularly wanted to suffer any battle tonight.


Hannibal, however, knew grimly that it was inevitable - better to seek it out and end it soon than be forced into it unprepared. He was glancing all around, watching up the road one way, and then down the other. There was a smell on the air that he knew, intuitively, and he pressed his arm against Nigel's chest to halt him without a word. Something here didn't sit well with him, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to look further in the impenetrable darkness.


"Can you handle yourself without me?" he asked, stopping in place. His spear was in one hand, and in the other he now gripped his broad, round shield - there would be violence, regardless of however Nigel felt.


Nigel smiled, and touched something slung in a sort of sheath on his back - he withdrew it, holding it in a loose grip: a shotgun, double-barrelled.


"This is enough to take down a bull elephant with a good shot," Nigel told him in response, hefting the weighty gun in his hands. "I can't imagine anyone who isn't a Servant getting past this. Anybody who comes too close I'll be sure to give a twelve-gauge hello - particularly Ardem, that slippery bastard."


"It's not Ardem I'm looking for, Nigel. Somewhere around here Napoleon is lurking about, with Francois gone. There's something strange happening... but it's an opportunity, and at this point we can't waste any opportunity we get."


Beating his spear against his shield, Hannibal stood at attention in front of Nigel, showing him that he was prepared for war. There were only a few Masters and Servants left; just a few more deaths that were necessary. Still, Nigel had a bad taste in his mouth, with every day that passed making it stand out more and more. As long as Enrico was alive, this war couldn't end well, and Nigel's thoughts turned to his home, to England. He had a family waiting - he had a good life. Was that, or anything, worth the gamble of fighting for something he didn't know if he believed in anymore?


"Good luck, my friend," said Nigel with a laugh, holding his shotgun with one arm, and offering his friend his free hand.


Hannibal leaned his spear against his shoulder and grasped Nigel's hand tightly enough to make the Englishman wince a little. He seemed to stand taller and prouder than ever before.


Nigel looked up at him with a wry grin, staring into his eyes. "One last battle between generals, eh? I think you've deserved it, Hannibal. Man-on-man duels are fine, but you don't have to hold yourself back now. Go on and find Napoleon, and let him know why you're the best bloody general history's ever seen. You don't need luck."


"A hundred thousand soldiers couldn't stop me, Nigel," Hannibal assured him without hesitating, letting go of his hand, holding his spear once more.


They stood there; as friends, neither wanted to be the first to part, but as allies in this war they knew that there was work to be done tonight. There would be bloodshed soon, but Nigel was already too used to that - no longer did it make his stomach churn, not like it did when he was a young man. If they didn't give at least a good account of themselves in this war, then what would it have been worth to begin with?


Reluctantly, Hannibal turned around, and with slow, marching steps he made his way down the road, heading to where he suspected Napoleon awaited him.


He hoped for a grand battle, something that would make history.


Nigel hoped only to survive, living long enough to see his family when this was all done. He sighed, feeling numbness begin to crawl up his fingers; as much as he wanted his shotgun at the ready, he was more interested in keeping his hands and fingers intact. He put his gun away in its sling, his hands going back in their pockets deep in the warmth of his parka.


Standing still, with nowhere to go, he watched as his breaths rose up on the wind, fluttering away. The night was only getting colder, but he had to stay out for some hours more. If his fingers went numb, then he wouldn't be able to pull the trigger on his shotgun, and that would cause more problems than he wanted to imagine.


He let out a tired sigh and sat on an old wooden bench underneath a streetlamp, feeling marginally warmer thanks to the light.


Up over on the bridge, he could see two figures just coming into view, coming across over the middle of the bridge. They were silhouetted by the pale light, but Nigel could see them walking closer, the details in their clothing and their faces becoming more distinct.


He nearly dropped his head into his hands when he realized that he was watching James and his Servant approach him. He wondered if he should try to kill them - but then he just shrugged, not wanting to bother.


At the same time, he saw the figure he imagined to be James waving at him.


"The kid's got good eyes," Nigel muttered to himself, and with a groan he stood back up to his feet, cracking his knuckles as he waited for his unexpected guests.


"Want to fight?" called James, sounding too optimistic for his usual self. Nigel always knew him as being reserved when it came to the war, but not now; now he seemed almost like he had some rising enthusiasm, as though he could take on anything. Yet Nigel could tell things weren't quite right; if he'd honestly wanted a battle right here, then he would've taken the opportunity straight away - even James wouldn't walk up and ask like that.


Nigel raised his arms in mock surrender, walking languidly forward to meet the man.


"Do you want a serious answer, James, or do you want me to be typically facetious? Since you're kind enough to ask me if I want to fight, I suppose I might give you a choice in this, too." He dropped his arms as soon as he could, crossing them over his chest. The war was getting more exhausting minute by minute, he thought to himself, and sighed heavily again.


"I know we don't have any reason to kill each other," said James, his tone evening out, no longer as cheerful as he seemed to be before. "But if that's how this war is going to have to end, then..."


He trailed off, knowing just as well as Nigel what he was implying. James could see the shotgun Nigel wore on his back; he at least had some kind of weapon, though Hannibal was nowhere to be seen.


With all the slowness of an aged and tired man, Nigel walked back to the bench he was sitting on, rested on it, and patted the spot at his side, beckoning James to come over and sit as well. James smiled as well as he could, trying not to let the seriousness of the war overcome him, even as it weighed heavily on his heart. He nodded and agreed to sit beside Nigel, feeling tense, yet assuring himself that the man who, at least for a while, had been his ally, wouldn't shoot him - maybe later, but certainly not now.


"I'm not going to kill you, James," Nigel said as soon as James had sat down, letting that out as though he could tell exactly what James had been thinking. "Every day this war gets more pointless to me, and I've come to think that it's not worth killing and dying over, not anymore. I don't care if the world changes or if it doesn't; I want to see this all end soon, before I get any older. I'm an old man, after all, and I really don't believe that old men have any right to kill young men like yourself. You certainly have more of a life ahead of you than I do, James. Make it worth it, because if there's anything I know, it's that I wasted mine."


"You didn't waste anything," argued James, and he looked over at Saber, who was pacing about, keeping a close watch over the area. "You've got a family back home, and I'm sure they love you and miss you. You'll get to watch your kids grow up, too, and that's going to keep you busy for a while. No matter what, Nigel, there's always something worth living for, something worth fighting for."


"What do you fight for, then? What keeps you living? I'm not the sort of man who can dedicate himself to a country or to a dead man's ideology."


James smiled, watching Saber. She caught his gaze, smiling back before she turned about. She had her sword drawn, at the ready, the light glinting off of its steel. He was the one who needed protection, not her; she could handle herself in a fight better than anyone he'd known, and for a reason he didn't entirely know, that made him feel relaxed, as though everything was going to go well.


With a sigh, he said, "Her. I'm in love, and this time I'm going to fight to keep it. It doesn't matter what I have to do, because for once I'm happy, and I've found someone who makes me feel like I'm a better person than I am."


Nigel, for a while, was speechless; he opened his mouth, wanting to speak and continue the conversation normally, but there was nothing he could find to say.


He'd known James for a while now, but what he said, he could never have expected; the old James he knew was always either quiet and uncertain or recklessly boisterous, as though trying to make up for not being as passionate about what he cared for as others in the war. Now, though, he seemed so calm and collected and sure of himself, having grown and matured more in a few months than many do over the course of their whole lives. It was inspiring in its own way, and he couldn't help but be infected by James' smile, showing one of his own.


James had found a satisfying life - he'd found happiness, and nothing was worth fighting for more than that.


Still, Nigel had to wonder about Enrico; he saw the man in a new kind of light, considering James' unexpectedly wise words. What made Enrico happy - truly, honestly happy - was striving to make his country better. Just as James loved Saber, just as Nigel loved his family, so too did Enrico love his country and his countrymen, wishing for a better future for all of them. The love he felt was no different than James' love, or Nigel's love.


Had Enrico truly done anything wrong in his life? Not once, Nigel thought, not even once. He didn't deserve to die; he was a good man who tried to do his best to avoid making the world a worse place. He vowed to do anything for Spain, but he was still moral, still generous and empathetic.


As long as Enrico was a good man with honest love in his heart, then he deserved only victory.


Nigel shook his head, his smile fading away as he stood up to his feet.


"Thank you for sitting down and having some banter with this old man," he said, managing a chuckle. "I don't know if we'll ever meet again after this, but I do know you'll have a good, long life. Make the most of it, James."


And so Nigel said no more, keeping his hands pressed into his pockets and turning away. His life wasn't close to being over; in a way, it had only just begun.


With that thought in his mind, he walked through the dark and empty streets of Washington, hoping that soon the war would be over, that its tragedies could be at last put to rest. Then he could finally go home and live with his family, even if he knew the burden his children would have to bear.


He left James and Saber there together; as he was making his way down the street along the riverside, he glanced back to see the two holding hands, staring up at the moon, and he smiled.


Perhaps something good had come out of all of this, despite all that had been lost.

-- --

The snow drifted gently down, having already painted the fields a soft, untouched white. No one had set foot here yet, and it seemed in a way like a wintry paradise, the last that would be seen before the coming of spring. The last gasp of winter passed over the city, into the forests and the meadows, and it was here that two men met for the last time.


Hannibal could make out the shape of Napoleon's bicorn hat in the distance, his figure shaded and indistinct, but that one part of him standing out more than anything else. Napoleon raised his arm up, holding his hat in place as the wind blew past, his free hand by his side. He'd noticed Hannibal, without a doubt; the Carthaginian made a clear shape even in the dim light, wielding his large shield and his spear. Both men stared at each other from across the field, and Napoleon was the first to begin taking steps towards his foe-to-be.


His coat fluttering in the gathering wind, Napoleon smiled, glad to see a familiar face as the war neared its inevitable end.


"Was it like this in the Alps when you crossed?" he asked, gesturing at the snow all around. "I went through the passes in spring, myself, and the weather was more mild than I had hoped. I wanted to make a great journey like yours, but I suppose that with modern technology at my side, the romance of the crossing was gone to begin with."


"Do you remember what you suffered in Russia? That's what I struggled through going over the Alps. There was no romance to it; too many died."


Napoleon shook his head. "Ah, but there is the romance, you see: any other man would have died, his whole army crumbling apart in the high passes of the Alps, but not you. You forged a moment in history that has stood the test of time - and here I am, a testament to that. Two thousand years after your trek through the mountains, I wished to do the same. One act, no matter its consequences, made you a true legend, and it is just as you said: you would either find a way, or you would make one - and you made one. I tried to make my way in Russia, but I failed miserably."


The flattery made Hannibal smile; he closed his eyes, remembering the scents, the sights, the chill of the mountain air, from all those years ago as though he had returned to it. Perhaps there was some romance in it, not in the crossing itself but in what it represented: the human spirit overcoming what was thought to be impossible. It defined Hannibal as a hero who would be remembered forever, and defined him as a man who, once he had set his sights on a goal, would strive for it no matter what stood in his way.


Napoleon, too, had his moments of romance - his march into Russia was not one of those moments, and as a contrast to Hannibal's crossing of the Alps, only reinforced the superiority of his foes, rather than making Napoleon renowned for ages since.


Never could Napoleon be the man Hannibal was, but now they had this one chance - a chance to prove to each other who was the greater general.


A friendly sort of rivalry simmered between them, as Napoleon looked up at his ageless inspiration with awe - and with determination. He could defeat Hannibal and prove that he was worthy of being counted amongst the best leaders of the ancient and the modern world.


Hannibal set aside his spear, and the two generals shook hands before going their separate ways, like gunmen before a duel.


Soon neither could see their foe, the wind slowing down but the snow falling just as thickly; in the night, little could be seen at all, but the moon seemed to peek out of the clouds for a few moments to give them what light they needed to see each other across the field.


"Are you ready to make history?" yelled Hannibal into the darkness, seeing the shadowed form of Napoleon by the forest's edge.


Napoleon raised his hat and laughed, waving at his foe in the pale night.


The moon slipped away again, sooner than they had hoped, but it was just as apt; their battle had to begin soon, and as the light faded away, new figures could be seen taking shape - on Napoleon's side of the field Hannibal could count five hundred thousand of these shadows, a number ten times what Hannibal himself had mustered; this was the strength of the Grand Armee, Napoleon having no need anymore to worry about holding himself back. This battle would be between two leaders at their finest.


Hannibal stared out at the army before him, torches lighting up the wintry night, truly showing the vastness of those hundreds of thousands. He faced the greatest army ever made, with his own force of mercenaries and elephants. The advantage wasn't with him, he knew, but regardless of that, he smiled.


The air filled with smoke as muskets cracked and cannons boomed; Hannibal raised his spear, rallying his men at his back, rushing forward into the haze of gunfire.


Above, in the cloudy sky, lightning snapped down, paired with rolling thunder; the clouds themselves looked to be swirling about, and a bolt of lightning snapped down from the heavens, striking Hannibal's spear.


"If I cannot find a way, then I will make one!"


He shouted this into the howling winds, the great gusts carrying with them drifts of snow that piled over Napoleon's army, no longer gentle and beautiful. Hannibal, too, had concealed all he was capable of, summoning to the field the very spirit of his accomplishments, bringing to bear the same weather that had cursed Napoleon in Russia, and that had battered Hannibal and his army as they made their perilous crossing over the Alps.


Hannibal's feat, two thousand years ago, was said to have only been done once before, by Hercules himself; Hannibal knew that with his own deed he had sealed his place in history, and his name would live on forever.


Spear and sword clashed against sabre and bayonet; muskets cracked in the night, their fiery lights illuminating the blood and battle.


An avalanche tore over the open field, sweeping away half of Napoleon's Grand Armee; now the two were locked in combat, a struggle that would be won only be the better general, the man who could rally his troops to greater deeds, who could accomplish what had once been thought impossible by lesser men. Tonight they would make history that would never be known.

-- --

The winds had calmed at last, the din of glorious battle a fading echo.


Not a trace of the clash of the two legendary armies could be seen at all - not a trace of blood, not a single smoking crater from a cannon's heavy shot, not a fallen sword or spear or gun to be found anywhere in the empty field. All that was left were the mysterious footprints of thousands who had been there seemingly moments ago, but now had all disappeared.


The only memory of such a grand event lay in the minds of the two men who fought it - Napoleon Bonaparte and Hannibal Barca.


Napoleon was on his knees, bloodied from head to toe, his familiar bicorn lost in the heat of the fighting. He looked ragged, his clothes torn and burnt, his hands blackened; he was on the verge of death, yet still he smiled.


Weakly, Hannibal trudged over to him, holding his shattered spear in one hand.


"You fought well, Napoleon," he said, his voice raspy and bare. He, too, smiled, seeing the satisfaction in his foe's eyes; this was what Napoleon had wanted all along, more than anything else. He was a better man now than he had been in life, and he could die in peace at last.


"And you, Hannibal," came the quiet, whispered response. "If only someone had been watching, to write a song about it..."


He let out a heavy sigh, like a man about to rest after a long day of work. Finally, he could rest.


Try as he might, he couldn't stand; instead, he looked up to Hannibal, who could barely walk anymore himself. The tip of his spear was clean, no blood marring it anymore, and Napoleon glanced at that, then to Hannibal, his bloodied lips creasing into a faint smile.


"At least this time I can have a noble death," he said, struggling to keep his weary eyes open.


Hannibal ran his spear through Napoleon's heart, covering it in thick blood; the white snow stained red, now, and Napoleon finally closed his eyes, falling to his side to rest at last. In death he looked peaceful and content, with no regrets left to haunt him.


No matter how the war had ended for him, no matter how he had suffered over the course of it, it was all worth the price in the end.


He had died at the pinnacle of his glory, not having to waste away into old age, seeing all he had accomplished wither away. This time, he died a hero's death.


Hannibal bowed his head, feeling the cold of the night starting to slip away, the air warming ever so slowly; he stood there, quietly, as Napoleon's body disappeared like snow into the darkness. Although the man was dead, his memory would live on forever. Even if he had failed come the end, the greatness he had achieved while he still lived would be remembered by every generation - no one could hope to accomplish more.


Feeling the direness of his own wounds at last, Hannibal fell to one knee, digging his spear into the ice and snow.


He offered his thanks for this second chance at life, knowing that every moment was worth living in the company of people like Nigel and Napoleon. Part of him wished that he could continue on for a while longer, but perhaps that was not to be.


Even if he died in body, his spirit lived on in memory, and always would.

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

In spite of Francois, Napoleon gets to live his last moments doing what he loves, and enjoys a glorious finale to his second chance at life. Perhaps it isn't a joyful ending, but it isn't quite sad, either. This chapter, I think, is definitely where things start to really come together as the "ending" of the story. Here, and in the next chapter, the reality of MPII very nearly being over starts to become very apparent.

It's hard, ending this after so long, especially considering the great characters we've followed up to this point. Their stories are over - but, as it's said in the narration, they will continue to live on forever in spirit. In some ways, a lot of this doesn't feel very real at all to me, but that's a subject for another day.

Oh, and if you're wondering, this is far from the last we see of Nigel yet!

[shikyo21]

What would Eleanor feel that James is hooking up with Saber if she's watching from above?

[The Green Flame]

Such an Ashita no Joe end. I love it. Now for the other shoe to inevitably drop next chapter!

[Mattias]

Holy Fuck Five. You go like six months with no update, then to a weekly basis, and now I have seven chapters queued up for my day off tomorrow. I take back all my doubts of you making that deadline.

[EVA-Saiyajin]

Nice. I must say, that relationship between Caesar and James, if nothing else, has certainly gone through enough trials you couldn't say they hadn't worked for it.

[Five_X]

What would Eleanor feel that James is hooking up with Saber if she's watching from above?

I think she would be happy! Eleanor managed to find fulfillment in the war, and I can imagine that she would only want the same for James.

Such an Ashita no Joe end. I love it. Now for the other shoe to inevitably drop next chapter!

"I remember, Joe..."

Just wait until the next chapter, heh.

Holy Fuck Five. You go like six months with no update, then to a weekly basis, and now I have seven chapters queued up for my day off tomorrow. I take back all my doubts of you making that deadline.

This is the power of endurance writing. It's taxing, mentally, to just pound out 2000-3000 words before a day of work, but I'm sure I'll finish this before the deadline. I have five days left, and four chapters to write - and I'm not working a single hour for the next two weeks.

Let's do this.

Nice. I must say, that relationship between Caesar and James, if nothing else, has certainly gone through enough trials you couldn't say they hadn't worked for it.

MPII, for all of its bitterness, is ultimately optimistic and hopeful as a story: it says that people do matter, and that if you try, you can make a difference in the world. Life may be hard, it might nearly kill you, but it's worth living for even the smallest good you might find in it.

[shikyo21]

Still regard this story to have the best Grail war conflict I have ever read in fanfiction.

[Mattias]

Ok, finally got through all those chapters. Nice fights, Five.

Sad to see Johana go out so soon, I was hoping she'd be in the final fight, a last insurmountable obstacle for the winner to face. I did like the fight between Lancer and Sig though, nice mutual take down.

Francois gets his competence, and loses both his Servant and mind in the ensuing depression spiral. I kind of want a scene where he tries to attack Abe and then gets wrecked, because he was underestimating the older man.

George gets shot in the back, I guess now that he's gone, the war wont be so secret anymore.

The scene with Katalin's death and Fil's running away felt weird since we saw his wrecked apartment then flashed back to throat slitting, then went back again to the pursuit.

Odyseus is reminding me a lot of Canon Gil right now, being the one who's walking about talking to people about how much they deserve to win. I kind of expect him to pop out at the end as either the Secret Final Boss a la Gilgamesh, or the Final Cavalry like UBW Archer.

I must say the Roderick/Assassin fight felt a little flat to me only because I had no investment in either character. Assassin literally has been gone half the story after only being in like eight chapters, as menacing planner to boot, while Roderick has had almost as little development aside from being the thing that every other Master runs from.

The bit with Saber in Egypt was good as well, showcasing her mentality of friends and enemies being pretty fluid concepts. Something which we also saw much of in the GD arc. I'm still weary of the Saber/James thing though, even if they are adorable.

[Five_X]

You thought it was over? It's not over! More chapters! Aaaaaarrrrgh! The writing gauntlet hasn't ended yet, not while there are chapters left to finish!

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

CHAPTER CXXIII

Even Alexei could feel the cold as it seeped into his thick coat, starting to numb his skin. Winter always struck hardest when it was about to end, as though to let the world appreciate the coming of spring and summer all the more. The trees in Washington had already begun to grow back their green leaves, some budding with new flowers; soon the famous cherry trees that ringed the National Mall would be in bloom, too.


That was something Alexei hoped he would get to see someday.


Now, however, as he looked down from the Capitol building all the way across to the Lincoln Memorial, he could see only the pure, lily-white not of flowers but of the snow that had fallen.


"It's easy to look at a flower and be lost in the beauty of the world," he mused, remembering the shores of the Don river, the land his forefathers tamed long ago. There was beauty there; the industrial fascination of the Soviet state had left it almost untouched even as factories and mines were built across all of Russia, not for elegance or appearances but for simple, calculated importance. When the government looked at a sweeping river valley, they didn't see a magnificent landscape; they saw natural resources ready to be exploited to serve the state.


"It's easy to look at the world and see generalizations," added Rostam, by Alexei's side. "Rather than seeing that behind the beauty that fascinates you is ugliness and cruelty. You might see a church and marvel at the wonderful architecture, but there are graves to be found there, too."


Alexei smiled grimly. "Like the poppies in Flanders, growing over the unmarked graves of so many dead in the Great War."


"Calling it the 'Great War' makes it seem far too exhilarating, doesn't it?" quipped Rostam in response, though he understood Alexei's words. He had known many battlefields in his life, and it always felt so strange to him how months after a bloody conflict, the bodies would all be gone, buried by the grass and the dirt, a meadow covering had once been the site of such violence and cruelty.


"It was exhilarating, preposterous, tragic, and comedic, all at once," Alexei said, gripping his mace, the heirloom of his family. "I narrowly avoided service; my father was part of the Tsar's guard, and so I was being groomed to take up his post when he grew too old for it. Many people resented me for this after the revolution, but they grew to understand that I fought in the struggles of the country just as hard as they did. I prove that I was no Tsarist like my father, all while becoming more and more disillusioned with the ideals that the revolution inspired in me."


Rostam walked down the stairs of the Capitol, sliding his hand along the stone balustrade and listening to the soft churning of the fountain in the courtyard. This place reminded him of a palace; even in a republic, dedicated to democracy, the old trappings of kingdoms and empires of old could still be found. It made him feel at home, in a way, and he smiled vaguely up at his Master.


“Now that I think of it, you rarely spoke much to me before," he said, watching Alexei who still stood on the higher plateau of the building, making use of the view it offered him. The National Mall was vast and well-lit, a perfect battleground, and just as ostentatious as this war deserved.


Looking down at Rostam, Alexei shook his head, wondering if he, too, should go down and enjoy the sights of this place while he still could. In the daytime, hundreds would be walking around here, filling the air with their noise and bustle; night, in the perfect silence, was the best time to enjoy the sights of the National Mall.


He breathed the night air in deeply. "If I stewed alone in silence, I think I'd drive myself insane, and that's a fate worse than death. Talking to someone, sharing my thoughts and convictions, that helps me understand them better. I want to learn from people and discover what they want in the world, so that I can make it as perfect as possible. There is no sense to build a better world if it turns out that no one wanted what I envisioned to begin with."


"Then, is bringing goodness to the world what you seek, even if it requires war?"


Alexei nodded, walking down the flight of stairs to stand at Rostam's side, staring into the fountain, then back at the glimmering Washington Monument.


"I will bring goodness to the world, yes, no matter the cost. I can feel my heart aching with every day that passes, knowing the sadness that this war has brought, but I know in the end that it is all worth the suffering. I will have victory, and the world will be better for it."


Rostam laughed, hearing that, and looked into Alexei's eyes, seeing the conviction there. It made him smile; he put his hand reassuringly on the man's shoulder, patting his roughly, gregariously.


"You would make an excellent Persian if you lived in my day, Alexei," he said, and put his hand on his sheathed blade. "It's no wonder why I was summoned to serve you, then. You are the bringer of benefit, the man who will change the world and make it better for everyone except those who align themselves with evil - or, so you would hope. Whatever it is you want to accomplish, you have my sword, without fail."


He drew his long scimitar, raising it high as though to show Alexei the surety of his triumph.


Alexei had no room for self-doubt anymore; he smiled alongside Rostam, and knew in his heart that he would have victory in this war, his war.


He had lived through sixty years of suffering, seeing the worst that a man could see; it was time for all of that to change. This was the year the whole Earth would shake, the foundations of society feeling the upheaval, at last beginning to change for the better.

– –

Across the barren stretch of snowy ground lay not a single man, not a single living thing at all. There was nothing there, save for footprints fading in the gathering snow – brown, muddy holes in the pale white. But not a trace of the storm that had raged or the men who had been there could been seen.


Not anymore.


Trudging across the starlit plain, the last breaths of the wind fluttering his hair, was Nigel, one hand on his knee as he stopped to catch his breath. It felt like he'd been walking for miles and for days, but in truth he'd just strayed from the city's winding roads not even an hour before. And at that moment, there was only one thing on his mind. It was not the feeling of the cold, wet snow seeping into his boots, nor was it the painful bite of the wind on his bare face.


What he sought was merely his friend, lost in all of the chaos. Snow fell from the sky in calm, steady droves, burying the evidence of what had happened in this place. Nigel had felt a shock tear through his heart like a knife, and he kept going on and on, and on until he couldn't feel his legs anymore, so great was the cold. The only warmth he felt was the seeping pain in his chest, that surge of sorrow he thought he had forgotten.


“Hannibal!” he cried, clenching his fist as he desperately tried to yell. His voice was weak, though, and he coughed when he tried to shout a second time. His body told him to stop and to rest, but would he ever listen?


His knees were bent, barely dragging the rest of his body along on feet chilled a sick, cold pallor. To Nigel, his own health was hardly a concern.


He didn't want to admit it, but his mind kept searching for the words: he had to say goodbye. He didn't want to admit it, but from the sensation in his body, like cutting off a nerve, his ever-loyal Servant had suffered through something inescapable. That word, that one word that signified this sort of loss, still evaded Nigel. For that he could be glad.


As he walked along his boots kicked up more snow, piling along his feet, holding him back. A rare fit of strength in his weak frame tossed that hindrance aside, and he continued on despite anything that would stand to stop him.


Staring off at the pale horizon he knew lay ahead, he dared anything to try to defeat him now.


Truthfully, there was something in that snowy stretch of land, a small and crumpled figure like a doll with its heart cut out, its legs snapped in two so that it could not stand. The figure there, shadowed by the darkness of the night yet illuminated by the bright lights of the stars, looked pathetic and weak. However, it was his own strength that had brought this about: the shift in the landscape, the fall of the snow, and the obliteration of anything that stood on that hill were all his doing. That beautiful, endless determination could never be matched, like the brightest star in the midnight sky.


“If I cannot find a way, then I will make one!”


The figure moved, just a little, turning to face Nigel, the brush of his boots through the deepening snow the loudest thing all around; besides that, there was utter silence, enough so that Nigel felt his shallow, powerless breaths were rumbling in his ears. By then, just as he spotted the shadow on the ground, the light warmth and the small clouds of his breaths were all that reminded him that he was still alive, and that he could still go on.


But how would he say goodbye?


“Hannibal...” said Nigel, a small cough that escaped his pale lips. At that lightest of noises, the man on the ground, broken and defeated, once again raised his head.


Hannibal, still in his armour, pressed a hand forward, tearing at the snow and the dirt below it, tightening his hand into a fist and dragging it back towards himself. The silver-grey he wore was now much more grey than silver, spattered with blood and rusted as if it had aged a whole millenia, sitting there in the snow. Beside him, his spear was snapped in two and covered in fine white powder, and his shield was the same, but dented so much that it could really not even be called a shield at all.


Not anymore.


The once great man looked up, and coughed, lurching his body forward. “Nigel... you're here?” His voice seemed filled with a strange wonderment, as if he was staring at an angel come down to claim him and take him to the heavens. His eye, the only light in his pallid, bloodied face, widened. Was it the fear of death that struck him with that awe, or was it hope?


At that sight, of Hannibal reduced to a broken and half-dead man in the snow, Nigel collapsed. He finally met his old friend again, here on this old battlefield, with the old stars looking down on them in what could have been such an idyllic scene.


Nigel caught his breath. “Yeah, I'm alright. Are you...?”


He hung his head, grabbing a fistful of the icy whiteness under him, gripping it in his hand.


“I'm...” Hannibal let out a long, stuttering breath, shaking with pain. “I'm far from healthy. It feels almost as if I just walked from one edge of the world to the other... like I've done something impossible... haven't I?” He shook his head, a light, almost tentative smile playing on his lips, and he stared into Nigel's eyes. One of his own was blotted out, surrounded with blackness like soot mixed with dried, old blood.


Trying not to betray his emotions, Nigel nodded, the smallest movement he could muster. “Is it a good feeling, Hannibal?” He placed one hand on his friend's shoulder, keeping him from falling down into the snow. Nigel could tell that Hannibal's wounds were far more of a burden than what the man would ever let on to.


“A good feeling?” Hannibal mused on that for a while, letting the fingers of one hand trace his singed beard in contemplation. “I... I would say, yes. It's a good feeling, right at home in my heart.” A fuller smile could be seen on his face, and with a lightly clenched fist he touched his chest twice, not hard enough to make his armour sing like it did in his glory days, when the sound of his spear on his breastplate was ever so often the last his foes would hear from him.


Slowly, gingerly, Nigel sat down in the snow, not caring at all about the cold; in fact, he didn't even notice it. As long as he was there, speaking with his old friend, it was almost as though he was borne into a whole different world, one where death was life, and life was forever. It was a world that he longed for, and one he saw in his dreams. That world was one without loss, without dependence, without grief; Nigel's convictions were all placed in that small world of his, and his convictions had been fading for too long.


“Say... Hannibal, have you ever... have you ever known that feeling, before now? That feeling of... overtaking the impossible?”


Hannibal stared up to the lights of the night sky, the moon catching his attention as it lingered there, brightest of all. He glanced back over to Nigel, and with a turn of his body sat at his side; he clearly winced as he did so, and Nigel could hear his breathing in the night's cold silence, weak but determined beyond all things.


“Before now?” Hannibal looked back to the stars. “Never... always, always I was going on, striving for goals that were just beyond my reach, and even when I crossed the Alps or bested the Romans at every turn, the impossible was still just past that. I was... I was never able to feel that. What looked in the distance to be a mountain was merely a hill when I finally crested it. Maybe it... it was just myself to blame. I was just changing my perception of what was impossible when I reached the threshold of my imagination.”


Nigel followed Hannibal's gaze, and counted all the myriad stars, seeing those ever-distant points of glimmering light as the ultimate example of the world he strove to create for himself: impossible, and always just out of reach. But, the impossible... was that not what Hannibal tried for and succeeded at? Where was the feeling in it?


Taking in a deep breath, Hannibal placed a hand on Nigel's shoulder. “Nigel... you remember, how I died in my life?”


“You were... betrayed, to the Romans. Not wanting to be captured by them, you killed yourself. That was where your story ended.” Nigel looked at his numb, pale hands in an absent manner, not even recognizing them as being as frigid and sickly as they were.


The smile fading from his face like a wisp, Hannibal nodded. “To my last day the Romans hounded me... and for everything I lived through, and everything I lost... I died alone, accomplishing nothing with my pointless death.”


He beat the ground with a weak fist.


Then, he raised his head to stare back at Nigel. “But now...” His hand slipped to his knee, and he grunted in swiftly ignored pain as he moved his body a little. “...now, Nigel, I accomplished the impossible, as my very last act in life. And now...”


The smile returned to his face, and even a small flush of life could be seen behind the mess of dirt and blood.


Even Nigel's lips creased up, forming a small, hesitant grin. “...now you won't die alone, will you?” He gasped as he said that one, powerful word, and it shocked him how readily he accepted it. Even a pang of guilt assailed him. He wanted to be sadder, for the melancholy to be greater and the tears to flow. It didn't feel empty to him; the only emptiness was perhaps in a lack of sorrow. Emotion, for Nigel, filled this scene.


Nigel rose to his feet, letting out a breath of warmth to offset the cold. Even his winter clothing could barely protect against the frozen air about him, but still he didn't pay it any mind.


“Hannibal... walk with me, will you?” He extended a hand, his knees slightly bent and his body weak. He couldn't take much more, but he knew that he needed this.


Seeing the hand reaching out for him, Hannibal grasped it tightly, holding it firmer than ever. Though his smile showed traces of pain in it, he continued on with this. Perhaps this was the goodbye that Nigel had finally come up with, to send off his old friend. He needed this finality, but at the same time his heart tore at him, telling him to stay determined and true. But now, what was there to stay true to but the last ideals of a contented, dying man?


Slowly, Hannibal stood up, his legs trembling; he put an arm around Nigel's shoulder, and his friend helped him along. They had no direction in mind, and Nigel just went wherever his feet would lead. In the darkness, there was no horizon to be seen, and the only edge to this that either could see was the sky above, infinitely far away. It was something that, no matter how long they persisted, they could never reach. Yet, even down on the pale earth they walked upon, Hannibal himself had accomplished the impossible, and he was proud.


“I feel like I've lived a lifetime already.” said Nigel, staring forward into the snowy gloom, seeing the flakes fall about his body.


Hannibal chuckled, but it turned halfway into a cough, and for a moment he stopped walking.


“A lifetime?” He closed his eyes. “I'm... right near the end of my second, by my count.”


He laughed again, more lightly, and this time the sound came out clear, but still weak.


The two kept walking, Nigel supporting Hannibal, and Hannibal supporting Nigel in turn. How long they walked, neither knew, but they kept going until the very act of putting one foot in front of the other was beyond unbearable, passed into something that couldn't be expressed, but only experienced. Even as broken as they were, in this state of mind they could go on forever. Only the stars above seemed impossible, but in the end, every moment, grand or mundane, would have to pass.


Hannibal slipped up, his knee buckling; Nigel could just barely carry the man's weight, managing to right him and keep him going. It wasn't long before the same happened again, and Hannibal sighed a long, cold sigh, finally stopping.


“Hannibal...” Nigel turned to his old friend, watching the man stare up into the light of the moon. “Hannibal, walk with me... just a little longer.”


Shaking his head, Hannibal loosened his body and his arm's grip on Nigel, and closed his eyes.


“I'm afraid... that I can't do that... not anymore.” He coughed, his body weakening with every passing second, pain overcoming him.


Nigel patted the man on the shoulder, encouraging him. “Please, just... just a few more steps, Hannibal! Walk with me, only a little longer...”


His voice, tiring, trailed off, and his words had not nearly the impact he wanted them to have. It sounded like nothing more than a faint plea, and he felt some hate for himself, for being so weak and unable to strive on regardless of the numbness that pervaded him.


“I can't.” Hannibal's statement was simple, and straight to the point. “This... this is where a man has to end, Nigel. It has to be so.”


Hannibal, the great, strong man he was, fell to his knees, out of Nigel's limp grasp; one arm struck forward, holding himself back from falling into the snow. He turned his head around, glancing over at Nigel with a small smile.


“No, no...” Nigel's voice was a half-sob, and he leaned down to grab Hannibal's shoulders. “You... you're the best damned friend I've ever had, Hannibal. I've never met a man like you before.”


The smallest of tears, illuminated by the moonlight, could be spotted as they streaked down his face, leaving trails that shined in the light. Nigel wiped them away, trying to stay strong and hardy, but he couldn't fully manage it.


A wide smile crossed Hannibal's face. “So, you won't forget me, then?”


“Never!” A small pat on the shoulder reminded Hannibal of Nigel's touch, feeling the man's fingers as frigid as the snow on the ground.


He stood tall beside his old, weary friend, clenching his fist. “No matter what happens, I will always remember Hannibal Barca.”


“Good.” For the last time, Hannibal stared up at the large, brilliant moon in the night sky, admiring how grand it was, and how omniscient it appeared, floating above with impunity. It was so far away, and it seemed like such an impossible distance to cross, but then Hannibal could only think of the Alps when he saw them from afar, and how omniscient they appeared, looming over Italy, and how he conquered them like all else. Finally, he realized that 'impossible' was merely an obstacle, and that anything, truly anything, could be achieved. That was an outlook he hadn't known in a long, long time, and it comforted him, making him close his eyes at last.


“A man may die, struck from the earth,” he said, “but so long as he is not forgotten, he will live on forever.”


Hannibal breathed in, and then exhaled, his still-warm breath floating up and dissipating in a small cloud past his lips.


The words couldn't come to Nigel, then, so he just said: “Goodbye, my old friend,” and patted Hannibal gregariously on the shoulder, just like always. A smile could barely be forced onto his face as he watched the life slowly slip from his old, best friend.


Hannibal's body slumped forward, falling into the snow, and his skin was as cold as winter itself. His armour still shined, but the light in his eye was gone, and the breeze whispering against his thick, black hair made it flutter as it passed.


Taking one last, long, look at Hannibal, Nigel forced himself to leave that barren plain, the field of snow where there could be found nothing living. No words could express his loss, and he embraced the silence of the night as well as the silence of his thoughts, trudging along just as he had been before, taking calm and shallow breaths as he let the emotions he felt drip away with his last tears.


As he walked away, this time he didn't stare ahead at the vague, dark horizon that couldn't be seen. Instead, he turned his eyes upwards, to that impossible realm of the stars, the place he felt he could strive for. It was the place he'd thought for so long to be impossible, but as the dying wisdom of his good friend had made so clear, the impossible was nothing to turn away from; so, was that dream so far off and wild, a vivid imagining, a pale reflection of life and nothing greater?


Not anymore.

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

I originally wrote Hannibal's death scene about three years ago, as a sort of catharsis for some emotions I was going through at the time. It worked; I actually ended up writing another scene as well that will show up soon in the story around the same time, maybe a bit before or afterwards. As it turns out, writing a sad scene works very well to release those emotions, and I felt better - and came out with a piece of writing that's not half bad at all. The text you see there is only slightly modified from the original, which is in a way surprising - I wrote at least a few good things back then!

Thankfully, I believe now I have more consistency, at least. While I could write a scene like this once in a while back in 2012, now my writing quality has become more even, and great scenes simply don't stand out as much as they used to because all of my writing tends to the same quality - maybe better at times, slightly worse at others. MPII has been an excellent way to see how far my writing has come over the years!

Goodbye, Hannibal. Your friendship with Nigel will not be forgotten.

[Mattias]

Bye Bye Bike Bro.

[Five_X]

Ok, finally got through all those chapters. Nice fights, Five.

They're hard to write, I'm too used to dialogue scenes. ;_;

Sad to see Johana go out so soon, I was hoping she'd be in the final fight, a last insurmountable obstacle for the winner to face. I did like the fight between Lancer and Sig though, nice mutual take down.

Nah... as strong as Johana is, she's not undefeatable. Especially considering her divine ancestor, the way she goes out makes sense. I'm glad you enjoyed the Lancer und Sigurd fight, though! That was fun.

Francois gets his competence, and loses both his Servant and mind in the ensuing depression spiral. I kind of want a scene where he tries to attack Abe and then gets wrecked, because he was underestimating the older man.

Hehe, Francois' story isn't over yet! He hasn't even reached the bottom of the barrel.

George gets shot in the back, I guess now that he's gone, the war wont be so secret anymore.

It is, only because it's on such a small scale now. But as the war goes on, you see how those taking part in it care less and less about whether or not they're noticed. Unless someone blows up a bridge or whatever, then nothing should really draw attention at all. The last "big" thing that happened, Napoleon's blasting of the mansion, occurred while George was still alive and supervising the whole ordeal - the big battle just now happened well outside the city, out of sight and out of mind.

However, there's a different reason why it might not stay a secret...

The scene with Katalin's death and Fil's running away felt weird since we saw his wrecked apartment then flashed back to throat slitting, then went back again to the pursuit.

That's not quite the order of things. What happened was, Filippo tore apart his hotel room gathering his stuff together to leave, and also making a makeshift bedsheet rope to get downstairs without anyone noticing him. Then he stabbed Katalin, and while that was happening Johana went to the hotel to check things out. Then Filippo went back to the hotel, broke down, and left for good; at that point Alexei was hanging around looking for whoever killed Katalin, and reasonably assumed that it had been Johana. There's no flashbacks at all in that series of scenes.

Odyseus is reminding me a lot of Canon Gil right now, being the one who's walking about talking to people about how much they deserve to win. I kind of expect him to pop out at the end as either the Secret Final Boss a la Gilgamesh, or the Final Cavalry like UBW Archer.

He's the kingmaker, you could say! He wasted decades of his life because of a war; what he wants now is to fight for a good, honest cause.

I must say the Roderick/Assassin fight felt a little flat to me only because I had no investment in either character. Assassin literally has been gone half the story after only being in like eight chapters, as menacing planner to boot, while Roderick has had almost as little development aside from being the thing that every other Master runs from.

Eh, well, to each his own. I enjoyed it, and I think Roderick especially has fun. He has his own unique niche in the story, as does Assassin - though perhaps I should've had Assassin show up more. Poor guy never really gets a break, though, does he?

The bit with Saber in Egypt was good as well, showcasing her mentality of friends and enemies being pretty fluid concepts. Something which we also saw much of in the GD arc. I'm still weary of the Saber/James thing though, even if they are adorable.

Mmm... well, to her, it's not so much that friends and enemies are fluid to, it's just that the people she knows were her friends. Pompey had always been her ally and one of her best friends, and she had always wished to convince him to join with her and fight by her side. Then later in her life, of course, there's the whole story with Brutus - and so now she's become very hardened, very cynical, and unwilling to trust anyone. James is the first person she's been able to trust, and even then she has regrets, because when he points out that she's incredibly manipulative and untrustworthy herself... that hits her pretty hard.

And yes, they're pretty adorable. :3

I'll still a James/Ilse shipper though! Never forgeeeeeeeeeeeet

[shikyo21]

James X Eleanor for me. Hard to believe she's one character I remember so much after all this time. A racist now dying alongside her servant was a huge plus point for me in terms of her character development. You don't see this often in other fanfics XD

[EVA-Saiyajin]

Poor Hannibal. There goes one of the few truly great partnerships of the war.

[Five_X]

I've gotta step up my chapter posting rate... I've got plenty ready, but if I don't post more I'll finish the story by the 21st but not have posted enough chapters up here! That would just be embarrassing.

Luckily, this is a very short one - but it's definitely important. In fact, it's one of the most pivotal chapters in the whole story...

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

CHAPTER CXXIV

There was no light or sound or ceremony as the command seals faded from Francois' skin; they merely dissipated.


Napoleon was dead, and gone with him went Francois' chances to win this war.


As strongly as he believed in his own capability, there were only so many things that he could do by himself. He was a great magus - perhaps the greatest in the world - but Servants were Servants, and even Francois wasn't so bold as to believe that he could kill a legend like Julius Caesar or El Cid. Against any Master he would hold the clear advantage, but the heroes summoned into this war were capable of vastly more than he could ever imagine.


He wandered solemnly around the ruins of his old home; he could still smell the stiff stench of smoke, heady and thick in the air, long after all the fires had burned themselves out.


The paintings he had once admired had melted away in their gilded frames; the furniture had succumbed to flame and turned to ash, and the very framework of the building had crumbled away, desiccated by the heat and shattered by the unending barrage of cannon fire - the second and third floors had both fallen, crashing down on the first, leading mounds of debris everywhere like ugly, black mountains.


Francois thought of how empty he was, too; he had no sister left, and he could not find where she was buried under all of the rubble, if there was anything left of her at all.


That tore at him. The last he had seen of her, she glared at him with an expression of hatred – or was it disappointment? In her final moments, Francois only knew that his beloved sister Amelie had remembered not the good memories they had shared, but his failures, the mistakes he had made in this war. He had said that they were all for her, but now he couldn't keep up that facade any longer, not when he was the only one left to be convinced.


He had spent years trying to assure himself that it was all for her, but that couldn't be true. He had been born selfish, surrounded by everything he could ever want – while Amelie never got anything.


She had cared for him like he was her son, not his sister, but he had always thought of her as needing his protection. He imagined, now, that it was precisely that quiet, simple life she wanted, and nothing more; but Francois wanted the same, dreading the responsibility that awaited him as the head of the family.


In a way, perhaps he had been doomed to this fate from the very beginning.


Now he had no Servant, and his family would shun him for his failures. There was no reason left for him to even try to succeed in this war, but anger still boiled away in his heart, a fire raging far hotter than that which had ruined his home and destroyed his life. Napoleon's death gave him a moment's relief, setting him at ease when he saw those command seals whisking away.


George was dead, the fool who even in his last moments wouldn't give Francois the victory he so deserved. All others had abandoned him, too - even James, with his betrayal - and now Francois had no allies, and a city full of enemies.


Even after he had killed George and locked his body in his hallowed chapel to rot away, Francois' heart still called for vengeance.


He wanted blood; if he couldn't save his sister, or bring her back to him, then he would have to avenge her. George was gone; Napoleon was gone; but James still lived. He kept on striving to win the war, fighting for whatever pointless nationalism inspired him; Francois felt his stomach churning as he thought of James so pleased with himself, enjoying the last days of this war in the way only he could, because he believed he would win.


He could not be allowed that satisfaction.


Francois leaned against a blackened wall, half-eaten by the fire and now barely standing. Letting out a sigh, he thought of James – handsome James, charismatic James, who was always full of confidence, or quiet in his reserved contemplation. He had never felt the problems that Francois had, living a good life with a small and simple family, nothing like the grand bloodline politics of the Demarais house. He had never felt the pain that Francois did, the pain of a loss than could never be regained – more than that, he had no siblings to speak of, born alone into his privilege, privilege which he accepted with open arms.


There was still time before the day truly began - Francois knew where James lived, and knew how naive, how overly friendly he was. No doubt he didn't think that his betrayal had been figured out, yet; he was that kind of fool.


They would simply have a private talk, Francois would promise, as ideas for just revenge formed in his clouded mind.


Smiling, he walked steadily to James' apartment, ready to confront the man who had helped destroy his life. He would have no mercy; this one act would be done, even if it killed the both of them.


He shivered, this image in his mind feeling truly real, as though it was his destiny to fulfil it, a dream to accomplish – the one thing in life he could accomplish, if nothing else. Even Napoleon's death and Assassin's death had not slaked his thirst for bloody vengeance, but this – this made him feel strong, full of purpose and life, even if everything else in his life had turned to ashes around him.

In the end of things his spirit could join his sister's, and he would find peace - but only if James suffered before the end.

-- --

Sitting alone in the forest, Enrico stared down at his rifle in front of him, laying on a small blanket he'd put down on the ground. He knew setting up a proper base of operations now wouldn't be worth the risk, so he did what he'd done his whole life: he wandered from place to place, because if he let himself settle down then he'd be found - and if that happened he might not be able to make yet another daring escape.


Even moving pained him grievously; the gunshots had dug deep into his skin, and he'd spent the last few days recuperating as best he could. Sleeping in a hammock in the forest, a makeshift disguise covering it to give him a slight disguise; this was what he was reduced to.


"Rodrigo," he said, motioning to his Servant with his hand. "Take this pail to any stream you can find and fill it with water, then boil it for me. There's no sense in trying to hide if someone could smell me from a mile away."


Wincing, he picked up a battered metal bucket that was at his side and handed it to El Cid. It strained him to do even that, but he would survive - in a few months, perhaps, he'd be back to his usual self, but for the rest of the war he would be suffering from these injuries: he couldn't run, and the pain was a constant distraction. Already it had prevented him from getting much uninterrupted sleep; he did all he could to stop his eyelids from closing unconsciously as exhaustion slowly clawed away at him. Sometimes he would be watching something through the scope of his rifle, then find himself falling asleep - only to jolt back awake as pain lanced through his body.


However, if this was all he had to go through in order to save Spain, then it would be a price well worth paying.


"Good thinking, Enrico. I should be back in a matter of minutes," El Cid said to him, grabbing the pail and heading off at a measured pace through the trees. He, too, understood the value of patience. It was this mutual understanding that made them efficient partners; Enrico smiled, glad that the great El Cid was the very man he'd always imagined him to be.


There wasn't a sound to be heard as the knight passed through the wilderness.


Enrico was truly alone, now, and he could focus on what he'd meant to set himself to earlier. Looking up, he saw the first cracks of orange fire over the horizon. It was soon to be dawn, and no one would continue the war during the day - not while George was still alive and posed a threat to all those who showed disobedience, at least.


Flicking on his flashlight and sticking it in the crook of a tree, a beam of dim light illuminated the veritable menagerie of mechanical parts he had in front of him.


His rifle was far from being in one piece; the traces of oil that slicked its individual parts now stained the blanket, and those parts also had accumulated a thin layer of dust. However small, this was something to be taken with the utmost seriousness - if Enrico's gun jammed because of poor maintenance, it wouldn't be the first time. In a war with stakes as high as this one called for utter perfection, every potential mistake and flaw needing to be rooted out and eliminated before it could cause a problem.


One missed shot could easily be the difference between life and death - victory and defeat.


Taking a thin, clean cloth, Enrico wiped down the various parts that made up his rifle, getting rid of any dirt or crust that had built up over time through use and simple ageing. This weapon in particular had been manufactured nearly thirty years ago; it was about as old as Enrico himself, but despite having been around for so long, it was as loyal as he could've asked for.


Then, like maintaining an engine, he daubed oil on the internal mechanisms. Pushing them about and testing how well they could move now, he nodded; they were back in working order, and could reliably be expected not to fail when they were needed most.


Letting out a sigh, Enrico remembered not to breathe in too deeply; one of the shots that had struck him nearly fractured his ribs, and he still had to be careful.


Not long after Enrico had finished putting his trusted rifle back together again, El Cid returned with the pail. It was hot to the touch, and Enrico nodded. He dipped his hands in another bucket, its water cold and murky, briefly scrubbing with a rag to get rid of the oil that stuck to his skin.


"I'm ready to do whatever I need to," he said, looking up at El Cid as he began unbuttoning his shirt, slipping it off and hanging it on the same tree where he'd kept the flashlight.


"That means dying for Spain," El Cid repeated, remembering the hard lesson he had taught Enrico at the abandoned farmhouse. "Can you accept that? You will not live to see her become truly as great as she once was; you can only trust that what you do will bring about the justice and prosperity you believe in."


Enrico breathed in slowly, looking down at the bucket and the bar of soap he'd picked out of his pack. Testing the water in the pail he'd been brought, he found it bearable - hot, but not enough to hurt.


"Valencia evolved from a coastal town to one of the greatest cities in Spain - but only after your death. Are you disappointed by this?"


"If I said I wasn't, I'd be lying," said El Cid, crouching beside Enrico as he washed his arms and chest with a fresh cloth. "But regardless, I am happy. Valencia grew beyond what I could have ever expected, and that is my legacy. All of Spain will be your legacy, Enrico, but that is a tall order indeed."


"I will be a model for others to look up to," came Enrico's reply, without a moment's pause. "Everything you did was for the betterment of Spain, and I follow in your footsteps. If I die ending the oppression that has stifled our people, then I know I will be a hero. I have just one life, but with it I can save thousands, even millions. They will remember me, just like they remember you and your valiant fight. I will give them a reason to be proud of their country."


Cupping his hands under the water, he splashed it against his face, sliding his soap-covered hands down his cheeks to his jaw.


El Cid held his shoulder, making Enrico look up into his eyes.


"If you were alive in my day, I would be proud to have you serve by my side," he told him, smiling. Enrico himself couldn't hold back a grin, feeling the pain of his wounds and of all he had gone through to get to this point - but now his beliefs, his struggle, had been finally validated. His quest was just, and would end in his victory. Spain would be free, even if it took years more to end the fascist grip that had strangled the country for more than a generation already.


Bringing his hand to his belt, El Cid touched the elegant hilt of one of his swords - Colada, a blade of the purest steel.


Drawing it slowly, he held it up in the air, then gripped it by the tip with a gloved hand, pointing the hilt towards Enrico. There was nothing ambiguous in this gesture; Enrico felt lightheaded for a moment, this experience feeling so surreal to him. He could barely tell if this was truly happening, but he quickly dried his hand and touched Colada's hilt.


He felt it - the metal, the craftsmanship, all real, and all as great as he could imagine them. With a tentative glance at the blade's owner, he more firmly gripped its hilt, wrapping his fingers about it and brandishing it above his head. Its flawless, polished steel glinted in dawn's first light.


It felt right to wield it like this, and he stared at the polished steel edge of this magnificent sword, a gift from Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar himself.


Seeing Enrico wield that sword as though it was his own, El Cid smiled, rising up to his feet, at least having one sword left, his Tizona. Then, as if he knew exactly what Enrico was thinking even as he was silent in his awe, El Cid looked down at him, briefly brushing his fingers against Colada's cold blade one last time - and spoke the words that the man before him had waited to hear his entire life.


"You are a true knight, Enrico."

-- --

James hummed as he pushed on the door to his apartment, ready to spend a day just sleeping - maybe he and Saber could just spend the whole day in bed, because he wanted to have no part in doing anything that required him to go outside. The weight of the end of the war was heavy on him.


He had a strange feeling that tomorrow night would be the last - if that was the truth, then he needed to rest up. In a way, he felt almost like a prisoner waiting on death row, prepared for his last meal, his last rites, and his last words. He could only hope that the coming day would be the beginning of a new stage to his life, not the very end of it all.


Still, this war was unpredictable; a shiver ran down his spine as he tried in vain to escape those thoughts of death. They would never leave him alone, even now.


Stepping into his apartment, he looked around curiously.


The curtains were open to the last vestiges of the night; dawn was about to arrive, but in here it was still eerily dark, all the lights shut off. In fact, it was perfectly quiet as well, not even an electric hum disturbing the silence. The first sound that entered the apartment was the creaking of the door, but even the light of the hall barely seemed to penetrate into the entryway.


"Dad was supposed to be waiting for us, like he said," muttered James under his breath, feeling a surge of disappointment. Maybe he went up to go on his business trip after all.


With a dejected sigh, James kicked off his shoes, unzipping his coat and feeling for the light switch on the wall.


He flicked it on but nothing at all happened - had the breakers gone? That hadn't happened before, but still, he imagined that sort of thing might happen here from time to time.


"James, wait," cautioned Saber, holding him back from walking any further. He obeyed, and stepped aside as she pushed past. While she was heading into the living room, James rooted around in the closet where the coats were kept, eventually fishing out a flashlight.


Breathing in deeply, Saber smelled something off, a sharp, pungent odour that James, too, began to notice as he walked closer to her, staying safe - there was something very wrong here; they were both starting to fear that.


Taking a step forward, James stubbed his toe into something soft, like the edge of a mattress.


His heart stopped for a moment, his body tensing up. Suspicion began to take over his mind, and he had to force himself to turn on the flashlight he carried, its bright light illuminating the whole scene before them.


The floor was covered in leaves, and was stained with dirt and blood.


Right in the centre of it all, in front of James, was his father, Abraham, looking nearly as he did when he'd seen him last – save for a thin red line on his neck, and a deep, plunging hole in his chest. He wasn't moving at all, no telltale rise and fall of his chest or flutter of his eyes; James hesitantly touched his father's clammy fingers, feeling their unnatural coolness, like stone.


Falling to his knees, James' mouth gaped open as he tried to find the words to express himself - and failing. He could only let out rasping breaths, his throat suddenly tight and dry as he stared, unblinking, at his father, dead on the floor. His skin was pale and far too cold, and the mere sight of it, the sight of his father, made James sick to his stomach.


Tears poured down his face as he tried to speak; Saber stood behind him, holding him close, but even she had no words, crying along with him.


The light of the sun, blazing yellow and orange, filled the room through the open window, a cool morning wind coming with it.

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

Rest in peace, Abraham Hawthorne. Mattias made a quip earlier about how he'd like it if Francois ran into Abraham and got whupped for his presumptuousness... but the fact is, among the Masters in the war, Francois has no equal (well okay, except maybe Johana when she's in demon mode). He continues to bring suffering to the people he feels wronged him, when in truth it was all his fault from the beginning.

[The Green Flame]

I remember a time when Francois used to be a nice guy. That was a super long time ago. But at least El Cid and Enrico are around!

[Five_X]

I meant to post this earlier... but then I had to go out. So, you get more tomorrow! Yay! >.>

Don't worry, it'll all be over soon. Very soon~

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

CHAPTER CXXV

March 12^th, 1963


"I'll never get to say goodbye," James whispered, staring at his father's face. His skin was so pale, it seemed almost unreal, as though this was a scene from a film, and he was watching it from a distance, none of this affecting him.


He wished that was true; he wished that all of this had just been a dream, that he was going to wake up in just a few moments and nothing would have happened, his mother and father greeting him as he got up out of bed. James wanted that idea to be true; he wanted to go back to the life he now lived only in memory, but that could not be. Nothing could change the past, and that was always for the best and for the worst.


Recollections of long gone days played out in James' feverish mind, remembering the small moments - listening to records, going canoeing on the river, his first shoot down at the range - all these things he'd shared with his father, and he'd always thought that they'd both live to a good, old age. Sometimes he'd think with a smile of where he'd be at fifty: sitting in an armchair across from his father as they sipped cold drinks and laughed about all the memories they had together, all those firsts that could only be had between father and son.


James had been raised well - but he couldn't have been prepared for the day when his father was no longer in his life; no one could prepare him for that, especially not at twenty-two.


Even at fifty, there was so much life left in a person. Now all that life, all that potential, had drained away, and was laying here in front of James, wasted so utterly.


His father's expression looked so plain and peaceful, as though he was just about to wake up after a long and restful sleep. Holding his cold hand, James stared into his glassy eyes, wanting to see the life come back to them. He knew that there was almost no chance that he would get his father back, but he had to pray on that impossible idea that it could happen. There was no way the world could have lost someone as kind and wise as Abraham Hawthorne.


When James looked at his father now, he no longer saw the memories they shared; instead, he saw the sadness that was to come.


What would his mother think? And the rest of his family, and his own children, someday, when they asked why they didn't have a grandfather. How would he explain this to them, that he was killed by someone their father had once known and been friends with?


James could only imagine that Francois had waited for James, wanting to ambush him and strangle him and bleed him dry; right now, James imagined that would be preferable to his father's undeserved, unjust death.


Then for a moment he thought rationally, and his heart sank as he understood very clearly that, had he been the one to die instead, his own father would be going through this same grief - if not worse. Sons are meant to lose fathers, simply as a part of life; fathers are not meant to lose sons, not in a good and just world.


Yet the world was anything but good and just, James had learned that well.


"I lost my own father when I was young," consoled Saber, who still held James in an embrace from behind, her words coming cautiously as their tears began to dry.


She didn't know what else to say other than that plain fact - but James bowed his head and kissed her arm, his breathing more relaxed, his body no longer so tense.


"He would have loved you, you know," said James, unable to let go of a future that could never be, even if it only made him sad to think of it. "He never... saw us, together. I never got to say goodbye, and tell him that I'd fallen in love."


He breathed in, not yet done crying. "One of the last things he ever said to me was when we were alone, talking... and he told me that he would be happy if you and I got married; he said he didn't object to it at all. I wonder if that's what he really thought..."


"He had a lot of insight, James. He knew you well," said Saber, holding him tighter than before, as if to tell him without words that no - she would never let him go.


For a while James was silent, stewing over those words, over his thoughts, and again over that future which could never come to be. His father had always seen his son unsatisfied, unfulfilled, living an incomplete life. Why did he not deserve to see his only son, at long last, finding happiness? Why did this happen just when James was so full of vigour and confidence? All the love for life that had filled James up after he confessed his feelings for Saber had vanished, as though they'd never been there to begin with.


"I can't stand this war anymore," he said, letting out a sob, spitting out those words with equal sadness and hatred.


He knew who did this; he knew who had inflicted this agony on him, but he could never know why. The Francois he knew was a kind young man, and though he took the war seriously, he must have cared for friendship. How could a good person do something like this? James could hardly come to terms with it, the reason that lingered in his mind giving way to emotion, rising up from his heart.


Staring up at the open window, he watched with a grimace, as though Francois himself would appear at any moment to end what he had started.


“He didn't do anything to you!” shouted James, releasing all his emotion, his anger and his sorrow, imagining Francois was there to hear his words. “Why... why kill him? Why not kill me, huh? Come on, do it!”


The room was deathly silent, James' breaths ragged as he waited, and waited, almost wanting to join his father's fate, letting his challenge to Francois be known. Yet, his tears belied his true feelings.


Saying those words seemed to calm him, somehow, and he looked to his father again.


He dried his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt and stood up to his feet, slowly but steadily; Saber rose with him.


At once, he turned around and held her; he held her more closely than he ever had before, the way he would hold his father the day before if he'd known that he would never see him alive again. He had so little left in the world to love now that what remained he loved even more intensely.


"Promise you're not going to leave me," he said, holding Saber at arm's length, staring into her dark, wet eyes. "I can't lose anyone else, not now."


He was trembling, having barely managed to speak those words without faltering, his voice breaking; so many thoughts went through his mind that he couldn't keep track of them all, but they still focused on the future - now, the idea of a future that was made up only of failures.


"Loss is a part of life. The longer you live, the more you will lose - but the more time you will have had to appreciate what you have lost. We do not choose who or what we lose, only how it affects us in our hearts. Your father is still alive because your memory of him is alive; you remember him as he was, for what he did and how he changed your life. Live to make him proud, James, and somewhere his spirit will be smiling on you, seeing how well you have done for yourself. That is all he could have ever wanted."


James embraced her again, smiling past the last tears that made their way down his cheeks. He stroked his fingers through her soft hair, knowing that she could never promise him that she would always be there - no one could promise that, not to anyone, because life could always be fickle and unpredictable and harsh.


But at the same time, life allowed for those memories James had made with his father, and the memories he had made and would continue to make with Saber, and with everyone he loved and came to love in his life; even amidst the deepest sorrow, there will always be moments of happiness and peace, a perfect contrast.


As cruel as life may seem to be, it is these cruelties that make the goodness worth living for.


Someday, without question, James would lose Saber, or Saber would lose James - one of them was destined to be sad and inconsolable, but they could never change the past, and in the past was where happiness could be found, in the memories of the love that they shared. James had so many memories of his father, and the time they had spent together to create them would never go away, no matter what happened in the future.


James took in a deep breath, looking down at where his father lay, almost peacefully even as he had been killed with such undeserved cruelty.


Pulling away from Saber and crouching down, James closed his father's eyes for the last time; he quietly watched him in the same way his father had watched James after putting him to bed as a young boy, tucking him under his blankets and making sure he rested well.


"I have to call someone," he said, turning to Saber again. "There has to be a funeral."


She nodded, understanding. His father was here, a constant memory of loss and sadness; that had to be put to rest, and the rest of James' family had to pay their respects as well - Abraham had been a well-known figure in his community, beloved by many.


There was a telephone on the counter in the kitchen, bought and installed by Abraham after James had told him the full story of what happened after their fateful call - a long time ago, now, it felt.


Picking up the receiver, James thought for a moment, then dialled up a number and soon conversed with an operator, a faint smile on his lips.


This was part of how he could cope with the loss he'd suffered: getting back into regular life. Living like a normal person was something he looked forward to, now, wanting to be able to work, come home, sleep, just like anyone else did. He wanted to spend time with friends both new and old, and go somewhere with the qualifications he'd gained in university. There were so many things he could do with his life, and he tried with all his strength of will to focus on them rather than on the past, or on what the future would lack for him.


"Hi, uncle Eli?" he said, putting on a gregarious tone, his eyes not showing the emotion that his words did. "It's James- yeah, it's good to hear your voice, too!"


Saber sighed as she listened to one side of the conversation, musing to herself about how easy it was for a person to lie over the phone - even if they had no ill intent.


However, this was James' business to attend to, and she had her own part to play, holding a white cloth under the kitchen faucet, soaking it in lukewarm water. She heard snippets of conversation from James, who seemed to be catching up with his uncle - his mother's brother, she guessed - and walked solemnly over to Abraham.


Getting on her knees, she wiped gently at his skin, cleaning the dirt and blood that stained him, knowing Roman preparations for a funeral, ensuring that the body was presentable. She had not done this for her own father; it would have been too much at her age; James, too, did not deserve to have to be dragged through any more suffering, any more reminders of what he had lost. He needed this funeral, because it would give him the closure that he silently begged for.


"Oh? I was calling... yes, I was calling because it's about my dad."


The room went entirely quiet, and Saber couldn't even hear the barest noise from the other end of the phone line. The silence was telling; James opened his mouth, trying to find the best way to say it - but there was no best way.


"He... he needs us right now, so please come here as quick as you can."


That was all James could say before the expression on his face, once calm and collected, fell away, his eyes red again, edged with wetness. He hung up the phone quickly, too quickly, before he betrayed his emotions to his uncle. Afterwards, he wasn't sure why he had done that; maybe it was because the situation truly couldn't be explained, not normally. All the explanation would come in a single moment, when James' uncle saw the body of the man he'd cared for like a true brother.


Saber was at James' side before he could say anything else; she took his hand in hers, and looked into his eyes with a grave expression in her own.


"You need to be there for your mother, James," she told him, and he understood at once that she was speaking from painful experience. "She will need you now more than ever - be kind to her, because you are all that she has left of him."


James nodded, smiling, glad that Saber could be here to support him in turn. He had needed her to be his partner, the one person he could trust above all else - once, he accused her of being so far removed from trust, but now he couldn't think that of her.


She had outdone herself in being there for him, and he could only love that.


"I want you to come with me. My family should meet you, right?" He was smiling again - he thought of the future, still, but now he thought of a future by her side rather than a future without his father. There was so much he had lost, but he knew that there was so much happiness left to experience in this life of his.


"No," she said, turning away. His face fell, and he reached out to hold her again, wanting to convince her that this was the best - right now he didn't want to imagine himself without her, because then who would be there to support him, who would know what he'd faced in this war?


"You have to come with me," he urged her. "What if something happens to you while I'm gone? What if I lose you, too? And my family... they should meet you, and know that I have someone to be there for me through all this. Please, Julia."


She hung her head, sighing as she turned around to look into James' pleading eyes. His tears had long since dried, but even despite that she could see the strain on his face from the heartache this caused him. It pained her, too, to see him like that, but more than anything she knew this had to be. More than anything right now she wanted to love him and show him how much he meant to her, but the tragedy of things turned that all around. She had to be his Servant, his protector - they could be lovers later, but now there was no time for that even if it would make them happy for a time.


"Should your family meet me in a time of sadness, or of happiness? This is your moment, James, with your mother and those close to you. Spend it alone with them; I will stay here, and I can assure you that whoever could manage to defeat me would stop us both if we were together, too. On my own, I am much less of a target."


"I understand, but..."


He wanted to come up with some retort, some flaw in the logic of her argument that would make her feel just as he did; as he continued to say nothing, however, that idea became more and more implausible, until he simply knew it was impossible.


She stared at him hard, utter confidence in those dark, gorgeous eyes of hers, and he tried to wash away the pain with a smile and a laugh.


"So, you think I'm weak, then?" he accused, punching Saber lightly in the shoulder.


She laughed as well, rubbing where he'd hit her. Her own mind wasn't at ease, in fact in just as much confusion and pain as James was, but she couldn't show that; if she did, then he would never let her stay here alone.


Was this another lie she told for his benefit? Her smile faded away.


It all made her think of the night she had told him what she had done. She had, indirectly, made Francois aware of what he perceived James did; then, did Francois come here not to kill James, but to kill his father, knowing he would be here? She didn't know what Francois knew, but it struck her that perhaps he didn't want to kill James outright; perhaps he wanted to make him suffer. That thought alone paralysed her, and she stared blankly ahead out the window, far past James.


The sudden realization was like a stab to the heart, and she wanted to double over, pain assailing her all at once for the blame she put on herself.


"Julia? Are you alright? What's going on?" James wrapped his arms around her, kissing her cheek as he held her close to him for the comfort of both of them. It was too hard letting her go, because just the feeling of her in his arms was incredible – it made him feel at ease like nothing else could anymore.


"I just... felt sad, that your father will never get to see us together," she said, and that was not far from the truth - but it was far enough.


"Yeah, he'd be proud," James agreed, and wrapped his arm about her shoulders; they stood side-by-side, looking at Abraham in repose, who truly seemed to simply be resting there. With every moment that passed James hoped that his father's skin would flush and he'd shake his head, waking up with nothing worse than a headache, and then they could go away and ignore the ugliness of war for the rest of their peaceful lives.


James wished for many things, but he had come to understand that most of those wishes would never come true, no matter how hard he fought for them.


With a sombre smile he walked to the door, putting on his coat again, watching Saber stand silently in the living room. He could tell that this affected her just as much as it did him, and in a way that made the weight on his heart ever so lighter: he had someone to bear this pain with him, and that made all the difference.


"My uncle's coming up from Arlington, and he should be here in about half an hour."


James did up his coat's buttons, checked his pockets for his keys, and then opened the door, stepping through.


For a moment he wondered if he should bring his pack of cigarettes, but he relented; he didn't have much of a taste for them anymore, as though they conjured bad memories. Instead, he gave one last glance to Saber, who was seeing him off.


"I should go as well - just let me clean this before your uncle arrives," she told him, gesturing to the leaves and the dirt and the dried stains of blood.


It was only apt that she go before his uncle raised any questions; he had enough worries already.


He spun his keys around on his finger, already wondering when he would return to the war. As much as he hated it, being away from it for even a moment felt wrong, like there was an emptiness inside him. The war was all he'd known for months now, and to be without it made him feel directionless and lost. It was easier to understand the war than to understand normal life, in which the pace of the world continued, day by day, towards no apparent conclusion.


Already he was impatient, not wanting to leave something unfinished, as though this conflict was a painting he'd left half-done on its canvas.


With a sigh, he made his way down the stairs to the lobby, and passed through the apartment's doors, hoping to see his uncle early, so that they could finish this more quickly. The idea of a funeral felt so foreign to him; he had only been to one when he was a child, wearing a tiny imitation of a man's dress suit, not understanding what was happening, only knowing that he wouldn't see his grandmother anymore - but why?


He had been innocent, then. How far he'd come to now, when he knew so much about the death of one man that it made his funeral so superfluous. How could one event, one gathering of people, in any way bring some satisfaction to a child who had lost his father? The depth of emotions he would face was enormous, but he worried that seeing his father lowered into the ground would only make his feelings even more severe than they were.


"James? Are you busy?"


He heard someone to the right; at first he wasn't sure who it was, not having a name and a face to put to the voice, but they were in the parking lot, and he looked up at once, seeing who was there.


Against his expectations, it was Nigel - in hindsight, he should have known, but James' mind wasn't all there, not even as he greeted the man.


"No, I'm just waiting," said James, patting down the snow with his feet. It wouldn't be long until it was cleared away, but it was a sight to enjoy until it was; snow like this only seemed to come once a year: soft, cool, and beautiful for the few hours after it had fallen, before it was marred by mud and salt as cars churned through the gathering slush on the roads


"I see. I... came to tell you something that I meant to tell you last night." Nigel looked around, as though to check if anyone was there, if they were watching.


Nigel's voice was quiet, as if he was trying to suppress some emotion that he held in his heart. James felt, however, that Nigel was in a similar situation to what he himself was in - he knew it when he looked in his eyes. The war affected everyone in different ways, but the wounds of loss were always the same. Nigel, too, had experienced loss, but James didn't want to bring himself to imagine what that was, even as he knew what must have happened.


"I'll get right out with it: I want to write about this war. As in, a book." Saying that seemed to relax him, and he breathed out gently. "Too many people have died, and no one's left to tell their stories. This whole war will be forgotten, and everyone who struggled to do some good during it will be forgotten along with it. I can't have that; I want these people to be remembered, because that's what they deserve for all they suffered through. With you, however, I want to ask your permission to have you in my book, when I write it. You're one of the few of us still alive."


That was a proposition James never knew he'd get; to write a story about the war seemed strange, because it would ultimately be fiction - no one would believe what had happened, and that was the painful truth of this all.


“Alive?” James wondered, smiling as best he could manage. “I'm not so sure about that.”


However, James nodded, knowing how Nigel must have felt. Everyone deserved to be remembered, as that was the least that could be done to honour the sacrifices they made. If they were forgotten and ignored, then victory in the war would be hollow. Why should one person deserve victory and life when so many others have given their lives for the same? No one in this war was more right than any other, but each and every one of them suffered equally.


Nigel smiled, not saying anything, as though he hadn't expected James to agree to this. At the same time, he probably didn't expect this turn of events at all - and then another weight was added to James' aching heart.


"My father died last night," said James, in a tone like a man confessing a sin. "He was killed, and it was because of me - but I'm going to keep on living, because my father deserves to be remembered. I'm all that's left of him in the world, now."


"My condolences," Nigel said, feeling the same pain, but at the same time wondering if his sympathy was selfish: his family had never been at risk from the war, but here James was, fighting battles in his own home. Everyone had their own strife and suffering, and James', too, was unique. Nigel hoped that the young man wouldn't be burdened by too much sorrow and regret for his age; nearly forty, Nigel believed, in a way, that he deserved more sadness to make up for the good life he had waiting for him back in London.


He felt some uncertainty, though; the news of James' father dying made him uneasy. Yet another person who wasn't in the war had been targeted, and he felt that he knew who was behind this, as well.


Afterwards, the two had little else to say to each other, their thoughts diverse and numberless, but without any words to put to them. There were many things they wanted to say to each other, but for now, they couldn't say them.


If they managed to meet each other one more time, when the war was done... maybe then they could talk, if they were both alive to see that fateful day.


With a nod and a polite smile, Nigel was on his way, trudging through the snow, off towards Arlington. James could tell that he would never see the man again, not for a long, long time - with nothing left in the war, and no passion left for victory, he had no reason to stay.


That was good, James thought. If one person could stay free of any more suffering, then that would be good; there was no happiness to truly be found in the war, but sorrow and loss could still be minimized - for whatever that mattered, so close to the end of all things.


Not long afterwards, as he stood in the cold, empty parking lot, he saw his uncle's familiar truck pulling in, his uncle waving from his seat. Seeing that friendly face made James smile, but his smile quickly faded as he was reminded of the reason why his uncle was here in the first place. He shivered, a strong breeze blowing past him.


It wouldn't be long before James would be seeing his father for the last time as he was given the burial and funeral he deserved.


It was what he deserved, but it had come far too soon.

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

Honestly, the story's getting a bit too depressing for me lately! Maybe that's a good thing: MPII isn't meant to be a very happy story. However, everything that's been building over the last couple of chapters or so culminates in the next one, which gets to be a very emotional scene for James. In fact, it's all focused on James himself, and no one else. It's interesting, to say the least, and when I post it tomorrow I'll also share a unique tidbit about it. Most unique about it in the context of the story, though, is that the next chapter is the only one that takes place entirely outside of the war - and it may not be like what you think!

Thanks for continuing to read all this. I swear, there's not much left!

[The Green Flame]

This one really got me. Maximum feels. It's all just tumbling down!