Hello, everyone! This is a multi-chapter fanfic set in the world of Fate/Apocrypha, but using only original characters; hopefully, that still makes for an interesting read! :-) I'll be posting a teaser for each chapter here, but the full chapter will only be posted over at AO3 - and only viewable for registered users, I'm afraid. Sorry, but after finding out AI apps also comb over AO3 and other fanfiction sites, I'd rather not leave my fics out in the open.
So, without further ado, here's the first chapter of A Rondo of Fools! Or rather, the teaser; the full chapter can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43231308.
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Act I - A Rondo of Fools
The spirits of the land and air howled, and the elements followed suit.
A wolf ran through the thick, dark woods, heedless of the cold and wind. There was nothing unusual with that sight; despite the centuries of extermination attempts, the Black Forest was still home to some of the creatures. That the beast moved not with the single-mindedness of a predator on the hunt, but with the practiced ease and foreknowledge of an assassin after a victim, meant nothing: that it was a wolf in a forest – unremarkable, and thus unseen – was enough.
Sorcery was the art of deceit.
The wolf stopped. Deep in the woods where the sun could not reach and twilight reigned, there was a mansion of earth, wood, and stone, a cold and miserable fortification, only accessible by a dirt road. Consisting almost entirely of a single fortified manor house, it was not exceptionally large, but it had clearly withstood the passing of time: despite looking as solid as it must have been when it was first erected, its walls teemed with the wailing spirits imprisoned by the fortress’ greedy magic, echoes of vestiges of the dead with barely enough consciousness to have been forced into servitude.
Sorcery was the art of the second sight.
There was a vehicle parked right in front of the large oaken door which served as the entrance, a long, black car – modified for both comfort and utility – guarded by two young men, their sunglasses and black suits standing in stark contrast to their surroundings. It was a ludicrous precaution – there was no one within miles who could hijack the car –, but they were corpse-bound spirits: once-living guardians, probably possessing a small amount of magical talent themselves, who were sacrificed so their bodies could be turned into autonomous familiars. Stronger than any human, they still had all the skills painstakingly developed when living but were now loyal to the grave and beyond. They were capable of little independent thought, however; in the absence of any other command from their master, they must have been simply following standing instructions.
A gentle breeze blew, lifting the fog over reality’s eyes, and where before there was a wolf now stood a silver-haired man; the change had taken place so quickly it was as if it had never happened at all. The man was tall and powerfully built, naked but for a wolf-pelt tied around his waist, and he had more than a hint of something wild and primal to his bearing even now. If he felt the assault of the cold and wind, none of it reached his eyes or manner as he studied the targets.
Sorcery was the art of transformation.
A wild wind blew, and the man struck, swift and merciless as the whims of the gods; the bodies hit the ground, robbed of even their mockery of life with but a touch. Using magic in such a way was risky – even without drawing on the environment’s magical energy, it was difficult to hide it among the spirits’ unrest –, but more efficient than killing them with his own hands; what magic had done, it could also undo.
Sorcery was the art of killing.
He ignored the lifeless husks, pitiful morsels that they were, and turned to the stone fort, measuring its defences even as his heart beat with the sound of thunder; he hungered for more. He was a sorcerer, but also a warrior, and none chosen by the Corpse-Father could not love the storm of swords. But no – above all, he was a king. The feeding of the wolves, the spilling of the wine of ravens, those were necessary to forge a crown – steel was best tempered in blood –, but they were only necessary measures. He would not climb on a mountain of corpses to reach the heavens.
Sorcery was the craft of power, but also the art of deluding oneself.