Magic is real.
The presence of power that defies comprehension and laughs at the face of natural law could not be any clearer in that tenebrous room forever cloaked in darkness and chill. The basement of that distant castle, concealed from the rest of the world by means physical and supernatural, reeks of the strong scent of spilled blood both fresh and ancient. The non-descript circle and pentagram drawn with the vital fluid of the snow-haired girl glow unnaturally and provide the major source of light in the hewn stone chamber. The stale air of the underground room has been stirred for the first time in ages by the supernatural power unleashed by the girl as she recites the incantation.
The girl’s name is Ilyasviel von Einzbern; eighteen years old, although her appearance is that of a girl who has yet to step into puberty. Her unclothed body stands exposed to the stingingly low temperature in the dark room, but it is kept warm by the immense power flowing within her. Elaborate marks like arcane, indecipherable tattoos adorn her exposed skin. They glow portentously: most of them a bright red, some of them a blinding pure white. It is magic; magical energy; the synthesized fuel—prana—that powers all miracles of Magecraft.
It is painful. Her outwards appearance does not portray this—she cannot allow herself to portray it—, but the girl is undergoing a terrible agony.
To the girl, Ilyasviel, even this most simple of rituals is intensely painful. Simply put, she is too powerful. Those red marks that artfully run through her body are the manifestation of her Magic Circuits, far more potent than any ordinary human, no matter how blessed, could ever hope to have. It is a useless power, however, for Ilyasviel is not particularly skilled at Magecraft.
Every aspect of her life has been controlled by others. What she can and is allowed to do with her magical potential is of course no exception. Even at that very moment she stands austere and dignified despite the humiliating exposure, the cold and the pain boiling her insides, performing what is perhaps the most important ritual; the very reason she is allowed to exist in this world.
She is to become a Master in the Fifth Heaven’s Feel ceremony, and bring victory to Einzbern.
A macabre ritual, Heaven’s Feel. A bizarre ceremony in which seven ‘Masters’ summon seven ‘Servants’—‘Heroic Spirits’ from all periods of history, summoned from a realm beyond time—to engage in supernatural combat; the prize for the victor being a wish-granting artifact. This fey-like girl, old and young at the same time, is expected to participate in such an abnormal ceremony. She is expected to kill or be killed; to show no mercy and to expect none.
Such is the twisted, wondrous world of magi.
It is too early, however. The Einzbern family has moved quickly, hurrying to perform the summoning ritual and call a Servant before even a single Master has been chosen by the coordinator of the ritual, which also happens to be the prize itself: the all-capable Holy Grail. The girl’s attunement to the main body of the Grail in distant Japan has allowed her to detect the signs of increased activity synonym with the preparations for a new Grail War. This is the reason she is summoning her Servant three months before the magical conflict is expected to properly begin.
With her eyes closed as she recites the summoning ritual, Ilyasviel cannot see it, but she is profoundly aware of the old relic by her feet. Servants are powerful beings and, while most of the summoning procedure is handled by the Grail itself, the aspiring Master is expected to establish a material connection between himself and the Heroic Spirit.
Before her feet rests an ancient iron knife, unearthed just a month earlier from the millenary ruins of a battlefield. Ilyasviel had expected to summon the mightiest of all ancient Greek heroes, the most famous hero in all of mythology; the necessary ‘catalyst’ was in the possession of the Einzbern family. She was confused, and distressed, by the sudden change of plans, but she did not allow herself to voice her concern. She has lived her life following orders in silence; all plans, all decisions made by the Head of Einzbern aim at nothing but the greater glory of the ancient family of Magi. The Servant she now intends to invoke is certainly far more ancient, and his powers no less impressive. He should be an undefeatable contender in this battle of legendary souls.
A tall, austere man in white stands before her, just outside the summoning circle, and a step ahead of the stairs leading out of the bowels of the earth. As if blocking the only avenue of exit, Jubstacheit von Einzbern coldly watches the unfolding ritual. His unfeeling eyes of steel quietly demand nothing but perfection. It would be hard to find a person in this world who wishes for victory in the upcoming Grail War more than this man.
This is the man Ilyasviel calls ‘grandfather’, even if they have never been family, in any sense.
“Yet, thou serve with thine eyes clouded in chaos.”
Ilyasviel—no, the Einzbern family—aims not for just any Servant. The summoned heroes are assigned to one of seven ‘Classes’ according to their skills and feats in life. By adding two lines to the chant, the girl aims to summon the mad Servant, Berserker. With its capacity for reason subdued by madness that muddles the mind, Einzbern wishes for their Servant to be a beast that knows only violence and follows not its own wishes, but only the commands of its Master. This is most of the time a dangerous trade-off: the Berserker demands amounts of prana the average magus cannot supply, and those who have tried wielding the mad warrior as their instrument of victory have ended up losing control of their poorly leashed beast.
That will not happen to Ilyasviel von Einzbern.
She has been prepared, maybe even since before her birth, to be the strongest Master commanding the strongest Servant. Her immense reserves of prana should allow the proper sustainment of even the Berserker. No matter how much power it may demand, Ilyasviel will provide it, regardless of how much she might suffer as a consequence—using the Magic Circuits in one’s body is a harsh experience for everybody capable of doing so. To this girl, who carries more Circuits than anybody else, activating this incomparable network of vessels for magical energy is an unimaginable torture.
But that is the role she has been given. She was born and raised to be a Master; she knows nothing but her purpose as Master. Being a Master is everything she has, and the one thing she can hold on to. Even if her body resents every second of it, Ilyasviel wishes to be a Master more than anything else.
Her life begins with the conclusion of this ritual…!
“Thou, bound in the cage of madness! I am she who commands those chains…!”
Prana surges inside her body, demanding the sacrifice for the sake of the miraculous summoning. Ilyasviel squeezes her eyes shut, forcing her jaw to tighten and prevent any sound of complaint to escape her lips. Even if her body burns from the inside, there is only one thought in her mind.
A Servant.
She wants, more than anything, a Servant…!
The center of the circle of glowing blood explodes with searing white light, but only for a second. Like a flash bang, it floods the stone chamber with the clean radiance of daylight, and then disappears just as quickly as it had surged. As the unnatural air currents created by the prana flooding the room scatter away, returning the room to its usual stale stillness, and the glow of the magic circle and her exposed Circuits finally recedes, Ilyasviel opens her eyes.
Candle lights on all four corners of the room partially dispel the encroaching darkness and, where there had been two, there are now three. The white-haired girl, Ilyasviel, immediately realizes she is not cold anymore, even with her Magic Circuits now deactivated.
The room is now chocked full of the third person’s presence. It permeates the enclosed spell like a Mediterranean summer haze. This person, the Servant; by the mere act of standing there and existing, it carries such potency…!
There is no doubt: the person in front of her is a Servant; a legendary being! This sweltering, oppressive feeling that dispelled the wintry cold of northern Europe is nothing but the weight of her Servant’s superior status as an existence…!
Indubitably, this is the powerful presence of a hero from a truly ancient era, brought to the present time to become Einzbern’s instrument of victory! Even with the humbling title of ‘Servant’, how could Ilyasviel not feel awe solely by being in the same room as this incredible being?
However…
The Servant is standing in front of Ilyasviel, but she cannot see his face. The girl has to make a conscious effort to restrain the urge to flinch as she is met by what looks like the top half of the skull of some sort of bovine. It cannot belong to any animal she has seen in pictures, however: the muzzle is simply too large, abnormally so; it is like some bizarre combination of bull and duck. Parts of the skull are painted in a pattern resembling dancing flames, and the tips of the acutely curved horns are tinged with the color of ashes. A long mane of fiery red hair pours down the back of the skull; it is not the Servant’s natural hair, but an adornment for that most unusual of face masks.
It is…not very impressive. Just outright bizarre.
“I have come, in response to your summons.”
The voice makes Ilyasviel jump on her spot. It is not fear, however, that elicits this reaction. Ilyasviel does not have to look at her grandfather to know something is frighteningly wrong with this situation. The skull—no, the strange animal skull makes a bit of sense, with a loose interpretation of the legend. But, the voice…
It is not the voice of a man. It is not even the voice of a woman.
Ilyasviel suddenly realizes that this figure wearing a skull as some sort of mask is barely two inches taller than her.
“Ah, cheh…” The Servant’s voice is tenuous, but it undeniably carries the lyrical pitch of soprano only a child can bring to life. However, the first sounds that come out of her mouth carry a blatant tone of derision. “So, I have been summoned by a most unusual of Masters.”
Ilyasviel finds herself unable to explain the stinging pain that strikes deep within her chest after those words.
“You…can tell…?”
Something like the beginning of a snort can be heard behind the skull-mask, but it is restrained after an instant.
“Of course I can tell, child,” the voice behind the skull responds. “I am well-versed in the ways of magic; I can at least recognize an artificial human. I can only wonder what unusual circumstances have made someone like you a Master in this War.”
“Servant.”
The voice of Jubstacheit von Eiznbern echoes deeply in the enclosed chamber. He steps into the circle without fear as the ritual has been completed. There is a Servant before them, but…
“State your Class, Servant,” he demands upon stopping some three steps away from the girl. He can see her back clearly, although the only things he can see are the mane of fake red hair and the strange white dress she wears, resembling no type of clothing he may be familiar with. It resembles a coat in that it stays close to the girl’s trunk and them spreads out upon reaching her waist and downwards, but the way the loose end of the garment is so extensively folded cannot be natural.
The Servant turns her head if only slightly, not bothering to get a proper look of the person standing behind her.
“Who makes such a brazen demand, and why should I be expected to respond?”
The tall man’s eyes glow with rapidly growing ire, as those words represent the exact opposite of what the head of the Einzbern family expected from their Servant. His glare falls upon Ilyasviel, who tries not to avert her face from those eyes that make the pain in her chest grow worse.
“Spe…speak, Servant,” she finally states, even if her voice fails her for a second. It is difficult, because she is confused, but she understands she has to act as a proper Master…
“Hnn. Very well.” The girl’s voice does not portray anything resembling respect or acquiescence. She will answer because it does not inconvenience her to do so. “It appears I have been summoned as Servant Berserker.”
Ilyasviel wishes to ask the obvious follow-up question, but Berserker is not done.
“And I will immediately make things clear: that was a terrible idea, the summoning was embarrassingly ill-prepared, and my first impression is one of extreme disappointment.”
The words stab deep into the pride of the youthful summoner. Ilyasviel makes a deep inhalation. For this…Servant, to say such a thing in front of them! In front of her grandfather…!
As expected, Jubstacheit would not take to such words kindly.
“Are you…are you claiming that our procedure was lacking, Servant?” His voice is dark and foul, suitable for a man capable to deride the immensely powerful being standing before him. Still, he maintains a semblance of decorum expected from such a venerable magus.
“Lacking?” Berserker responds, still not bothering to turn and face the old family head properly. “This summoning could not have ended in anything but failure, child.”
With her back to him, Berserker cannot see the hateful scowl the elder magus directs at her.
“You know not what you speak of, Servant! To claim that the noble Einzbern family could make an error in such a simple ritual; more preposterous words I have never—!”
“Realize who you speak to, disrespectful child.”
The Servant’s right foot falls on the object used as the catalyst for her summoning, making it jump off the hard ground to catch it with her right hand. It is then that Ilyasviel looks at Berserker’s feet and notices they are clad in red sandals with outrageously tall black soles. Without her footwear, Berserker is probably even shorter than her Master. The white-haired girl looks up past the black socks covering her Servant’s feet and her legs halfway up to her knees. She cannot not see much further until that bizarrely shaped skull hides the Heroic Spirit’s form.
“To speak to me so brazenly; are you aware of your position, magus? Or are all magi of this era as recklessly loquacious as you?” The small Servant snorts at the lack of a response. “Be thankful that patience remains one of my virtues, child.”
Berserker takes a step, and every single movement is a warning. It is impossible not to realize it: in this room, that small creature is the top predator. After three steps, she stands facing Ilyasviel’s left side, presenting her own left side to Jusbtacheit.
“Master.”
Ilyasviel jolts to attention. That unreasonable, child-like voice makes her body jump like the antelope at the rustling of the tall grass behind her. She cannot see her Servant’s eyes: were she able to, what would she find there? Disapproval? Antagonism?
Rejection?
“Do you wish me to detail the reasons for my disappointment, Master?”
Ilyasviel realizes she is addressed. Her Servant expects something else from her, but, as the Master, she has to establish her position!
“Be-Berserker! Apologize to grandfather immediately!”
“I refuse.”
Ilyasviel and Jusbtacheit inhale deeply and in unison, as if the abject refusal had been a blow to their guts.
“I have responded to rudeness and ignorance with the derision a rude fool deserves. I do not consider myself to be in the wrong, and thus I find no reason to apologize.”
A tilt of the skull mask informs Ilyasviel that she is being faced directly.
“If you still wish me to do so, I will demand the use of a—”
“Apologize immediately, Berserker,” Ilyasviel insists, the Magic Circuits in her body flaring to life once more. The greatest homunculus of Einzbern is special in many ways. She is the most suitable Master to ever exist in this world, gifted with a direct connection to the Grail.
“Guh!” Berserker’s free hand disappears under the skull, as she apparently uses it to cover her mouth. Jubstacheit smiles in vindictive approval of Ilyasviel’s forceful commandment.
“Master, you should stop doing that,” the masked girl then speaks in a soft, cautious tone.
“Apologize, then,” Ilyasviel insists. This is necessary for her. To establish the proper separation between Master and Servant, just like grandfather said.
“But, Master…does it not cause you pain?”
“Eh!?” Ilyasviel gasps out, and her feet stumbled backwards two steps. It was somewhat embarrassing, but there is a reason beyond the Servant’s words for Ilyasviel to be taken aback to such a level.
Every user of Magecraft has a natural resistance to foreign magical influence. In other words, the capability to reject unwanted inflows of prana.
That Servant, that Berserker, possesses that capability as well. She is forcibly rejecting the natural input of magical energy she receives from Ilyasviel; the very thing that allows her to exist in this world.
“You…” Ilyasviel’s eyes widen in alarm. “Stop that!”
“Not before my Master stops hurting herself.” Berserker replies in a firm tone. “That I will absolutely not tolerate!”
“Berserker!” Ilyas cries out, and the Magic Circuits flare as if in response to her emotions. Her jaw trembles as the scalding heat in her insides fills her with suffering, but she stands strong and does not relent in her scowling. “Stop being obstinate!”
“The obstinate one is most definitely not this one!” Berserker says rebelliously, but Ilyasviel can see the hand holding the ancient knife trembling and takes another step back. There is no way her own Servant could attack her…right?
“Just…just do what you are told, Berserker!”
“Such a ridiculous command, I refuse to accept it!” Berserker stubbornly insists. Her breathing has become agitated as she begins to feel the absence of a most necessary prana input, especially so soon after the summoning and with not nearly enough reserves of her own. But the little Servant has a strong pride.
Her hand holds the old knife with an iron grip, and the red hairs attached to the back of her skull mask dance wildly as she furiously shakes her head. Her voice is intense and full of sincere feeling.
“Rather than become the source of suffering for my very own companion in this War, I will disappear this very minute…!”
Ilyasviel went awfully stiff as a strange, ticklish feeling crawled up her chest to her cheeks and the back of her eyes.
“Wha…?”
After several seconds of tense, uncomfortable silence, Berserker sighed and turned towards Jubstacheit.
“…sir. It appears I have caused discomfort to my Master with my response to your words. It will not happen again.”
The Einzbern elder stared at the slightly inclined skull mask that implied its wearer had lowered her head. Her words were not really an apology; anybody could tell. She was doing simply what she believed was more convenient. Regardless of her words, she would obviously prefer not disappearing less than five minutes after her summoning.
Ilyasviel as well; she cannot take her eyes off the Servant’s concealed form. It is bothersome, the feeling that fills her. She does not understand, but the things Berserker says bother her for some reason, just like the fact she cannot figure out her Servant after this strange exchange.
Everything has become confusing, and Ilyasviel von Einzbern does not like confusing things.
“Ilyasviel, cease at once. Berserker, accept your Master’s prana. Is a regular flow enough to sustain you?”
Berserker nods.
“…yes. I have no complains about the amount of prana I receive from my Master. However…”
She shakes her head again, this time slowly.
“Please, allow me to explain the issues I have with the summoning procedure. First, this implement.”
She shifts attention to the catalyst in her hand.
“This knife. Its connection to me is tenuous at best,” the Servant explains. “I never owned it, never used it and definitely never made it. If it worked as an agent to summon me, it is probably because the design is undeniably mine, and it is most likely from my time.”
“Secondly, this room,” she continues, spreading thin arms covered by ample white sleeves. “The strong earth component is acceptable, but this place is just depressingly cold and dry. If you are not going to summon me in my home territory, it should have been a priority to establish a suitable ritual ground!” The girl’s voice rises in intensity and irateness with every word. “Where are the fire and the water? Where is the metal? Has my legend become so obscure you cannot learn enough about me to make a proper summoning?has ”
“And this circle! This blood, it comes from Master, does it not? It should have been something more appropriate, like iron sand, molten bronze or bronze flakes ground into dust! How is the blood of an artificial human supposed to establish a conceptual connection with me?”
Even if they are concealed by the skull, Ilyasviel can tell that Berserker’s eyes have fixated in her form. Feeling suddenly strangely uncomfortable so close to her Servant, the artificial human takes a hesitant step back, doing her best to ignore her grandfather’s silent disapproval of her cowardly action. Ilyasviel does not know what bothers her most: Jubstacheit’s disapproval or the Servant’s methodical dissection of the ‘flawed’ summoning ritual.
“Which brings me to you, Master. I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are the worst Master for me in terms of compatibility.”
Ilyasviel breathes deeply, as if hoping to mitigate the aching in her chest like that.
It simply…was not supposed to be like this. It…hurts. Those words hurt her far more than the Servant’s refusal to submit to her. The physical pain caused by Servant Berserker’s excessive demand for prana does not exist; this Berserker…is not like a Berserker at all.
Ilyasviel had wished for a Servant; a loyal Servant that would stand by her side and fight for her.
This…this isn’t it! This couldn’t be her Servant! Her Servant was not supposed to be like this; to say such things to her!
“Why…?”
Berserker takes that as a question directed to her.
“I am a Creator, but artificial life is not within the scope of my powers. Even if you are providing me with sufficient prana, I can feel it comes from an unnatural source and an unnatural process; it causes me discomfort.” She shrugs. “My body is immeasurably more unique than yours; it is simply too aware of your unnatural existence. It…would take some time to explain it properly, but the results are obvious.”
Planting the hand not holding the catalyst on her hip, Berserker fiddles with the ancient blade as she concludes her little lesson.
“My physical capabilities have been reduced, and I do not believe I can use my true Noble Phantasm. It is a shame, but I will be fighting this War with a significant handicap.”
The silence in the chilly room is unsettling. It contrasts starkly with the emotions boiling within the two persons who have received Berserker’s dire ultimatum.
A failed summoning.
A weakened Servant.
Mad Enhancement does not seem to work.
Everything, everything! Everything that could have gone wrong has indeed gone wrong!
Ilyasviel’s feelings cannot be put into words.
She has failed.
Failed.
Failed.
Failed!
She is the strongest Master, supposed to summon the strongest Servant! To win for Einzbern! To castigate that boy! This war and the Grail; they are the culmination of her life! She was born for the sake of the Holy Grail War! The Grail War is everything to her! She really, really has nothing else!
How could she, whose life was dedicated and defined by this event, fail in such a disastrous manner?
“Haah! Oh well!”
Berserker laughs; a single, barking laugh of resounding volume that deeply contrasts with her even, more intense voice thus far.
“Eh?” Ilyasviel gasps the moment the Servant with the strange headgear leans closer to her. While one hand flicks the skull aside, the other clasps Ilyasviel’s right shoulder almost too roughly. The artificial girl here realizes that Berserker does not wear the skull as a helmet; it is instead tied to her head with a strip of white cloth. It is indeed a face mask.
Having moved the skull mask to the side, Berserker finally reveals her full form to her Master. Short, plain brown hair that does not reach her thin shoulders frame a wide face between two unusually long and pointed ears. What immediately catches Ilyasviel’s attention, however, is that her Servant’s strange white dress completely exposes her body under her belly. Her eyes wildly roam over her Servant’s thin waist and small, childlike hips before dropping to gaze at thighs that know no blemish. A red leather belt hangs loosely from her hips, and her private parts are covered only by a minuscule piece of underwear the likes of which Ilyasviel never imagined existed back in the Age of Gods.
Is…is this really the Heroic Spirit she had intended to summon? She spoke as if that were the case, but…
“We will have to work a little bit harder, but let us win this Holy Grail War, Master.”
As if Ilyasviel had not gone through enough surprises already, the words from her suddenly enthusiastic Servant strike her like a hammer to her feeble heart. Had she not just said…?
“But, I thought…?” The confused young Master could not combine words properly. And why is Berserker smiling all of a sudden?
“Everything I said is true, Master, but what is done is done and there is no point in dwelling on it.”
Her voice is no longer cold, or bored, or subdued. It carries energy and courage, and it warms Ilyasviel’s chest like a raging bonfire in the midst of the intensely cold room. Then, the Master of Berserker glances over her Servant’s shoulder.
Jubstacheit von Einzbern is not convinced. Only the concept of ‘failure’ has invaded his brain. No matter what they say or do from this moment onwards, the fact remains that the summoning was faulty and the Servant is defective.
The head of this most ancient of magical families is looking down at the homunculus of Einzbern with no other expression but the utmost disgust, for he is now looking at a failure. It is unreasonable contempt—it would be ridiculous to blame solely Ilyasviel for the catastrophically improper summoning of this particular Heroic Spirit—, but this man who has lusted for victory in the Holy Grail War for two centuries cannot be expected to be reasonable. In the end, failure in all its forms is simply unacceptable and, to his eyes, Ilyasviel von Einzbern can no longer win the Holy Grail War.
Burdened by the intensity of his scorn, the little homunculus feels her legs trembling and her eyes watering. It is not just the rejection. Maybe, just maybe, the stress of years of harsh preparation rendered meaningless has finally caught up to her.
A strong, small hand squeezes her shoulder carefully, and Ilyasviel looks at her Servant.
Berserker is still smiling. It is a confident smile, not the one of one who has given up. It is simple and humane. Neither Master nor Servant can be called human, but in that simple moment they connect in the most plain and human of ways.
Even if Berserker said they were not compatible, that her presence made her uncomfortable, the Servant is still smiling at her.
“I only said I am handicapped, Master. I did not say I am weak,” Berserker declares. “If you will not abandon this Holy Grail War, then let us fight and win together, Master.”
Like that, it was as if her grandfather were no longer there. This was a Servant, after all. The magnitude of her presence eclipsed everyone else there with no effort. In spite of her small size and bizarre appearance, it could not be denied that she possessed power; the power of one whose deeds in life have been immortalized. And this Berserker, was she not one who has been worshipped as a god, even?
“Will you…really be…my Servant?” Ilyasviel’s voice has never sounded more like a child’s. Berserker cannot imagine the full significance that question carries within the white girl’s heart.
The girl with the tanned skin responds with a brief chuckle.
“The moment you summoned me, you became my Master, and I your Servant. That is the undeniable truth, is it not?”
Allowing the knife in her right hand to fall back to the stone floor, Berserker thus grasps both of her Master’s shoulders.
“Do you wish me to bring you victory, Master?”
Originally Posted by asterism42
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