#fate go fic

[ziracona]

I finally got the intro to arc 2 done. Hope you have fun with it! As always, Tumblr gets the update first but before the final editing pass--a little glass half full, glass half empty ^.^' Enjoy: [Fate/GO AU – The Kid (pt: 1, … 22,23, 24, 25, 26, 27, ?)]{Some spoilers for original Grand Order run/through Temple of Time, vaguer situational spoilers for later arcs}

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“Roman?”

“Mmmmmhmmmph,” I groan unhappily, unhappy to have heard anything. I shift a little, trying to stay unconscious, because it’s better in here.

“Sorry, but you gotta wake up sometime soon. We’ve got like 100 people with guns who aren’t super happy about the 200 new people we just dropped on them without guns,” comes a woman’s voice, “You and I can take a real rest when we’re dead. Or when nobody’s looking. Which I wish was right now, but.”

I hear her, unfortunately, and I’m awake enough to know what the words mean, so I sigh, then scrunch up my face and drag my eyes open. I do not expect to find the blurry face of Da Vinci looking right down at me from above.

“…Da Vinci?” I double-check, squinting up at her. Yeah. I’m pretty sure it is.

“Oh wow, you actually woke up,” she says, patting my shoulder sympathetically, “I know you’re beat to hell, but, I’d love it if you cared to confirm what happened.”

“…Where is everyone else?” I ask, blinking and trying to shake off the lingering weight in my head. I feel sort of terrible, and sort of peaceful, somehow at the same time. It’s bizarre. Right. I shouldn’t feel peaceful at all right? Because there’s a lot of people to explain things to, who are upset and worried. And then there’s the whole situation to…to try and fix…

I look back up at Da Vinci, since she hasn’t answered me. My vision is starting to clear, and now that I can see her face, I realize she looks…sad. No, sad and happy. Nostalgic? Homesick? She’s looking at me like I have seen David look at me a few times now, when he thinks I’m not paying attention. Like it’s painful, in a way that is deeply good.

I…feel guilty, that I don’t know her. For all I know, she could be lying about knowing me, I guess, and I’m not a naïve person, but, I don’t think she is. And it makes me sorry.

There’s a little crackle in my head then, which I feel an instinct to panic at, because, you know, how could that be a good sound for the inside of a head? But then I hear her thoughts slipping through the space between us:

“I missed this. How can I be so sad? How can I miss him so painfully, while talking to him, face to face? I feel like I’m watching a memory, but, I’m not. Not this time.”

My stomach drops as I realize I’m unintentionally getting her thoughts.

“He looks so like he always did. Tired and cheerful and steady. He was our rock, and I’m not really sure I ever thanked him for that. That wasn’t my job. My job was keeping us alive, and giving him a hard time. But still, someone should have said it. It wasn’t easy. I know, because once he died, I had to be him. Dying the best you can for the people around you, and asking those kids who are like your own by now to live, and live happy, with the weight of the world on their shoulders? Is even worse.”

It ends then as soon as it began, with another crackle in my head like static, and I know I did not make that happen, but I still feel deeply wrong. I know whatever caused it, it wasn’t her either, and it was an intrusion; I wasn’t meant to hear it. I wish I’d been awake enough to think of a way to stop it.

I…I should be thinking about how to play this, or that this is confirmation then, that I am certainly going to die, because that’s important, but then, I’ve known that all along, right? And it’s not what I’m thinking. I’m thinking: “Wow. After everything, you have someone who misses you this much.” I should feel anything but reassured, but it’s all I feel. Peace. Or…gratefulness. I guess if only one of us two being able to remember it all, in the end, was enough for me then, then only one of us remembering at the start, here, is good enough for me, too.

Okay focus. She’s still staring into space. Maybe you can…

“Da Vinci…?” I ask, deciding to act like nothing just happened and hope she doesn’t know, “Did something happen? You look worried?”

“Not really,” she sighs, refocusing her mask with precision and speed, and putting on a smile while making a grand little shrug, “But you sure left us a situation. You try explaining the shit we just pulled to a room of angry mages sometime, and see how you like it.”

“Did anyone-?!” I ask with sudden fear.

“—Nobody got hurt,” she chides, “You think I wouldn’t have mentioned that? Your staff heard what you said before you passed out. We’ve got a bunch of confused civilians, which aren’t a threat, and a Holy Grail War’s worth of heroic spirits, which are, but are too much of one for them to want to start something. If they wanted to try to shoot us, they’d be doomed. And we have no reason to want to shoot them either. So no one did anything. It’s just been extremely uncomfortable.”

“Where am I?” I ask, blinking at the ceiling above me, and turning my head to try and see the room, and somehow only then realizing I’m using her lap as a pillow. Shit. I try to shoot up immediately, but she snags me and drags me back down. “-H-Hey!”

“Easy!” comes Makeda’s voice, from somewhere.

HUH?

“Hold still if you would? We’re sort of in the middle of something,” she says apologetically, and I see her as she steps into my field of view.

That’s reassuring, I think with intense distrust. “The middle of what?”

“Welllll,” says Da Vinci awkwardly, “Heh heh. Uh.” She gestures to the ground, and I turn my head from my prone position and see intensely complex sigil work on the ground. Makeda is holding a brush and ink, and seems to have been in the middle of adding more.

“What the hell are you two doing?” I reiterate, because this has absolutely cleared nothing up.

“We’re doing a spell,” says Makeda, “A divination. There’s a lot of strange stuff going on—I expect with you too, after the way you passed out. I’m happy to explain all of it, but a lot of it seems to be connected to you, so we’re using you as the focal point. I need you to more or less stay still. You can move your arms, and head, if you want!” she adds like it will cheer me up.

“We uh, thought you’d be unconscious longer,” says Da Vinci apologetically.

“It won’t hurt you,” promises Makeda.

I sigh. I know, I realize as I think it, and wonder why I was so concerned in the first place. I guess it’s that as out of control as all of this is, I want as many fragments of control as I can get, just to hang onto. Okay, Romani. Deep breaths. Calm down, and focus.

“Alright, go ahead. But please, do explain,” I add, unhappily accepting my fate. Couldn’t they have just gotten me a blanket and pillow or something?

Da Vinci sympathetically reaches down and rubs my shoulders absently, which in other circumstances sould be incredibly weird, but given…everything. I just really don’t care. I sigh again and accept it.

At least it feels good, and I feel like I’ve been thrown down a flight of steps.

You could have picked a better bench, though, I think just a little bitterly. I have no idea what conference room we’re in right now, because they all look the same, but the padding is too firm for a nap to be ideal. I’m going to be so sore after this… I guess at least Da Vinci’s contribution might save my neck.

“Well, you passed out, and we got to talking,” says Makeda as she goes back to finishing the edges of her sigil circle, I’m pretty sure massively sugar-coating the situation after I passed out, “And it was very easy to pick up that Chaldea wasn’t on the same timeline as us—that is to say—in the common sense. It’s our metaphysical timeline, obviously, but they seem to be a full two months ahead of the rest of the world.”

“So, for them, three days ago was the turn of the year,” says Da Vinci.

“Right.” I knew that part, and I guess Da Vinci can see it on my face, because she nods.

“I thought so,” says Da Vinci, pleased, “Just to cement a few things, can you confirm what happened when you exited the shadow border?”

Sure. Why not. “I got hit with a second set of memories,” I reply, “Both felt equally real, which was very disorienting, because they contradicted. The influx of that much detailed, emotional, and complex information all at once, overloaded my already very tired brain, and I passed out for…?”

“Two and a half hours,” says Makeda, glancing over.

“-Two and a half hours,” I finish.

“And this new set of memories?” prods Da Vinci.

I shrug the best I can on my back with my head in her lap. “About what I think you already expect. It was of being here, when Chaldea went through the turn of the year. I survived a bombing that took out most of the base, and the betrayal of a staff member. Ritsuka Fujimaru’s brother, Akira, and Mash both survived the bombing miraculously, by being rayshifted out. Our director ended up with them—Olga Marie Animusphere. We—the surviving staff—were able to fix enough equipment to contact them and try to help. They’d been transported to one point of history targeted by Goetia, Fuyuki city, during a holy grail war. A servant who’d lost his master helped them, thankfully—uh—an alter, of our Lancer, Cu Chulainn—oddly. They were able to succeed, and repair the broken point in time, just barely. The traitor to our organization, Lev Lainur, attacked our director, and took her out of commission, indefinitely. Then was killed. It was terrible. They’re just kids, and they went through hell with no preparation. I couldn’t be more proud of what they accomplished, or feel more awful, that they had to do it at all.”

They’re quiet this time, both of them. I guess it was more than they thought I’d say.

Honestly, it still feels so real I could throw up, and like a bad dream. I feel even more guilty over that. I get this…free sense of dissociation, to help me cope, and I didn’t even have to be there to see it first hand. God. The poor kids. Ritsuka too. Ritsuka, Akira, Mash, all the civilians—even our heroic spirits, who are tanks among men have all been put through hell. We need a break. They need a break.

“I’m sorry,” says Da Vinci, stopping her shoulder rub to pat me on the shoulder, “That is about what we’d gathered, though.”

“It’s not your fault,” says my father, popping up from over the back of a nearby chair he’s apparently been sitting in, and I just about jump out of my skin.

“Were you there the whole time?!” I ask.

“Of course,” he says in disbelief, “Did you think I wouldn’t keep an eye on you?” He clicks his tongue at me and crosses his arms over the back of the chair to lean on it. “As I was saying, you did everything the best you could, and it sounds to me like it’s been enough. The Fujimarus were ecstatic to see each other, and he and Mash both had a lot to say about how you got everyone through this.”

I don’t know if I believe him, but I’m too exhausted to consider arguing with my dad right now. I guess I appreciate it either way.

“Where are the kids?” I ask as it occurs to me, and I accidentally start to sit up on impulse, and am very kindly pushed back into place by Da Vinci, “—Sorry.”

“They’re outside,” says Da Vinci, “It’s just Sheba, me, and David in here with you. The kids all wanted in, but we forced them to stay outside—both so we could do the spell, and just in case there was anything you wouldn’t be ready to tell them as soon as you woke up, with whatever was going on. We three already know all your secrets.”

“Thanks…I think,” I say, then double-take, “Wait—you know all my—?!”

“Yes. Obviously,” she replies proudly, “Remember? I knew you later. It’s all old news to me.”

I start to say something, but then I remember what I accidentally heard, and I don’t. She looks at me quizzically.

“…When did we meet, the first time?” I ask instead as something occurs to me.

She smiles a softer smile, pleased. “Oh. A few months from now. –Or, a few days, depending on the memory set.”

Ah. I smile back as it clicks. “You’re the first successful summon, aren’t you?”

“Clever boy,” she replies.

“And you chose to stay and help? And became the…’technical advisor’?” I ask.

She nods. “Most of the building was blown up. Why not give me a title? You were the only staff head left. Although, I guess by now you know that.”

“Yes,” I say, glancing away and fiddling absently with one of my gloves. Even if I wasn’t close to everyone here, and some of them were awful people, it’s so much death. And not everyone deserved it—not by a long, long shot. It’s…

“You really need to start watching your health better.”

I look up in surprise to see David shaking his head at me.

I give him something between a grimace and a smile. “If I had any choice in the matter, believe me.”

“Well, if you won’t do it yourself, I will,” he warns pleasantly.

Terrifying.

“You do remember both sets of memories fully, right?” asks Sheba. She seems to have finished her sigil, because she walks back over and kneels by the bench and holds out a hand for me. I take it, and feel her magical energy fill the room like a wave lapping at the beach: soft, gentle, but unstoppable in sheer mass and power if circumstances change. “We weren’t totally sure that after…”

“-Experiencing a temporal displacement overlap?” suggests Da Vinci.

“-It would be smooth,” continues Sheba, “That’s also part of why we wanted you to get a chance to talk to us first. Everyone out there is hoping you’re ‘their’ Romani, but, you’re ours regardless of what information you retained. We both knew you from before,” adds Sheba, gesturing to Da Vinci and herself with her free hand.

“-And any version of you is my ‘Romani Archaman,’” says David, playful inflection on my new name.

“We just couldn’t get rid of him,” explains Sheba tiredly.

Unsurprising. David is a force. “Well, everyone’s about to be relieved, I guess, because I have all of both,” I confirm. Hadn’t even occurred to me that people would be worried about that, but, of course they would be.

“I’m not surprised, but it’s still a relief to hear,” says Da Vinci, “By all accounts from the Chaldea staff, it’s January, and you’ve been here the whole time. Actually—you are on-camera, vanishing, the second the door to the Border opened. There’s a little ‘flicker’ and the you at your desk is gone. The you at the Border flickers twice, like an electromagnetic spike, and then the video is normal, but you’re a half foot to the left.”

“Fascinating,” I say, not sure exactly what that means, “I’d have thought it would be when we finished the zero sail, not opened the door. I wonder if it’s a temporal delay, or if there’s more weight triggered seeing yourself face to face when it comes to time fluctuation than I’d thought?”

“So, convergence set aside for the moment without enough information to pursue it, what’s the point of divergence?” asks Makeda, something in her tone suggesting this is a much more important question.

“Oh, uhm…” I scrunch up my brow, thinking it over, “…The…day I heard about Ur-Shanabi, I think.”

David looks very interested by this.

“It’s…strange. My memories since the Incineration are very strong in both versions, but…the time at Chaldea leading up to it is…foggy,” I continue, a little disturbed to find this as I go, “…I. I hadn’t noticed, until you asked, but…”

“It’s the same for the others,” says Makeda, “When we heard their accounts, we checked some of the readings from SHEBA-“ She pauses to give me a coy smile in recognition of the device being named for her, and I flush.

God, I used to have so much game. The only thing my second life is giving is anxiety.

“—and saw a lot of distortion. After being quizzed closely, everyone here we’ve been able to talk to, only remembers the time before what I’m assuming is the day a version of you heard about Ur-Shanabi, and the time since December 31st on. They have…ideas, and impressions—generalities—of the rest of the time. But, it’s more like it’s there to sustain the jump in time, than of enough material stability to be truly real.”

“That’s so bizarre,” I say, truly fascinated, and again starting to sit up on instinct so I can truly think. Both women pull me down this time. Right. “Sorry. So, the version of me who summoned you inside Unlimited Blade Works, that timeline, I do have concrete memories of the days since I heard about Ur-Shanabi. Which makes the second set the anomaly, I think.”

“I’m inclined to agree, to a point,” says Makeda.

“To a point?” I ask.

“In the other timeline, the one that’s mostly just since the end of the year, did you not go to Ur-Shanabi, or not hear of it?” asks Da Vinci, ignoring my question.

“I never heard of it,” I say, “Which…should be impossible. It’s not like I heard about it in the other in some passing comment.”

I do not love that. Or that they could guess so on their own. I don’t have a good feeling about this.

“Do you think someone meddled with your memory?” asks Sheba.

“…No,” I say, glancing down at her, “I…think someone meddled with time.”

“Yes,” agrees Da Vinci, “They absolutely did. But we weren’t sure if they did both.”

“Why though?” I ask, “Shit—wait! If Chaldea is past January first, then, we’re no longer somewhere we’re seeing the effects of Goetia’s actions before he’s taken them are we? So-”

“-No, we’re still ahead of schedule,” says Makeda calmingly, giving me a smile.

I can still feel her magical energy pulsing through me and the room slowly, in steady beats, like a heart at rest. It occurs to me to wonder finally what exactly she’s doing.

“That’s what we were able to use your SHEBA observational lens to discover. It’s the first—well, second, after making sure you really were alright—thing that we checked. It’s like this space, just the building, is in its own bubble,” adds Makeda.

“Couldn’t Goetia be in one too?” I ask dubiously.

“No,” says David happily. I look over at him. “She checked,” adds my father smugly, pointing to Makeda.

“Really?” I ask.

She nods gracefully, long hair cascading over her deep brown shoulders. It’s been so long, but I’ve never forgotten how smart or how beautiful she was.

“Thank you, Makeda,” I say softly.

“For you? Of course,” she replies.

“So, you’ve already found him then?” I ask as it occurs to me.

“Uhhhhm,” says Da Vinci, and she teeters a hand in a ‘kind of’ gesture.

Makeda sighs, looking worried. “It keeps…changing.”

“Every time we lock on, the coordinates shift,” says Da Vinci.

“He’s moving?” I ask in surprise.

“No. The coordinates shift as if they’ve always been something else. The log always reads completely changed, all two hours of it, in an instant—as if it’s performed one search function, and gotten the same answer. But what’s on the screen changes about every two seconds—it’s half real, half moving, and half make-believe,” says Makeda.

“That’s not…possible,” I say, thinking quickly. I’m missing something obvious, because I’m exhausted, and I can’t afford to.

“No, it’s not,” agrees Da Vinci, and I look up from where I’m still stuck on her lap, and see her watching me with those fixed, calculating clear eyes. I think about what I shouldn’t have heard her think, and for some insane reason, I feel desperate to live up to my own future reputation.

“…It’s not real yet,” I say. It was a question when I thought it, but it’s a statement as it exits my lips.

“That’s what we think,” agrees Makeda, closing her eyes, and I feel an intense increase in her magical output.

For few seconds, we are all quiet, waiting. I feel her familiar circuits where her hands hold mine, and I feel a sudden pause in the heartbeat-like pulse of her magical energy.

It’s like time has stopped.

The energy holds, but she opens her eyes, which glow like a breathing galaxy.

“I’ve got it,” she says in an inhuman voice, and then the tide of her energy ebbs back into her, soft and controlled like it filled the room, and she releases my hand.

“What’s the news?” asks Da Vinci excitedly, seeming to forget she’s holding my head, and bending over so far towards Makeda that her stomach is smashing me.

“Can I get up now?” comes my muffled voice.

“Yes,” says Makeda apologetically.

Da Vinci sits back and I drag myself up, still and sore, and lean against the bench seatback, rubbing my face, and trying to get sensation back in my limbs. Makeda climbs up beside us, on my other side, and, apparently feeling left out, David drags his chair closer, then climbs back in.

“We were right,” says Makeda, to both Da Vinci and me, “It’s a spell.”

“A…” That is cosmically not what I thought was going on, or said. I—I guess she means about Goetia’s location not being real yet.

“A spell…” says Da Vinci, who I personally think from her expression, also did not actually think that’s what was going on.

Weirdly, I look at David, and he, alone, seems unsurprised. What do you know, old man…

“Can you elaborate?” I ask.

“Well,” says Makeda, “We’re not a singularity, and we’re not a lostbelt.” A what? “We’re built a little like one or the other though. Or a wish.”

“Like a grail?” suggests Da Vinci rather dubiously.

“Only in vague concept,” says Makeda, then, reconsidering, “…But, in vague concept, not a bad analogy. The ways in which we are similar to a singularity or lostbelt is in nature—partially complete and partially real, still growing—not in function. Functionally, more like a grail. The same way holy grail rituals have set rules and functions, so do most rituals and big magic. And this is certainly a function of intricate structure.” She suddenly looks embarrassed to be explaining this, to me, I assume because of my rank.

“So, the timeline we’re on has been altered. In a very significant way, from its original. It’s not a naturally occurring alternate timeline, but an intentionally constructed one,” I say, then pause, to consider. “…Any guess as to by who?”

She looks at me for a long few seconds, and then says, “No,” but I can’t help but feel there’s more to it than that.

“Okay,” I say, not pressing her for the moment, and moving on to the question I don’t want to ask, but know I have to, “…Can you tell if this…aberration, is it dangerous, like a singularity? Is it…are we hurting the world, by existing?”

Makeda shakes her head.

Oh thank God.

“Whatever we are, we’re not convergent, or concurrent,” adds Makeda, “Even if we’re not an alternate timeline in the natural sense, whatever bubble we are, it’s its own in the same way one would be. It’s magic, but, it’s magic not growing or building in opposition to, well, anything. It’s…disconnected. In ways that are zero sum.”

“Alright,” I say, feeling a few worlds better, “Then. …Whoever, and whyever they started whatever this…spell is, if it’s still in construction—if the magic is still in process—that probably means we either need to dismantle it, which, if it’s not dangerous, I’d very much prefer not to do, since in this timeline we could save a whole lot of lives by reaching Goetia before he acts, and uh, well, I have to assume this version of all of us would probably die—or, we’ve got to finish it—the spell, I mean—get it to cement—so it doesn’t deviate, or unravel.”

“Exactly,” agrees Makeda, “I think that’s where we should start.”

“Great! A plan,” says David happily, “So, how much are we telling the others?”

I hold up a hand. “Before that—you said this is some sort of spell. You mean magic—not magecraft, but magic. Like, First Magic.”

“I do,” says Makeda, “It’s the only class of magic that could do something like this.”

“What do we know,” I ask, ‘we’ meaning ‘her’.

Makeda sighs and places her chin in her hand, bouncing a leg absently as she thinks it over. “This?” she decides after a moment, glancing over at the rest of us, “Doesn’t leave this room. Not until we’re sure it should.”

I nod, and see Da Vinci move in my periphery.

“Alright,” says Makeda, and she opens the little lamp she carries, and smoke billows out, forming distinct shapes in the air as she sways her fingers through it, like the shadow puppet show of a master.

“Da Vinci and I have matching knowledge of another timeline. That alone isn’t odd. But in it, we know of events and people spanning from before the Age of Gods,” A sprawling mountain and a cloud city appear, floating islands of smoke, desert kingdoms, "to the distant future.” Building shapes from countries around the globe and centuries apart, fell into a timeline. Frontiers, temples, castles, modern skyscrapers, and past them, massive space ships. “We, should be here.” She indicates a modern urban skyline in her set of smoke-made history. “And we are. Ritsuka should be, and she is. Akira wasn’t at Chaldea, but him being here isn’t really odd. You’re mostly where you should be. But some people, are missing.”

Here, she makes a handful of figures out of the curling whisps, and then passes her fingers through them and watches them go.

“What’s more,” she continues, “A lot more, is that there are a considerable amount of people who shouldn’t be in this time, who are.”

Makeda raises a hand to her lips and exhales like she is blowing a kiss. Smoke forms humanoid figures along far separated points on the timeline, and they lift from those places by floating cities and icy mountains and desert sands, and settle into the urban skyline.

“Actually, they shouldn’t be at all,” she says, eyes on something far away, no changes in her smoke story this time, “At least many of them, should never have existed. Yet, here they are.” She looks at me. “And not transported, and confused. Here they are like they’ve always been, with normal memories and normal lives, somehow, in spite of everything, alive.”

“People who should never be?” I ask, a sinking feeling in my chest.

“It will take a little while to explain to you fully, but for now, people who lived in versions of time that only existed at all by destroying the time around them, and whose broken time had to be corrected, that is, erased,” says Makeda softly.

I nod, and keep quiet. I can imagine, since I’d been a little afraid after waking up with two sets of memories, that I could be a version of me that shouldn’t exist.

“Our reality, it’s real,” says Makeda, refocusing, “But instead of starting at the beginning of time and moving forward, as time is meant to, it starts here.” She indicates a point not long before what she’s designated as ‘now.’ “And it grows forwards and backwards from there. No, grows isn’t the right word. It…’becomes set.’ Like a writer starting a book in the middle: the beginning happened, because otherwise the characters wouldn’t be who they are, or have memories of their upbringing, or loved ones they share a past with. But it’s not stable, until it’s on paper, because once the writer forgets, there will be nothing to hold it all in place.”

A terrifying metaphor, I think, but I don’t say it.

“Whatever, or whoever, caused this,” says Makeda, “it hasn’t stopped working. But it’s magic still in progress. At a guess, something has to be…done, or ‘finished’—fulfilled—for the ritual to be complete, and the timeline to stay. If it doesn’t, it’ll collapse back in on itself, and…”

“…And we all cease to exist,” I say shakily.

“Well,” she offers me a sympathetic smile, “This version of us.”

That’s great for the heroic spirits, I guess, but it really sucks for the rest of us. God, especially the ones she says ‘shouldn’t exist’ at all anymore. It’s…a heavy fate, that. Not to be taken lightly…

“And this point?” I ask, tapping the little swirl of smoke she’s left to indicate the start point. The smoke is surprisingly warm to the touch, and almost thick enough to feel soft to me.

Makeda watches me with her bright eyes full of their knowledge and sight. “You, Solomon.”

I am so taken aback I don’t know what to say.

“Me?” I check after a full ten, very suddenly awkward seconds.

“Don’t you mean ‘Romani’?” asks David, whom I’d completely forgotten was even in the room with us, and it makes me jump.

To my surprise though, when I look over, he’s not joking. He’s being pointed about the name.

“What,” he says, looking from one of us to the other, “That’s about when you would have been ‘reborn’ into a last life, right?”

He points and I look at the timeline again, and my breath catches in my throat.

“How many terrible things did I cause?” Wait, did I say that out loud?

“Not terrible,” says Da Vinci, patting my shoulder with one of her gloved hands, “So long as we can keep this thing going, it’s good.”

“Very, I would say,” agrees Makeda, and again, I see in her face that there’s something she knows she’s not telling me, and I’m sure she has her reasons, but it distresses me a lot not to know. This is beyond high stakes universe poker. This is all or nothing, eleventh hour Russian roulette shit.

“That’s not all,” adds Da Vinci, stretching, and looking very gleeful to have her own lore to share, “I ran some tests when you were out because something about Ur-Shanabi has been bothering me ever since the others told me about it.”

“And?” says David with interest.

“And,” says Da Vinci, looking annoyed to be interrupted, “There’s been a change in the world state. You know how in a holy grail war, the ritual is designed so when a heroic spirit dies, their energy is used to fill the grail—to power it, more or less.”

We give our various forms of assent.

“Well, it struck me really odd the Counter Force would let something like that go on so long without proper recourse, and it wasn’t apparently even Alaya that finally sent in the Counter Force Agent we’ve got—Ritsuka summoned him. But, when something like a grail war is on, the Counter Force tends to be less active. Rituals bring their own, shitty ass rules, and tend to be allowed more—some might even say inadvisable –catastrophic damage.”

“Yes,” agrees Makeda, “It’s about the way magic works. Even the universe itself, is bound by rules. That’s why the Counter Force has to use agents in the first place. Even power has limitations.”

“So, I looked into it,” continues Da Vinci, “And the way this thing works, the whole world is…sort of designed to soak power up, from everything, but especially from people.”

“That’s horrible,” I say, disturbed.

“Not really,” she disagrees, leaning forward and gesturing broadly, “See, it’s not like a leech. It’s designed to soak power out of people only when they’re trying to give power—like—it’s in a hyper-high-performance catalyst state. But it’s not forcing anything—people aren’t all slowly taking magic-radiation-damage or something. It’s just wildly amplifying and accelerating physics around energy and its transfer, when it comes to magic specifically. Heroic Spirits, though, we’re made of magical energy. And with the rules around magical energy, and the transformation and transfer of it altered—altered to make the change in form easier, not just when it’s offered from or created by humans, but in all forms. Well. ...”

“The physical structure of anything made of magical energy entirely has become a vulnerability,” I say, mental calculations locking into place, “The same way Achilles’ heel would be, or Samson’s hair.”

“Exactly,” says Da Vinci, way too happy about this.

“Well that’s genuinely terrifying,” I say.

She shrugs, a grin on her face. “At least we know what we’re up against. Half the battle.”

“I suppose so,” I agree a little uncertainly.

“Anyway, the other half of the issue may be that we’re not the only ones to have figured that out,” adds Da Vinci.

“Meaning who?” I ask, “I mean—obviously if Ur-Shanabi had it working, it was only a matter of time before someone else did too, but. The world is currently…well, incinerated. It seems like one problem takes care of the other, in the temporary anyway.”

“Well, you know how when she described what was happening with Goetia, you said ‘it’s not real yet’?” asks Da Vinci.

Makeda raises a hand and gestures to her smoke tapestry, and it begins to curl and dissipate, leaving a few floating ‘islands’ almost, as it were, along what was once a solid timeline. “Goetia’s attacks, when they come for real, target specific points in history, to de-stabilize and collapse the timeline. We know where, from our own memories, and the data we’ve been able to run with the effects already in place here. But the thing is…”

Slowly, almost delicately, Maketa weaves her fingers into the smoke, and then tugs like the is pulling it apart, and the image shifts from a 2D image, to a three-dimensional timeline, pieces splitting away in different direction. Of these, a select few’s smoke begins to shift into shades of pink, and I am sure this must be the ones Goetia has picked, because I recognized the 2004 Fuyuki a version of me has just vicariously experienced as one of them. Other pieces stay their original, almost purple shade of grey, and then a few more begin to turn a cyan blue. These, as Makeda makes a circular motion with her index finger, begin to rotate.

“They aren’t the only points reading as anomalies,” said Makeda, turning to look at me, “Da Vinci is till collecting data, and we expect it to take a while, but…”

“What we know for sure, is the Counter Force is—or at least was—active in all of them,” says Da Vinci, “But as far as we can tell, Goetia wasn’t.”

I look at the blue points on the map unhappily, and let out an exhale. “And…these all activated in the years between now, and 1985.”

Da Vinci gives me a sympathetic grimace.

“Well, think of it this way!” suggests David, “That certainly limits the damage, and narrows down the search area. Besides.”

He tries to reach way forward and tap Makeda’s smoke diagram, and his hand goes right through it, dissipating an image.

“Since what Ur-Shanabi did was considered ‘breakthrough research,’” he continues, totally nonplussed, “I would bet a lot of money that the points before the last couple years won’t have deeply significant change. If they had, someone in the mage world would have heard about it.”

Da Vinci and Makeda both look annoyed by this, but Da Vinci mutters, “…He’s probably right,” rather unhappily, and my father grins.

“See?” says David, reaching too far forward to try and pat me on the shoulder, and just having to latch onto it instead to not fall off the chair, “All good.”

“Well, that part is an overstatement, but, he’s right it’s not an immediate threat,” says Makeda, miffed, and she waves her hands and the smoke curls back inside the lamp she wears at her belt. “In the meantime, you should go talk to your staff and the others and let them know you’re alright.”

“Yeah,” agrees Da Vinci happily, swinging her feet in anticipation while she watches David very awkwardly make it back upright in his chair, “I’ll keep running calculations and try to get some kind of gameplan together. But we need more data before doing anything concrete.”

“I’ll help,” I say, honestly just relieved to have a little breathing room.

“You will NOT,” says my father sharply, “Not until you get some proper sleep! Look at you!” He gestures broadly with both arms. “You’re a wreck! You’ve been up for three days straight, and went comatose from memory bombardment for almost two hours! You’re exhausted! You transplanted a magic crest, onto yourself, then summoned two heroic spirits inside a reality marble, and stayed up for another forty hours!”

“I, uh,” I try awkwardly, taken aback.

David crosses his arms and eyes me. “You and Ritsuka are both going to take a rest. You act like you forget, son, but you’re only human now. The last thing anybody needs is you to work yourself to death. Or past usefulness.”

I wish he didn’t have a point, but I feel like death warmed over. Still… “I should be able to help though, and it’s-“

I was going to say ‘my fault in the first place,’ but all three turn to look at me as one with such a united front of deeply terrifying energy, like a pack of guard dogs just itching for the command sick ‘em to come,that I don’t.

“…I think David is right,” says Da Vinci, recovering her mask of pleasantness first, and smiling at me with her eyes shut. She pats me on the shoulder. “You can come help in the morning.”

“…Yes,” says Makeda simply, but the way she says it has an undercurrent of chilling.

I’m not getting out of this… “Alright, alright,” I say as I feel the pressure in the room begin to grow tense again, and I put my hands up, “I’ll rest. But, I do need to talk to staff first, at least a little, to explain things—and the kids.” God, poor Mash. She is so inclined to worry, too.

“That’s fine!” says Da Vinci, her same eyes-shut smile still on, “Just don’t stall too long.”

“Yes,” agrees David, hopping out of his chair and offering me a hand, “Let’s do that.”

I let him help me up, but the second he lets go, I almost lose my balance, with my legs so completely asleep, and me so dead-tired. The instant I do, David, Makeda, and Da Vinci all make a move at the same time to help me, and I can’t help but laugh, a deep, full body laugh, as I catch myself and then straighten up on my own, feeling a lot better now.

“It’s so funny,” I say, glancing from one to the other with a smile, “I’ve been the most isolated I think I’ve been my entire existence, for months, and now that things have really fallen apart, I’m surrounded.”

Da Vinci smiles back. “Good.”

I nod. “Good indeed.”

As I wait for my painfully asleep legs to get some feeling back in them, I survey the room for real for the first time. “Where are we right now, anyway? Which conference room is this?”

“It’s the one closest to the command room,” says Da Vinci.

I nod. Finally getting a little painful feeling back, I take a few steps towards the door, testing my balance. Ow.

As we begin to walk, my whole little horde of tag-alongs staying suspiciously within ‘he might fall again’ distance, David says, “Question, Miss Da Vinci. You seemed to know Ritsuka, from Chaldea, but it’s her brother here who’s done this Rayshift, which should be how you meet, or met her, in the future. And then you said it was odd for him to be the one in the Fuyuki singularity, but not very odd. So, was it both of them who helped you, originally?”

“No,” says Da Vinci, seeming surprised—by the question, or by it being from my father, I’m not sure, “I’ve never met the brother before, although I knew he existed.”

“Interesting,” says David.

Interesting indeed.

“Where are the kids?” I ask.

“Didn’t I tell you?” asks Da Vinci, “They’re outside.”

“W—You mean in the hall?” I ask, taken aback, “They’re not resting?” Ritsuka is dead on her feet, and Akira and Mash just returned from a rayshift like three hours before we arrived!

Da Vinci shrugs. “Like father like-” She stops and almost seems a little flustered, then just offers me an impish grin.

Weird, I think, since it’s really no secret I see Mash as a daughter, to anyone. I guess I probably deserve that though. …Damn it! WHY didn’t I do a better job at teaching her to prioritize her health? Stupid! Kids watch what you DO, not just what you say! Stupid stupid! Bad job, Romani! Bad job!!

“Okay, well, let’s fix that too,” I say, increasing speed towards the door. God knows we ask enough of them as it is. I hope they haven’t been too exhausted and miserable out there.

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

“I just can’t believe you’re here!” says Akira, beaming at me, “I mean, what are the chances?!”

“I know!” I chirp. I’ve been grinning so hard the past few hours that it hurts my cheeks, but I’ll never stop! “And you?! Holy crap! The Last Master of Humanity??”

“No-no!” he corrects, his mouth full of the pb&j he’s been working, raising a hand and then pointing from me to him, “The Last Masters of Humanity.”

I laugh.

“Like, go Fujimaru twins, am I right?” he asks, mouth even fuller as he takes another bite.

I elbow him. “Don’t do that! Didn’t dad teach you manners? Not in front of a kouhai!”

He chokes on the pb&j and desperately grabs his milk bottle to help wash it down, then after a solid swallow, gives his friend an apologetic little, “Sorry Mash.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” she replies hurriedly, flushing at us both, “I know you’re hungry and tired.”

“Well, you must be too, right?” I say, offering her a box of pocky.

Hesitantly, the purple haired girl just a year or so younger than me, takes the box and opens it, giving me a little smile.

Mash is neat. We’ve all only been talking for like, two hours or something—it can’t possibly have been that long since my group even arrived—but, I like her. Somehow, she feels like somebody I’ve known all my life. I guess she just must be that kind of person. And, it makes me happy. And relieved.

She’s timid, and quiet. Big eyes, soft voice, always watching the stuff around her like a baby deer taking in the world. But, from Akira’s stories I’ve been getting, she’s also like, super brave and dependable. And a ‘Demi-Servant,’ which, as far as I gather, is a heroic spirit kind of reverse-possessing someone, so instead of them getting the body, they let a normal living human use their power. Apparently, back when the building exploded, Mash got trapped under a fallen pillar, and my brother went and was going to die like a hero holding her hand while another bomb went off, so she wouldn’t be alone (a story she told me trying not to cry, and while staring firmly at the ground, while he turned the reddest I’ve ever seen him, and also looked so, so smug). But instead of either dying, they were saved by whoever is letting Mash use their heroic spirit power, and got rayshifted out.

Rayshifted, as far as I gather, is like teleporting and time travel. Okay, mechanically, it’s more like going to another plane in D&D, where you’ve got a thread connecting your body to a duplicate body, but if one dies the other is in big trouble—you know what—I don’t get all the science. Miss Da Vinci said you’re broken down into your spiritrons, and those are transported to other coordinates in time and space, and re-assembled. So, I wouldn’t know how to do it, but, I get what it does, which I think for me is the important half.

Anyway, when time got incinerated in the city, apparently it was because specific points in history were getting messed up, and my bro and Mash went and repaired one. So one ‘Singularity’ is now stabilized, and, if they fix them all, the world will come back.

So far, it’s been a crazy ride—I mean, his story might be even wilder than mine. And we’re both not even totally done telling the stories. We’ve really only covered bare-bones.

But anyway, to me, the important part is that he’s here and okay and alive, and that this can all be fixed. And, that I’m really glad Mash was here. Akira is brave, but we’ve always done stuff together. We’re strong because we were born with somebody to lean on—I think that’s part of why I’ve been able to do so well with these heroic spirits helping me, despite not being very good at magecraft: I literally came out of the womb as part of a team.

Akira’s the same. We’re strong when we have somebody to lean on, and to prop up, but not alone. And, while I wasn’t here, Mash has done that for him—really reliably!

Plus, I think, smiling as I watch her chomping on the pocky with more gusto than I’ve ever seen anybody else eat it, like a toddler trying ice cream the first time, I bet they’re good for each other. He’s got a lot of charisma and adaptability and he knows how to make you smile when it’s rough, so you can keep going. Mash sounds like she’d be there to be a voice of reason, and pull you up when you fall, but might need somebody who can make her feel like it’s okay for her to smile and talk more too. I bet they’re going to be great friends.

“I’m glad he was the first one you summoned,” says Akira, who has already forgotten what I just said, and gone back to talking with food in his mouth—indicating Billy with his head. “He smiles a lot.”

“He smiles a lot?” I echo.

“Yeah,” agrees Akira, giving me a grin, “You don’t have me there to crack jokes when you need them, so you need somebody else to remind you it could always have been worse, and it’s gonna get better.”

I snort, but then I think about it, and I smile. He’s not totally wrong, and even more than that, it’s reassuring. Twin-morphic-resonance. We were thinking the same thing.

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

“How’re you doing, you sad bastard?” asks Lancer, sidling over to where I’m sitting slumped against a wall near the conference room, holding a bottle.

“I feel like I might do nothing but throw up for the next year,” I reply dryly, annoyed to have to pry my eyes open again at all. It just makes the headache worse.

“Well hey,” he says, sliding down against the wall next to me, and slapping me on the shoulder, “You got the world record now, for longest sustained reality marble. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Great. Put it on my tombstone,” I reply, shutting my eyes again and leaning my head back against the wall.

“Oh, get over yourself. You’re not even injured,” he replies in an annoyingly amicable way.

I sigh. “Why are you over here bothering me. What do you want?”

There’s a clink as he taps something glass—I have to assume the bottle—against the metal guard on the back of my hand.

Annoyed, I crack open an eye and glance over. He’s raising a large bottle of what up close I can tell is definitely alcohol of some kind.

“Come on,” he says, “Gotta push through.”

‘Push through’?! I think, irritated, I just sustained a reality marble for almost three days. I’ll kill you.

“Alcohol isn’t exactly going to make a headache better,” I reply dryly.

He snorts. “Not going to make it worse.”

Yes it will, stupid. “What do you care, anyway. Go bother someone else,” I reply.

He rolls his eyes and removes the glass cork, then takes a swig. He holds the bottle out to me.

I’m annoyed, but I’m too tired to keep arguing, and I want him to go away, so exhausted, I take it, and drink. I'm even more annoyed that it's actually pretty good.

“Not bad, huh?” he says, grinning at me.

Oh go fuck yourself, I think. “How’s the doctor?” I ask instead.

Lancer shrugs. “Seems fine now. Everyone who’s useful at that kind of magecraft is in the command room, trying to figure out how the hell this happened. Everyone else is supposed to rest up.”

Great, is there a bed somewhere then? That actually might help. “Anywhere better for that than here on the floor?” I ask.

When we arrived, after what was more of an awkward than dangerous standoff when the doctor fainted, we were more or less asked to stick around this general area, and it would have been more trouble than it was worth not to comply. Besides which, as tired as I and everyone else are, the civilians who are actual living humans have it worse, and some of them are injured. They were given access to a large conference room and as many pillows and spare blankets as the staff here seemed able to find. Us spirits, and the Fujimaru kids, stuck around near the command room to wait for the doctor to wake up.

“They’re working on it. We brought in almost two-hundred people,” says Lancer, a little more seriously, “And the facility was bombed not long ago, so a lot of their shit is under rubble right now.”

“Bombed?” I ask. News to me. But then, I missed a lot the last few hours. Basically as soon as I could tell there wasn’t going to be a fight, I went to collapse and rest somewhere, with as much dignity as I could, before my core knocked me out completely.

“Yeah. Right—You left,” says Lancer, cocking his head and thinking, “Some guy turned traitor, and took out a lot of the staff a couple days ago—to them, right at the turn of the year. They’ve been scrambling ever since.”

I nod, too tired to ask a lot more right now. “Anything pressing, for us?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. You can pass out.”

On the floor? I’m not sure I’m that desperate. Not with this group of people.

Lancer takes the bottle back and drinks, then passes it back to me. I give in and take another swig. Energy is energy, and it’s not bad. Even if it won’t help the headache. I guess I’m physically past caring about that.

“…It’s weird, isn’t it?”

I glance over at Lancer, waiting for him to elaborate. His tone has changed. It’s light, but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness, study, almost. He’s not really looking at anything I can tell, though, just eyeing the empty hall.

Finally, he turns his face back towards me, and smiles, but I don’t believe the smile. I don’t really think I’m meant to. “It’s familiar.”

Is it?

I’m skeptical, but, as he says it, and I turn my own head to look over the nondescript, white-blue walls, it’s…

“There’s…a cafeteria. That way,” I say, not sure why, pointing to my left. “Two halls down.”

I haven’t walked that way at all.

Lancer nods. “There is.” We meet eyes, and we both understand something I almost wish we didn’t.

“…We’ve been here before,” I say. It’s not a question. “Together.”

He nods, very slowly.

“How did you know?” I ask.

“I…remembered,” says Lancer, thinking, and quieter than usual, “And I didn’t. ‘I’ haven’t been here. I’m sure ‘you’ haven’t either. But some version of us has. Because I remember, a Christmas with you.”

“…And…Robin?” I ask, perturbed by the sudden inkling. It’s not a visual memory. It’s like…information, like the throne fills in when we’re sent to a different area. Or the familiar emotion a smell brings, if you knew it well. “…No. David and Robin, but not you…” I add to myself, under my breath. The hell? Were all of us…?

But then, Da Vinci said that, didn’t she? That she knew all of us aside from Salieri.

“It’s our own future summons,” I suggest, “That we’re remembering.”

“But if it is,” says Lancer skeptically, “That would mean we’re all about to die. Then get re-summoned, and be remembering the re-summoning. We can’t remember the summon we’re on.”

He’s right. “That…seems a little far-fetched. But I don’t know what else it would be,” I say. Maybe I do.

“Parallel timeline?” suggests Lancer.

“Our memories, or, sense of them, is way too keen for that…unless, there’s a reason we’re being allowed this much,” I add, thinking.

He shrugs, seeming to completely relax again suddenly.

“What?” I ask.

He glances at me and smiles. “Ah, nothing. I could tell you remembered stuff too. Figured if we were about to die, we’d both have some kind of bad feeling. Or one of us would, at least. But neither of us does. If we aren’t about to die, the memory stuff is a problem for future us.”

The way you live your life, I think, smiling at the absurdity in spite of myself. He holds out the glass and I take it and drink. “Well, good luck to them then,” I say tiredly.

Lancer grins and holds up the bottle in toast. “To them. Probably gonna fuckin’ need it.”

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

“So, that about bring everyone up to speed?” asks Da Vinci pleasantly.

The Chaldea staff around us trade looks, confused, but glad to have answers, even if they’re answers they don’t understand. The civilians who aren’t resting, and chose to attend, seem to be feeling an even stronger version of the same response. Something like ‘Oh thank God somebody has an idea.’ –I guess I can kind of relate. I flip up the hood of my cloak, and relax a little against the back wall. Even if the situation sucks, it’s reassuring to have some answers. Plus, the doc and his two casters look a lot more relaxed, so, I gotta believe they have a plan forming now, at worst.

In the front, I see Ritsuka’s hand shoot up, and just a half-second later, her brother’s beside her. Da Vinci nods at them both.

“So…” says Ritsuka with great focus, glancing at her brother then Da Vinci, “If our best move is to stabilize things enough we can find Goetia, then what’s our next step to stabilizing?”

“Our next step,” answers Doctor Romani with a tired smile, “Is for you to rest—for everyone, to rest. Those of us who do analysis, we’ll take shifts, so we can keep running tests on the situation. Everyone else, we need to be in tip-top shape.”

One of the kids goes to ask him a question—the brother—Akira? – and Doctor Romani cuts him off with a gentle hand.

“-Akira, Mash, you two just got back from a harrowing experience. Eat, sleep, and then report tomorrow for a physical exam and mental health checkup. Ritsuka, you just helped sustain a reality marble for the better part of three days. After almost dying, and contracting a grail war’s worth of spirits. You do the same. On the subject of spirits, obviously Emiya needs time to recover, but as much as possible, I want everyone else to, too. Rest up, because we need you sharp. We’ve uh—finally—got accommodations and rooms worked out. Sylvia has a print out with room assignments, as well as directions to bathrooms, the cafeteria, and medical quarters.”

“And after we report?” asks Akira.

Doctor Romani sighs. “…We don’t know for sure yet, but, it’s pretty likely we’ll be having to send out small groups to contend with both the targeted singularities, and the new anomalies. We’ll let you know more when we do. But for now, the assignment is rest.”

“Yes sir!” calls out the little purple haired girl—Mash—almost over the end of his sentence. She turns pink and stutters out an apology.

“I can’t believe he wasn’t lying about the daughter thing after all,” mutters Emiya in disbelief nearby.

I try not to laugh.

“And that goes for the Doctor, too! I’m afraid he’ll be out of commission while he sleeps,” says David in a friendly tone with more than a little danger hiding inside it warning against being challenged, “There are other people on standby at the medbay though—don’t worry.”

Doctor Romani sighs again. “Any last questions?”

“I got one, but not for him,” says Billy’s voice in my head, “Robin, uh—everything he said—you got the gist of it, yeah?”

“I did,” I reply, mostly ignoring the end of the briefing in favor of this.

“Well, if some human mages figured out some kind of First Law type magic altered the world state, I can see those greedy bastards runnin’ around breakin’ all kindsa shit tryin’ to get more power—ain’t like mages ever been careful before,” he replies, “But they ain’t the ones who changed it. Too much experimenting. And I believe the Doc didn’t do it. I know the kid didn’t. So who do you think did?”

“Why would I know?” I ask, turning to lean against the wall and trying to find him in the crowd so I can give him a look, “I’m not a Caster, or any kind of magic user, for that matter. If they don’t know, no way I do.”

“Well, sure,” says Billy awkwardly, and I find him in the crowd finally, near the far left side, already watching me. To my surprise, he looks…deeply contemplative. “But you would know who would want us to have a chance to see each other.”

“Come again?” I say, truly taken aback.

“I…thought it over,” says Billy, meeting my gaze, “What got said back in the bar—about how everyone but Kotarou seems to come in a set? Think about it.” He ticks off on his fingers. “You, Me. Emiya, Cu Chulainn. David, the Doctor. Mozart, Salieri. Doesn’t it seem way too random to be random?”

… “I take your meaning…” I offer slowly, “…I do. …But. …No one would. Right?”

Billy nods, looking concerned. “I could only think of Geronimo, for us. But, I don’t think he’s ever even met any of the others. They sure as shit don’t remember him. And I can’t think of anybody else. But it can’t be coincidence, right? Two is coincidence, three is a pattern—that’s the sayin’.”

“Well…whoever did, it seems non-malicious, right?” I say after a few seconds of thought, “Even as much as Emiya and Cu Chulainn bitch at each other, they’re not actually mad to both be here. And it’s a straight-up gift to most of us. I don’t think we need to be worried about it.”

I look across the room at Billy, and the expression on his face says he could not be more sure that I’m wrong.

“I think you want to know a donor, not just a robber,” offers Billy.

And when I consider the re-painting of the whole world going on around us, I realize pretty quick he couldn’t be more right.

“Alright!” comes Da Vinci’s voice, loud through the speaker system, and sharp, snapping me back to attention, “That concludes the briefing! Everyone rest up. We all need it, and it's a big day tomorrow.”

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

It’s quiet in the room. Somehow, it feels almost like being home. I really like it.

I mean, it doesn’t look like home. The walls there are not the off-white of paper walls like I’m used to at home, and there aren’t all the pictures and posters Akira and I hung up on them; it’s kind of sparse in here—just white-blue walls and floor, the Chaldea emblem on the wall, a desk and an empty shelf, and our beds—but, just the same. …It feels like getting in your bed at home does. Dunno why. Maybe because Akira is here, and we’re always okay together.

“Aki,” I say. He’s been quiet, but I know he’s not asleep. He doesn’t like, snore when he sleeps, but he breathes louder, and I know the sound super well. He isn’t doing it right now.

“Suka,” he replies. I can tell he knew I was awake already too.

“…Are you okay?”

I haven’t gotten to ask that before. We always had Mash, or Doctor Romani, or Billy, or somebody else nearby. I mean, I could ask, but he couldn’t have said the truth, if I had, and I couldn’t have either.

“…”

I hear him sit up, so I roll onto my side and look over. Even in the dim light from the hall outside, spilling under the door, I can see him enough to make out his expression, and see he’s looking at me, too.

“…No,” he says simply. He leans against the wall, and tucks his knees up to his chest.

I climb out of my bed, and walk over to his, clambering up beside him. Taking my place next to him, where I always am, I sigh, letting out some real tension finally, and I feel him lean his head on my shoulder.

“How about you?” says Akira.

“I’m not either,” I say quietly, “…But. You know. It doesn’t matter.”

It’s weird. I wish it did, but, I feel selfish, and bad, for wishing it did.

“Yeah,” he says in the same subdued tone as my own.

“…We’re gonna be okay,” I promise, looking over.

He exhales slowly. When he speaks, I can hear an attempt at a smile in his voice. It makes me sad… “Are we?”

I take his hand. He squeezes mine, and we sit in silence for a few minutes, just thinking, and breathing together.

“…You wanna tell me about it?” I ask finally, in the stillness of the room that feels like my bedroom at home somehow, even though it’s on the other side of the world, at the end of it, “About it for real? With all the bad parts, and awful feelings, and stuff you’re afraid to even think? The stuff that wakes you up at night?”

He thinks about that. “Yeah. I would. But you go first.”

“…I got somebody killed. For real, forever. Not because I wasn’t fast enough to help. The heroic spirits helping me killed them, for doing bad stuff. And now they’re just dead.” I think about that for real. About Mr. Toujou. Miss Ayase.

I turn and look at Akira, and see his eyes reflected back in the dim light, like my other half.

“…I feel bad. I didn’t want it. But, what’s worse is…I don’t feel very bad. I know I should feel worse than I do. I know I should feel guiltier, and have tried harder. But, Mr. Toujou threatened to kill you, and Mom, and Dad. He was going to kill me, and make me kill my heroic spirit. They were torturing people. Director Ayase was running that whole place. And I…I saw, what they did to Billy, to Robin, Cu Chulainn, David, god, Salieri. …Kotarou. I just…”

He's still watching, listening. No judgement.

“…I’m scared it’s gonna change me,” I whisper, letting go of his hand to bury my face in my knees. “What if I become bad? What if I care less someday? I don’t want to stop being me, but I feel like I’m already letting myself down.”

“…” Akira watches me a few more seconds, then looks away. “…I saw a bunch of people die,” he whispers, “When that bomb went off, there was fire everywhere. Parts of the ceiling had fallen on them. The walls. Some had even burned alive. The worst part, was that not everybody was dead yet. And…” His eyes tear up. “…Mash was there. A column had crushed her body. Everything in her midsection must have just been pulp, and I couldn’t lift the column, and it wouldn’t have mattered if I could. She was dead, it was just taking a while. And I could hear another bomb ticking down. I was so scared. I wanted so bad, Suk, to live. I wanted to run out that door, and not look back. But god, she was so scared. She was crying, and shaking. I knew the scariest thing on earth, to her, was to die alone. And I knew I wasn’t gonna achieve anything, except a few seconds being less bad, if I stayed to die with her. If I died, you and Mom and Dad would all be so sad, too. It would have been so easy, to leave her. I wanted to leave her.”

I realize he’s crying.

“…But you didn’t,” I say.

“I’m scared it doesn’t matter,” says Akira, “Matter enough? I thought about it. She was so pitiful, and helpless, and I thought about leaving her to die alone, to save myself.”

“But you didn’t,” I say again, putting a hand on his back.

He nods, breathing slowing back down. “I know. …What if I do someday, though?”

Oh. We’re exactly the same, huh.

“…You won’t,” I say after a few seconds. “I know, because I know you better than I know myself. Even if you did, I’d still love you, and I’d forgive you, and you’d still be good, but you won’t. Because you’re glad, right?”

He glances at me.

“You’re glad you stayed. And not just because you got a miracle, and survived. It was scary, when you were deciding, but after, it was easy, right? Like peace.”

“…How did you know?” he asks, shifting to face me more completely.

“I saw how you looked at Mash,” I reply easily, smiling, “You were grateful, right? That you got to save her.”

He nods. “I was really glad.”

“Then don’t worry. You aren’t how you feel, you’re how you choose to be. And you’d always save her. I bet you know that already, deep down. It’s just really scary, the first time you have to act the way you always thought you would,” I say.

“You realize you’re not holding yourself to the same standard, right?” replies Akira with a tired smile, plopping a hand on my head, “You’re worried you’re bad because you aren’t feeling guilty enough.”

“-W—no—and I didn’t try hard enough!” I argue.

“Didn’t you?” he says, unimpressed.

Did I? I’m not sure anymore. I’m so jumbled up, it’s hard to tell.

“You know how when we were kids, you always really liked the character who was the hero’s friend, who got trapped sort of turning to the dark side—not because they were bad, but because sometimes someone had to do something a little bad, so the hero didn’t have to?” asks Akira, “They were such a good friend, they’d even lose themselves, so the hero didn’t have to?”

“Is that what I’m turning into?” I ask nervously.

He grins and shakes his head, like I’m being stupid. “No. But you should love yourself at least as much as that, if you ever started to. Those people who died, it was to protect your friends right? And you feel guilty you didn’t try harder to keep them alive, even though probably there was no way to do it at all?”

But…what if there was? And I’m just not good enough to find it…

I nod, and look at the sheets.

“So if you even did anything wrong, which I think you didn’t, even a little, you only did it to protect somebody you love,” says Akira, like it’s so easy, “You put them before an ideal that was gonna hurt them. That’s not bad. That’s love. You’ve always been good, and you always will be Ritsuka. And if you ever have to do things you wish you didn’t, I already know the only reason you’re gonna do them is so someone like me doesn’t have to. I hope you never, ever have to do that again. But if you do, thank you.”

He reaches over, and he pulls me into a hug.

It’s a little unexpected, since we were talking, but, I think I needed it. I feel the urge to cry build up in my throat, and lean in against him, wrapping my arms around his back.

“I know you want to save everybody, and have everybody be good, and never hurt anyone at all,” whispers Akira, “You want to love everybody, and see it all turns out alright. So thank you, for taking a bullet for everybody else. I know it hurt. And I know it hurts to ever act how you don’t want to be. But thank you, and I love you for it. Thank you for loving me enough to do the hard thing yourself.”

“Do I have to do it?” I whisper, voice shaky, trying not to cry. I can’t, so I stop talking, and lean my head into his shoulder, doing it silently.

“No,” says Akira, “You never have to. I hope next time, I’m the one who does.”

I don’t want that at all. I’d much rather it be me.

Oh.

There’s something in that thought that gets through the way the rest of what he’s been saying hasn’t quite been able to. Maybe…maybe not every part of it isn’t bad, about me, even if most of it was. Maybe there’s a little piece of love in there too, after all.

“Let’s hope neither of us has to ever again. I want to grow up a little slower,” says Akira.

“Me too. But so long as I get to do it with you, I think we’ll both be okay,” I whisper back.

And it helps.

In the way my twin has only ever been able to help me.

Akira and I talk, for several hours, when we should be sleeping, but, I think we both need this a lot more. I talk about helplessness and weakness and my inability, and the weight of quick choices, and my fears. He talks about failing to save somebody, and needing to never do it again, and how lonely it feels to survive.

But, it’s not all bad.

I already knew it wasn’t, for me, but somehow when I say the good and all the bad together to Akira, I really hear how much is good in a different way—even with the parts that are bad; like, how I was so scared Toujou would kill him and Mom and Dad, and how Emiya said he wouldn’t blame me if I made him die there to save them, and how he thanked me after. How he promised he’d keep them safe from Ur Shanabi, and did it too. How Salieri makes me so sad and worried, and said he’s not like a real person, but I gave him food, and talked to him the same, and I didn’t think it would matter, but I saw him smile at the shop. How Doctor Roman bought the goofiest swimsuits in the gift shop, to try and help me relax, and wore it all through an operation. How I was a little worried about tying my pool of energy to somebody I didn’t really know, but he keeps coming to check on me and make sure I’m okay, and he hasn’t betrayed me or hurt me once. I keep gambling, and winning—I said that to Akira. He said, ‘No. You keep putting faith in people, and they keep proving you right.’

I’m not sure if it’s different. But, I like the way he says it.

It’s been scary. I watched the world wipe away, like a bomb was taking out the whole planet. But, we saved people—people that weren’t alive in the version of the world Akira knew about, here in Chaldea. Maybe it’s only ninety-six people who wouldn’t have made it, but that’s so much more than zero. I’m really proud of it. Even in the horror, we’ve done little things okay.

It's the same for Akira. He doesn’t tell me until the next morning, when we’re getting ready for the day, but, he feels awful for what happened to Olga Marie, but he says he also saw her change—grow—that, in the short time they worked together, she got less mean, and less hard, and he was proud. She said she didn’t want to die, because she hadn’t proven herself yet, but he said, ‘I wish it felt like it might have mattered to her that she did, to me, in Fuyuki…’ I said, ‘I think it would.’ He smiled. And he talked about Mash, who’s shy, and awkward, but she’s brave, too. He said she’s gone from being barely able to say no to a request, to risking her life to protect him—and she’s not just braver, she seems happier. Not that all this bad stuff happened, but she’s really…alive. He says Doctor Roman told him that talking with Akira after the mission was the happiest he’s ever seen her. It would be great, if nobody had died, and she still got to feel that way, but the fact it happened a bad way, doesn’t make the goof part not good.

I can tell he’s different, too. Akira’s impulsive, like me; Mom and Dad call us ‘the tornado twins,’ because we ran around causing messes on accident so much when we were little. I know he hasn’t changed much, but, I can see him thinking hard now, and I know he’s thinking about how to make everybody happy and safe. I wish he hadn’t had to grow up a little so fast. I wish it hadn’t happened at all. But, for parts of him to grow into early, I’m really happy he picked such a nice one.

We talk for several hours, quiet, like we used to when Mom and Dad had said it was bed time and we better not, and we’d whisper to each other through the wall of our rooms anyway and be bad, because we were too excited about a trip the next day. I know they were right, and so is the Doctor now, but I think this time we were too, because at the end of it all, I climb back in my bed, and I hear Akira whisper, “Hey, Suka? I really love you, you know?” and I whisper back, “I love you even more,” and we go back and forth trying to one-up the other for a minute, and then call it a tie, and the room gets quiet, and I really rest for the first time since this all started, since the day I got Billy out, like I’ve learned how to sleep again by talking with my brother.

Maybe I have. Maybe if he can be proud for me, and I can be sure for him, we can both really be…okay.

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

Timeline: Two Months, Sixteen Days, Two Hours Forward. Coordinates: -4.R48X91, -R1.559X46 Graph: 10912.1326

The jungle is dark and full of shadows, but it is not quiet.

That is a good sign. There is nothing more fearful, in a jungle, than the absence of noise. Can you even imagine the terrors it would take to scare every type of beast living in one, into silent submission or flight?

So, it is a clearly good sign.

What is clearly not a good sign, is the man-made structure up ahead.

Kuhaha, I mutter as a scoff in my throat. Irritating, being dropped here for this. Not that I’d prefer a master; I wouldn’t. But I’d prefer some damn idea of what I’m being flung here to do.

It isn’t like planning or persistence are issues for me, which is probably why the Counter Force chose me, but it’s not my job, and I don’t love being spat out by it. I shouldn’t be here at all. And if I’m in the prison tower after this again, I’ll hunt her and that demon down myself.

Still. I let myself melt into the shadows and fade in and out, towards the building. It’s an ugly thing, built at odd angles and jutting out, like boxes of different sizes stacked haphazardly about. I have become curious, so, I may as well indulge. Despite my distaste for the system, it does tend to throw heroic spirits at the more disgusting humans in this miserable world, and I have a taste for blood.

There is movement behind me.

How. The HELL, did I not notice the-?!

Cursing, I swing around, and am uppercut in the face by a massive blunt object the size of a bed.

Shit, I think it is a bed, I register as I fly backwards, breaking through two trees before catching onto a third one with a clawed hand and swinging around it with my momentum, landing back on my feet with an aching jaw.

Fast—hell—too fast! I feel almost no spike in magical energy, but the red figure who attacked is a blur, tearing at me at a sickening speed. Tch-!

I leap up, and call black flames to my hands, raining them down on the thing, but it dodges and weaves, and I see it raise a gun, so I mentally calculate the time it takes for a bullet to be fired and aim taken, and dodge, leaping from the tree I’m clinging to, smack into the path of the gun, because it THROWS it at me! Not shoots! No! It throws the whole gun at me!

It doesn’t even hurt that much, but it catches me by surprise, and expecting that, the red figure takes that fraction of an opening, leaps, and kicks me out of mid-air, through another three trees. I hear trunks snap and thud around me, and curse as I dig my claws into the ground to bring myself to a stop. It’s going to draw guards, like this.This thing is probably their perimeter security. I need to retreat, if I want to at least avoid being identified.

I sink into the shadows, and begin to melt from one to another, and the stupid thing appears from among the trees at a full-tilt run again, going right for me—I swear! The damn thing locks eyes! It’s a human, too—a heroic spirit, it must be, and it’s running at me like a football player going for a tackle.

FINE! If that’s how you want it!

I dash forward myself, and having run away before, I catch her by surprise, ducking under her arm and slicing her through the gut with a black-fame’d claw.

She cries out, more in surprise than anger or pain, and whips around to follow me like she hasn’t even noticed.

Tch. It didn’t go as deep as I meant.

The woman twisted on impact, like even too late to dodge, she somehow knows the best place in her gut to take the hit. This is a pain. I’m not really hurt yet, but neither is she. I need to make this really fast, or whatever is in that building that the Counter Force found important enough to throw me at, is going to come out here, and I’m not a man who likes to rush in blind. I should take this more seriously.

Annoyed, I catch another tree and swing myself around it again, sliding past her as she barrels after me, and slicing into her leg.

Almost too easy. She caught me by surprise, but she’s not as fast as me, just odd.

Moving faster, I tear off into the cover of shadows again, her, single-minded as a bull, plowing after me through the underbrush, then I turn and leap to a tree, propel myself off the side to another, and then from it, dive down at her, tearing a gash across her chest as I go past.

Breathing hard, she hesitates, turning to see where I went, and I use the opening to dash in and swing at her back with a claw, and my fingers sink in and find flesh, just as I feel a vice-like hand clamp down on my neck, raise me up, and slam me hard into the ground

JESUS! How strong-?!

It actually stuns me. Just a split second, but she slams me down so hard that the ground dents around me, and I’m at least two feet down, in a crater, throat burning.

“Hold still,” she says like a mildly-irritated reprimand, and that tips me off like nothing else has. She’s not even mildly threatened.

Shit-

“I don’t need mercy!” I shout, raising a hand towards her face, and managing to dig my fingers into the side of it, drawing blood, but her eyes are fixed on me like steel, and she’s already calling hers out, too:

“I will purge all that is toxic, all that is harmful.”

“I follow a path that is beyond love and hate!” I spit, digging my claws deeper and feeling my mana surge around me.

            “For as long as I have this power-“

“Enter Chateau D’If!”

I do it—I’m faster.

Around me, I feel my body speed up, my mind sharpen, until the pace is so frantic, time may as well stop around me. Wrenching myself from her grasp, I rip a claw up and through her torso, scouring her body with black flames, curses of death. I move at the same time left, right, behind her, above, tearing her back, her legs, her arms, her face; I am everywhere, I am fire itself, I am death and hate in that moment, I am the concept of inescapable suffering and the unconquerable march of the reaper. In an instant, I attack from every conceivable angle, and cover her body in the flames of the cursed poison inside me, then skid to a stop on her left as the phantasm breaks and ends around me, the world catching back up.

You’re finished, I think, relieved, and surprised to be threatened enough to be relieved, No one can survive those flames.

And no living witness to a phantasm, no identity given away.

Her uniform, as I’m only now recognizing it to be, hanging in tatters around her, blood seeping from her chest over breasts and down her torso, past the hole through her stomach, and along shredded leg muscles, she blinks in surprise at where I was, then turns to see me where I am now, as if she can still sense it. Her face is not twisted in pain or anger. Her eyes are red, like mine, and burn, like mine, but burn a different color. Blood seeps down her forehead, and it’s like she doesn’t feel it, the way I don’t. And she looks at me, but not the way I am looking at her. She reaches out a hand, but not the way I reached out mine, and she calls:

            “I shall lead everyone to happiness!”

She’s still using it, I realize, taken aback. She has to know using that much energy would kill her instantly, with my flames consuming her body at speed already. She’s going to take me out with-?

“Nightingale Pledge!”

A waterfall of white flames erupts around her and the black flames of my phantasm that are burning out her life, and behind her, a massive figure the size of a building appears—like her—I think it is her, but made of white flame as well, and with a sword, and she raises a hand and the sword comes down with a ferocity and speed—I try to move, and find I can’t, and it hits me.

And passes through.

I breathe raggedly, reaching a hand to my chest, and I find myself undamaged, only—Wait. My flames have gone out?

They always glow around me and my claws, but-

Shit!

I look back at her and see they’ve vanished around her as well, and as she stands there, unmoving, the slashes across her face heal, and the hole in her stomach closes, and-

Mer…

I see her. I see me, in the Chateau D’If, and—?

“Mercedes?” I ask, taken aback, and I forget for just an instant, to move.

She is on me like an attack dog, her force and size knocking me to the ground again, and I see an outstretched hand holding a pad with what can only be chloroform on it from the smell—Stupid! Poison won’t even work on me! I just used my own-

My back hits the ground and the pad rams into my face, and WHY THE FUCK IS IT WORKING?!?

What the HELL is going on with her?! WHY-?

Damn it! Her phantasm! That’s right—some part of me remembers; it blocks the effects of other—

“Mercedes!” I try, voice muffled by the pad, “Get off of me!”

I could stab her until she lets go, but now that I remember who she is, I suddenly don’t want to; I also suddenly remember she’d probably die before thinking to move, the insane  nurse! Instead, I try to just grab and pull her off, but it’s like wrestling a goddamn rhino.

What kind of insane strength do you HAVE, woman?!?

“Please sit patiently. You are in need of treatment,” she states calmly, pinning me down without mercy, and not budging an inch.

“I do not need treatment!” comes my muffled voice as I thrash around under her, trying not to breathe, “I’m fine! Get off! We’re on the same side!”

“I’m sorry, but you are clearly disoriented and unwell. You may be suffering an injury to the head,” she says with sympathy, “I am not Mercedes.”

YOU BITCH! Do you remember me too, and you still-?!

Shit, it’s getting hard. We don’t exactly do body functions the way humans do, but it doesn’t matter, because her chloroform is seeping in not exactly the way it’s supposed to either. Holding my breath seems to slow it down, but I think it’s sinking into my skin anyway. Also, it’s also agonizing, which it shouldn’t be, because I don’t actually have human lungs! I should be able to hold out until it starts damaging my prana cycle, and instead she’s…fucking somehow forcing my body to think it’s functioning like it’s flesh and blood! “You remember me?” I manage.

She tilts her head and blinks at me, considering my face, staring deeply.

“…No,” she decides.

LIAR!

“Listen to me!” I choke out, “I don’t want to kill you, but if you don’t get off me, I’ll rip you to shreds! We both need to get out of here, before the people in that building get here to check out the massive disturbance you caused!”

She turns her head to look, then looks back at me.

“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “I do know you.”

Finally! Thank-

I relax for just an instant, and she dumps a whole bottle of chloroform onto my head, then slams me in the gut so I involuntarily take a breath, before I can even process what just happened.

Shit…

“I’m sorry,” she says, sounding genuinely sorry, “You were agitated and needed to be sedated. I decided the best way for you not to hurt me like you want, is for you to go to sleep.”

“You bitch…” I wheeze weakly, forgetting not to take a breath, with my head suddenly so hazy. This is so stupid. I’ve made so many mistakes in a row, and it’s just because I remember her! This is why it’s a mistake to ever let anyone get close to you—only someone you trust can ever stab you in the back! Why did I do this?! I’m so frustrated I almost do hope she just bashes my head into a puddle now. Maybe I’d finally learn that lesson.

“That’s extremely inappropriate language,” she reprimands harshly, as if she’s disappointed in me now, too. Gripping the lapels of my coat firmly, she jerks me up, and hoists me over a shoulder in a fireman carry.

…this sucks.

“Just…kill me,” I hiss out unhappily. Damn it. My head is starting to feel numb.

“I told you—I am not going to kill you,” she replies, “You need treatment.”

Great.

I feel a gloved hand pat my head. “That’s good. Please remain calm. Your anger was consuming you so much you could not listen to reason, but do not worry; I will find a way to cure you even if I have to kill you.”

“…please don’t,” say dryly, giving up and hanging limp over a shoulder.

“I am Florence Nightingale,” she says, ignoring me.

No shit. “I know…who you are,” I manage between labored breaths.

She glances at me and tilts her head again, curious this time. “Then why did you call me-?”

I pretend to pass out, because I don’t want to answer, and I’m exhausted now anyway.

“Hmmm. Poor man,” she says with a sad sigh, and forges on.

Angel of Crimea, more like Angel of Brute Force Sanity, I think, but I’m not as annoyed as I could be. I’m not as sick as I’m acting, either. The effects of her drugs will knock me out if I’m not careful, but they only worked full force when she was smashing me in the face with them, and with her noble phantasm wearing off now too, I could choose to activate my poison resistance and shake off the effects. The thing is, though, I actually don’t really mind letting her have her fun, and just going along with whatever it is she’s planning. I could fight back now, or break free, and run away, but I don’t really have a reason to.  I mean, she’s not going to kill me, no matter what she said; she just isn’t like that—and it isn’t like Alaya gave me instructions, so if it can’t be bothered to lift a finger, why should I run around slaving for some malicious god? Besides, as much of a pain as that crazy nurse can be, she can also be fun, and the fact she’s here at all is interesting.

The fact both of us are?

Maybe there is a reason, I think, contented, and I begin to plot.

[valyrfia]

Omg thank you for mentioning the way lestappen shipping has shifted, I felt like I was crazy for how I’d drifted away from the ship and it’s so interesting to hear that others have felt as alienated from the way the dynamic has turned and the shit being written these days!

glad it resonated. yeah i still love the dynamic and the soulmatism of it all, but fic/fanon-wise i'm enjoying landoscar a lot more nowadays just because i think lestappen fic has fallen into the trap of majorly popular mlm ship -> co-opted by people who really want to just write het stuff but are interested because it's 'popular' -> fic that should've just been het. it's doubly painful because lestappen as a concept really requires a thorough love/knowledge of racing/the hunger of the win to write properly because it's so integral as to why they respect each other and also why they have this long and complicated history. there are still gems coming out of the tag, but sometimes they get lost and it's a lot of having to sift through people using the ship because it just become a popular vehicle.

[betweensaintsandmonsters]

okay okay vampire obi-wan and anemic human anakin who goes to be his meal at like a fancy vampire bistro that pays willing humans to "donate" blood (get bitten) and tastes like shit whomst obi-wan then tries to take care of (in all the ways he can from sunset to sunrise) first so his food tastes good (bc anakin keeps coming back) and then because he cares

sends cookbooks to his apartment, tries to get him to go to the doctor, sends him other little gifts when he sees thinks that make him think of anakin, obi-wan just like wants to take care of his boy because he's clearly not taking care of himself (he signed up to be vampire food so that much should have been obvious) and obi-wan just wants him well is that too much to ask?

they fight about this often. (first: "how did you get my address?" "It's on the form you filled out to be here" "invasion of privacy much?" then: "you could always just... choose someone else?" "and let another vampire suffer from your lack of self care? absolutely not."") ("i don't know why you're putting so much into this? "i must have nothing else to do.") ("if this bothers you so much... just let someone else feed off me." "no.")

anakin stops showing up to be dinner for a few weeks and obi-wan gets worried. but he's not sure how far he's allowed to go in his worry, they're technically just... predator and prey (though obi-wan wouldn't describe them like that) it's just that no one tastes like anakin (that's definitely it) and nobody sasses him like anakin, and nobody is anakin and anakin is missing and clearly if he's been gone this long he can't possibly be okay

(and obi-wan is right, anakin isn't okay. he's in the hospital with an arm that might need to be amputated (but it was obi-wan's favorite place to drink from since he won't touch anakin's neck for reasons he WON'T explain)

(if you asked obi-wan why he didn't bite anakin's neck to begin with, he'd heavily imply there's no reason, but when pressed, it would be that anakin let's out this breathy moan when he's bitten, and it's music to obi-wan's ears, a symphony to his soul, he doesn't think he'd survive it if that was right in his ear, he'd have to kiss the boy then and there, have to keep him, and he can't do that, so his neck is off limits. it is IMPERATIVE anakin does not know this)

and he's lost a lot of blood and he's suffering and not alone because ahsoka and padme keep visiting, but he doesn't know how much he misses obi-wan until he isn't seeing him)

so one night obi-wan goes to anakin's apartment to see he isn't there and hasn't been there in weeks based on sent, and panics because what if he drove his beautiful boy away, or what if someone went after him, and obi-wan can't go in bc vampire rules say he needs permission and also it's good manners.

eventually anakin comes back to him, sans one arm, apologetic because "i know that's where you liked to bite" as if that could possibly be the reason that obi-wan is as upset as he is when he comes in. "i'd understand if you need a different meal," he says, as if that's all he is when obi-wan refuses to bite him because for the first time, he looks fragile and that's heartbreaking

so anakin leaves and obi-wan is gobsmacked, flabberghasted, realized anakin waited to have this conversation as close to sunrise as possible so obi-wan couldn't follow him out of the bar, but he doesn't realize that his vampire would absolutely run into the sun for him (except quin and satine 1000% don't let him "that's not how you get your man, he doesn't want a pile of dust, where's that going to get you, man, think for just a fraction of a second")

so obi-wan send anakin more little gifts, things he can puzzle out one handed as he gets used to being an amputee, trinkets he might enjoy, notes that are meant to make him smile, or that say he'll find somewhere else to feed on the boy if that's going to get him to come back when nothing else has worked. all he wants is to let anakin know that he's he's appreciated, make him feel wanted and loved.

eventually anakin sends him a note back with his phone number and then texts him to come over. he makes obi-wan stand on his stoop for an excruciating amount of time and he gets a lecture about personal space, and respecting people's wishes and "it doesn't matter that you're 300 years old, some people just don't want anything to do with you!" and anakin tries to say all of this with a straight face, before he cracks because he misses obi-wan and it is an act, and he's been in love with this vampire since he decided it was his job to take care of one human that wasn't taking care of himself.

then anakin kisses him and gives him a goofy grin and asks "what are you doing just standing there?"

"are you inviting me in?"

"i guess i am. you're stuck with me though, i'm your problem now."

"darling, you've been my problem for a long time, and i wouldn't have it any other way."

and eventually they fuck, and obi-wan bites anakin's neck, and here's his symphony played out in the most desirable circumstances. and they live happily ever after

(until anakin pesters him about making him a vampire "so i can be your problem, permanently" and they argue about it, but agree that anakin gets a life first "you've gotta be at least 40 before i turn you, i'm not going around looking like i forever robbed the cradle!" "you're not even 40! 25." "nope." "fine, 30 then, final offer." "and if I say no?" obi-wan's grin is feral, like he knows he's lost but he's still willing to play the game. "i know you won't" so does obi-wan)

[jayholdenworld]

Okay, so… I’m new in the Motorsport world, watching my first F1 season and everything, but who was going to tell me that Carlos Sainz Jr. was in the Eurocup Formula Renault 2.0 in 2011? (The same category Lando won in 2016 and Oscar in 2019) And why I just discovered it when I needed to do a timeline of Oscar’s racing career for a fic about Animal Shifter!Oscar?

Like, if I try hard enough, I can find a connection between Carlos, Lando, and Oscar that could be older than Oscar being Lando’s fan and Lando fanboying over Carlos.

I can create a bigger red thread of destiny connection!!

[triglycercule]

horror is so BLESSED he's the only one out of the murder time trio that has actual good people trying to influence his story 💔💔 dust and killer were both driven to INSANITY because of the choices of their respective humans but horror??? every time without FAIL the polls for horrortale's plotline have always ended in a good place for aliza (either by bettering her relationships/reputation or for her to just. not DIE)

horrortale's potential alternate timelines my beLOVEd🙏🙏 they're SO lucky that we're being kind and benevolent hehe (≧ω≦) now where are the aus based off the possible different outcomes that could've happened in horrortale HUH???? (like how aliza couldve killed toriel or chosen horror's puzzle or gone with undyne to the core........)

[princescar]

Now that it’s plain you are never gonna be sane, living in this world all the same Maybe it’s better if you play really dumb and you say you’re giving in and fall away

ANYWAY, going back to my roots with this piece. Redraw for @aparticularbandit's fic (chapter of outfit here)

[ziracona]

Woe, more fic be upon ye. [Fate/GO AU – The Kid (pt: 1, … 22,23, 24, 25,26, 27, 28_1, 28_2, 29_1, 29_2, ?)]{Some spoilers for og FGO/Temple of Time, vaguer spoilers for early CITLB}

.

Me and my dumb mouth.

“You know, Romani, for a man who’s supposed to be wise, that was a stupid thing to say,” I whisper under my breath.

At least she came back, right?

…I just. …

I had wanted to make things better. I wish I hadn’t been able to tap into her thoughts back when I woke up, because I can’t forget them. That poor woman is so sad, and I dragged her back here. I don’t know Da Vinci, but she knows me, and I can’t change or fix that. I guess…I’ll get to know her, slowly. But isn’t that wrong? Maybe, knowing how much it hurts her to watch me die, shouldn’t I keep more distance this time? Or—Or does it not even matter, because she already feels like she knows me, even if it’s not me me. If it were me, I’d want to spend as much time as possible with someone I loved, before they died. But not everyone is like me.

She wants me not to die, and I don’t want to die, but apparently I’m absolutely iron clad going to, because that’s how she saw it happen. And…I think I always knew that was how it would end, anyway. Sure, there was some remote possibility of a miracle, but you don’t plan around that unless it’s actually the only thing you have left to hope for. You plan around what you can do.

And I can’t…I can’t fix this for her. All I can do is feel guilty. I just wanted to thank her for her work, and say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak her out. I mean—it’s not at all like I’m planning to die down here. I have a lot to get done!

Speaking of which, I’m getting close to the magic source I’m hoping is a leyline.

‘Was’ hoping is more like it, I think morosely. The closer I get, the more sure I am that it’s not one at all. Whatever it is, though, it is a huge source of natural magic, so I can definitely use it to let them pinpoint my location. I might even be able to use it to boost my range and summon Makeda to me.

The only concern really is, if it’s not a leyline, what is it?

My first instinct would be ‘a holy site,’ but that’s sure not the vibe this labyrinth is giving. It does have carvings in the earthen walls, but it feels way more cursed here than holy.

Whatever the thing I passed earlier was, I only got close to it one other time as yet; that was a good twenty minutes ago now, and it got nowhere near as close to me. The thing seemed to be moving slowly both times I’ve heard it go by, though—much slower than I am, even at a walk, which has left me wondering if that means there’s more than one, or if whatever it is can travel fast, and I just haven’t seen it do it. Honestly, I’m not sure which option is worse.

Wish I knew what it was. What any of this is, I think, running my hand along one of the carvings in the wall. I speak a lot of languages, but Quechua isn’t one of them. I’m so frustrated with myself. If I was still a heroic spirit, I’d be able to, because we get a fluent understanding of any language we need when summoned! But now, all I’ve got are my own studies and memories. I’ve got six languages down fluently, and I can communicate well enough in a whole handful more, but of course I ended up not preparing for what I actually needed.

I guess it might not have mattered, I try to console myself, letting my hands run along a carving anyway, in case I get a stroke of brilliance, This isn’t Quechua—this is carvings. I’m sure they have occasional pictograms, but unless I’m remembering wrong, their actual written records involved cords, not carvings. I probably still wouldn’t know what this said, even if I was a spirit, because it doesn’t ‘say’ anything—it’s just a picture.

That actually does make me feel better.

The carving is in the dirt, not in any kind of stone holding up these tunnels, because there is none—which, coincidentally, has never made me feel great about the structural integrity of these tunnels, but, it’s also a wonder. From the natural decay and dampness that must accumulate down here, these should fade, or crumble, but so far, all the carvings I’ve stopped to feel or risk a look at, have been either completely, or almost entirely, intact. This one is the same; it's well made and carved deep, simple, but finely done. I trace lines with my fingers and reconstruct the image in my head, since I don’t want to risk using a light. It’s like a game I played with my brothers and sisters as a child, where someone would use their finger to draw a simple depiction of an animal on your back, or the palm of your hand, and with your eyes shut, you had to guess by touch what it was.

This carving is one I’ve felt before now, several times. It’s a human figure, but with a muzzle, like a cat, and horns on its head.

That must be Supay, I think nervously, because even with a minimal amount of knowledge of the area, I know the descriptions of the most famous gods, But, I haven’t felt any divine presence here, or any holy energy. For that matter, as overwhelmingly malignant as this place feels, even if it was an entirely evil being, I still haven’t felt anything with the strength or quality of a god or high demon at all.

Maybe…it just means the place has, or had, some connection with the underworld.

Great… I think, kind of wishing I hadn’t asked.

More stressed now, I keep going. I walk slow and careful, ears straining for sound. Nothing.

That’s good.

Okay. I’m getting close. At this speed, maybe ten more minutes, fifteen at the worst.

I continue in careful silence.

“…grace, the Lord……..among……”

What the hell was that.

I stop.

“….is the fruit………of God, pray……at the hour…..”

It’s faint. The voice is quiet and lilting and friendly, and it’s the single most terrifying thing I’ve ever heard. A man, speaking coaxingly, in a soft register, and I have no idea from which direction. The sound bounces off the walls as if it’s from everywhere, and floats past me.

Shit. Run, or hide?

I can tell whoever it is, is praying, but that’s the last thing I could naturally run into down here. No one would be calmly saying a –a—what is that? A Hail Mary?

“…full of grace, the….theee…Blessed ….among women….is the fruit of thy womb….Mother…pray for us….now at the hour of…..amen.”

It’s louder. No, it’s not—it’s only more distinct. How can he be closer, without sounding louder to my ears?

This is bad. Shit.

Okay. Calm down. He’s talking, he knows you’re there, or he knows you’re close. Do not hide. Move.

I begin to walk, faster than before, but still trying to be quiet. I grip my little staff in my hands. Focus. Forward, left at the fork, immediate right, ten meters, another left, sixteen meters, a right, and—And shit. That’s the end of the area of my last scan. I’m going to have to do it again to find the right paths.

“Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women, and Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now at the hour….Amen.”

Ten meters, left, sixteen meters, right—O-okay. I place my hand against the wall, wince internally, and reach out with my feeble circuits as far forward as I can.

“Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee, Blessed are thou among women, and Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

Shit. I can hear the direction now—it’s behind me, and it’s really close. Am I being hunted by a Catholic?! What the hell is going on? I-I don’t remember any legends a—oh fuck it I don’t have time to-!

Speed-walking, I go forward, forward again at the next intersection, and then once more, forward.

For a moment, I don’t hear it whispering prayers behind me.

“O wonderful hope, which you gave to those who wept for you at the hour of your death, promising after your departure to be helpful to your brethren!”

Shit.

The sound seeps into the air, making me feel sick. Damn it—is this a spell? I don’t feel any kind of magic though!

“- Fulfill, O Father, what you have promised, and help us by your prayers.”

It’s close. Fuck it, there’s no way it hasn’t figured out exactly where I am. I run.

Full tilt sprint, I click on my coms. Instantly, I can hear something pounding after me in the maze, but there’s too many feet for one person! The shuffle is like something on six legs-

“Da Vinci, Roman?” I call, for some stupid, ridiculously optimistic reason, still a little under my breath.

“Yes?”-“What’s up?” come their overlapping answers.

“May God the Father bless us. May God the Son heal us. May God the Holy Spirit enlighten us, and give us eyes to see with, ears to hear with, hands to do the work of God with, feet to walk with, a mouth to preach the word of salvation with-“

I skid into a right turn. “Hi so I uh—I-I’m being chased—I think I’m about to be hate crime’d to death?” I gasp for breath as I run. “Terrible feeling!”

“You’re WHAT?” comes my own, horrified response.

“Shit—Okay—can you reach the leyline?!” comes Da Vinci’s.

It’s not a leyline, but that really doesn’t seem important to bring up now.

“-and the angel of peace to watch over us and lead us at last, by our Lord's gift, to the Kingdom.  Amen,” comes the suddenly deep and distorting voice in the walls behind me.

I did not think I could run any faster, but apparently, I can.

“I’m doing my best!” I call, giving up on stealth entirely, “I uh-“

Something behind me makes a horrible CRACK sound, and I smell the overwhelming stench of offal behind me. DID IT JUST BREAK THROUGH A WALL?

“-Yes! I definitely will!” I shout. I slam a hand against the wall, and my energy surges out, mapping the area ahead. Left, left, right, forward, left, forward—fuck! No no no, no! It ends! There’s a dead end—I-I don’t have time to find a way to circle wide around. Okay this is fine! That thing broke through one wall without knocking down the place, surely you have enough juice to take just one out too! Reach the end, and it’s one dirt wall to the right. You can do this.

The sound of shuffling at unreasonable speed is getting closer.

“May God the Father bless us, May God the Son heal us. May God the Holy Spirit enlighten us and give us eyes to see with, ears to hear with, hands to do the work of God-“ There is absolutely no beneficence or coaxing promise in the voice now. It’s sickeningly dripping with malice and pleasure, the pleasure of someone with a knife, preparing to very slowly pick apart someone tied up and helpless in the corner.

“לְהַגבִּיר!” I call, focusing the entirety of my precision on my legs. They enhance as much as they can at the command, and I fly forward with the temporary speed of an Olympic sprinter. Forward, left, forward, so close-

It works, and I hear the voice behind me drop back just a little. I pray it’s enough to buy me time.

“-With, feet to walk with and a mouth to preach the word of salvation. The angel of peace to watch over us and lead us at last by our Lord’s gift to the kingdom-“

“What are you going to do?” ‘Roman’ asks over my coms as I tear down the last hallway, “You won’t have much time.”

“I know!” I call back. I can barely stop fast enough not to ram into the dead end. Okay, this is it! “Wish me luck, okay! I’m about to do something really stupid!” I call.

“WHAT?!” asks the other me.

“…good luck?” offers Da Vinci like she’s bracing for a car crash.

I place my hand on the wall. “לְהַחלִישׁ!” I weaken the wall with everything I’ve got left, then brace the circuits in my shoulder, take a running start, and ram it with as much force as I can manage.

It hurts. But the dirt around me shatters like drywall, and I stumble through to where I meant to be. There is a deep, dark, puddle of something I don’t have time to care about, except that it’s giving off leyline-levels of energy. I use the metal focus-rod device Da Vinci gave me, and ram it into the puddle like a tent spike, then grab it with both hands.

“MAKEDA!” I call at the top of my lungs, focusing my all on the tiny link I can still feel.

The command seal fires—a bright, seeping crimson.

And nothing happens.

I stare, in horror, at the seal on my hand, which is gone now.

“WHA—oh shit! Romani?!” calls Da Vinci.

It didn’t work. … Oh no. I…

In the tunnel behind me, I can hear that horrible shuffling. The scent of puss is closing in. I’m going to have to fight.

“Hey, listen to me!” Roman shouts urgently from the other side of coms, “Romani, try someone new! Makeda failed because I’m in the way—Someone I’m not contracted to, I can’t be in the way of!”

Right. I-I have a point. I have no catalyst and almost no magical energy. Even if I try to suck up everything I can and redirect it in a blast at this thing, I don’t even know what’s after me, forget how to kill it. Plus, I don’t really lose anything by failing a summon, except time-

“You, who sit in the gardens, the friends hearken to your voice; let me hear it!” I call, picking the first incantation I can think of, “I shall stand with you who stand with me, alone we fall, together we are not broken-“

Catalyst, catalyst—I guess I don’t need one but-!

I remember what my father said, when he yelled that I hadn’t called for him, and I ram my hand down onto the spike, spattering my blood along it.

“If you would answer, come! Soul spirit and body, needed and bound together once more—let me hear your answer!”

The natural energy from the puddle surges around me in a bright glowing blue, spins, and explodes upwards, lifting my hair and the edges of my clothing with it. I feel a sharp stabbing sensation in my throat—at a guess, from frying the circuits there—but with it, the almost invisible command seals on my hand light up and then darken into a normal opacity, and at my side, little flecks of gold and blue swirl together and condense and then, with a shimmer like sunlight on the water, there is a woman standing beside me.

She is startlingly beautiful. I’m scared and stressed out of my wits, and my brain still thinks it has time to clock how genuinely impossible her very curvaceous figure is. Her hair is black and long with gentle curls, a circlet with a mostly see-through veil covering it and her face, like a bride. She wears a flowing robe of bright blue and white, with gold thread and jewelry holding it in place and adorning her. Her eyes are black like the night sky, and more beautiful and brilliant. Her nose is striking and strong, her lips thin and gentle, and her skin a dark teak. In her hand, she holds an ornate scepter, with a lantern hung from the top, and a scroll affixed beneath it.

I have absolutely no idea who she is.

I really thought my blood would get me someone related. Nice suggestion, Dad! –all that matters is someone came, I guess—even if she takes one look at me and appears completely shocked that she has.

“Thank you!” I call out a little desperately as she gapes at me, “Careful—I’m being—”

The earthen wall up the tunnel shatters. Shit! I assumed it would just follow my path!

Staggering out into the tunnel a few meters back is a tall figure. It only has two legs, but it takes such awful, tiny, dragging and quick steps, the scuffing sounds like three men.

Coughing the dirt out of my lungs, I cover my mouth and nose with an arm as the air settles and the thing comes forward, and I can see my pursuer for the first time in the light of this woman’s scepter. Behind me, I hear her gasp.

It looks human. But it’s so wrong. It’s a man, massive—at least six and a half feet tall, broad shouldered and muscular, built like a Hollywood action hero, but he’s dressed like a priest. Or, the idea of a priest.

Its all wrong. His hair is styled like a modern man, and his shoes are modern, but he wears the robes of a Dominican Priest from a different century. His skin is wrong too—so wrong. It’s the skin of a white man, so sickly pale he almost looks dead. But, his skin is unnaturally tight and perfect, like it’s been pulled off someone else, and vacuum sealed to this form, or altered by a surgeon so much, there is nothing left to tighten. He carries a massive knife, a huge pack on his back, and small bags on the belt at his waist. There is blood on his boots, and blood on his hands. Old blood, new blood. Little flecks of flesh and marrow and offal sticking to him here or there along the robe. When he grins, his teeth are sharp, and perfect—bright white.

“Caster!” I call as a guess, since the shape of my command seals barely changed.

A bright light bursts from the lantern, and a crow tears out of it, shrieking and slashing at the looming figure’s eyes.

Huh? Well that’s an unexpected opening—I glance over at her, and the woman’s eyes are wide with terror.

What?

Her lips tremble, and she leans back and grips her staff in front of her like a body shield so hard her arms shake.

I haven’t ever seen a heroic spirit act this way on summoning. Why would…?

Ahead, the monster who looks like a man takes a nasty scratch from the raven, but easily slashes it in half with his knife. He grins at us as it vanishes. Bits of flesh hang from between his teeth.

My summoned spirit swings her staff, and a wolf leaps from it this time, a massive bear behind it, and both charge the creature. It moves forward with impossible speed for those tiny steps, making its horrible shuffling sound again, and ducks past the wolf’s lunge to drive its knife across its back. As the wolf vanishes, the bear collides with the figure, and takes him down, roaring and tearing. For a second, my view of him is blocked in the narrow tunnel, and then the bear bursts into sparks, and the monster sits up from the ground, tears in its monk’s robe, but seemingly not even noticing the bloody scratches along its torso.

“What is he?” asks my spirit fearfully, her lantern lighting up again—this time three mostly opaque men appear, draw sabers, and rush the monster.

“I don’t know,” I call back, gripping my own staff tighter. Okay—okay, think—she’s clearly a summoner type Caster. The bear didn’t phase it even though it took damage, so there must be a trick to killing it—a weak spot, or weapon type. I try to see if it’s guarding any part of itself as her men attack it.

The monster takes a slash to his arm from the first one, to his leg from the second, and to his face from the last, as they rush him—the first charging in directly, the second skidding beneath him to make a swing, and the last running up a wall and striking him from above as it passes. Unaffected, the creature swipes up and takes the head off the man striking from above. As his lifeless head topples to the floor, the monster dives back with horrifying speed and runs his knife through the second, cutting him in half, then throws its knife at the last, catching him between the eyes. The knife immediately reappears the monster’s hand, as the last body thuds to the floor and vanishes. It turns to us to grin.

“How should-“ starts my spirit, and then something cylindrical and long slams into her neck, and she goes down with a scream.

I realize in horror and disgust it’s the creature’s tongue. Three inches wide, shaped like a tube, and pulsating disgustingly with slime and sickly yellowed veins; it must be at least thirty feet long to have hit her from where it’s standing. It makes a horrible, slow, slurping sound, and she screams louder.

With all my might, I bring my quarterstaff down onto the tongue, and all it does is bend a little at the impact. Even with its mouth full, I hear the creature laughing, a sickening, guttural laugh, and then it shoots forward towards its prey, retracting its tongue as it goes, and it slams into me before I can move, burying a row and a half of razor sharp, four-inch teeth into my stomach.

I scream now, and I hear the woman shriek again as I am slammed against her by the monster.

It grins at me over the teeth embedded in my gut, then flings me bodily to the side wall with just the muscles in its neck. I impact the wall so hard, my vision goes dark for a second, and I feel a sharp pain along my neck when my senses return. Vision swaying, I look up from the growing red stain along my stomach to try to find my caster. I can hear her screams getting louder, more terrified.

She’s barely five feet to the side, but my vision’s still half-dark. For a moment, all I can make out are struggling forms. Then I see them.

My caster is on her back, grappling, and the massive, dead, disgusting thing like a man is on top of her, his jaw unhinged, and his teeth digging into her from neck to sternum, making a horrific sucking noise as he drinks something out of her chest, maybe her blood.

“Caster!” I call, pain rippling out from my gut, I sink my fingers into the dirt and drag myself towards them. Shit I can’t move fast enough-

“לְהַקְשִׁיחַ!” I shout instead, digging my fingers deeper into the earth and ripping up as much as I can, compacting it in my hand and hardening it with the command into the density of a stone, “לְחַדֵד!” It sharpens to a spear-tip at the command, and I fling it at the thing’s head with all my might.

It screams as the makeshift weapon slices through the flesh in its cheek, and into its mouth, and it rips its teeth out of the caster violently to leap at me.

It knocks into me painfully hard, slamming me onto my back, and flings something white and powdery into my face. Trying not to breathe it in, I rake my fingernails across the grinning thing’s perfect white face, and it bites my arm, tearing out a chunk of flesh. I scream.

Climbing on top of me, the monster grabs my throat with one hand and with the other, brings up the massive knife. I manage to get up my left arm and catch his wrist, struggling to keep the knife back, as his putrid, stretched-tight skin twists into a smile so rigid his cheeks look like they’ll rupture against the bone any second. “Caster!” I shout. His mouth opens and his tongue crawls out, moving on its own, like a worm, down along my chest and abdomen, then slowly digs itself through my clothes and into my already wounded stomach.

It's one of the most horrific things I’ve ever felt. It crawls along my skin and burrows in, eating through skin and intestinal lining and ferreting deeper as I scream in agony. It maneuvers inside me, turning around and up, digging back into my flesh from inside, and I feel hooks set; then I can feel it start to suck. The sensation is excruciating. I feel parts of me rip free and die. It’s eating me. No. It’s sucking the fat out of me, I realize in horror as the tongue pulses and a wave of agony passes along me.

I-I can’t—my grip on the hand with the knife is slipping. There’s just so much pain. No, no, no-!

I turn desperately to look, and I can see the Caster rolling onto her side across from me, clutching her neck with one hand, and snagging her staff with the other. There’s a flash of light, and a masked man appears from the lamp and rams into the creature with all his weight, knocking the thing off me, and swinging his saber through its tongue as he goes, severing it.

I gasp as the monster releases my throat, choking on chalky powder, and drag myself back, coughing and clutching my gut. I feel fingers close around my shoulder, and my Caster tugs me further from the thing as I rip out what’s left of the tongue and struggle to get oxygen back in my lungs.

“Blunt objects don’t work,” I choke out frantically, “Blades do—"

Ahead of us, the creature cuts off the masked man’s head with a shriek, and turns back to us. In the relative darkness, its bright blue eyes glow, and its pained sounds begin to twist into a hideous laughter. It grins at us, blood pouring out of its mouth.

“The head!” I call—praying I’m right. It keeps decapitating its own prey, so maybe-

Shaking, but angry now too, my Caster swings her staff at the monster and calls, “Forty Thieves!”

A burst of massive energy erupts from her staff, and a whole army of men with sabers and knives pour forward, running up the walls and around each other, making for him like a flood. The creature shrieks in rage and rushes to meet them, but is carried back and away from us by the sheer number of summoned phantoms. I hear slashes and the sickening thunk of metal into flesh, the squelch of body parts being trampled underfoot, the voices of men and of that thing, and the spatter of blood, but my Caster’s face is hard now, and she grips her staff with purpose. The number of men dwindles, until there’s something like ten, and then the noise stops, and those last few fade into nothing, leaving behind just one body.

I can only assume it belonged to the creature. Her thieves have sliced it into so many tiny pieces, all that I can reliably tell anymore is the color of its skin.

There is no more sound, no more movement.

Nothing but us.

Shakily, still watching in case it can somehow re-form, I reach up my hand and touch her leg, running mana along my pathetic circuits. I focus, and I heal her the best I can. My ability is severely limited, with the weak connection I have to Ritsuka right now, but at least healing is one of the easier magics for me, and I can draw some natural energy from the nearby pool of…whatever it is. When I feel sure enough the thing is going to stay dead, and I look up, I know I haven’t fixed all the damage to my Caster, but I can see her wounds are closed, at least. Exhausted, I remember to reach down then and do the same to myself.

“Good job,” I manage through my damaged throat, breaking the tense silence, “Thank you.”

“A-Are there more?” asks my Caster. She hesitates, then finally lowers her staff and looks down at me.

“I don’t think so,” I croak out, “I only ever saw the one. Are you okay?”

“I—I am a little worse for the wear, Master,” she replies shakily, but then she tries to smile. The look is immediately replaced by worry as she actually sees me, “And you? It-It has wounded you, badly!”

“Healing,” I reassure. Huh. My response time feels slowed. That’s not great. Shit, how hard did I hit my head?

“Are you sure you will live?” asks the Caster anxiously, kneeling to get a better look at my wounds.

“Yeah—thank you,” I say, sincerely appreciative of the concern. I feel woozy, and a little slow. I’m actually not super worried about my stomach, because I had enough energy to heal that, but I lost a lot of blood first, and I might be concussed. Healing a basic wound is easy; replacing blood is a lot harder. The brain is another thing entirely. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do a better job healing you,” I add, “I don’t have the deepest reserves of magical energy right now. I’m afraid closing wounds is the best I can do. –I uh, I’m Doctor Romani Archaman, by the way.” I offer her a hand. “You can call me Romani—or Roman, if it’s hard to pronounce. Or Doctor Archaman. Whatever you prefer.”

She looks a little taken aback, but she nods and takes my hand. Her fingers are delicate and her skin soft, absolutely not the hands of a warrior. Rings with brilliant little gemstones affixed to them in intricate patterns rest on her fingers.

“I am your servant, Caster class—although you already knew that,” she say properly, “True Name: Scheherazade.”

I knew that of course. After her forty thieves, there was really no other option, but, it’s polite to wait for a heroic spirit to tell you.

“Thank you for answering my call,” I say.

She tilts her head, looking a bit confused by that. “Uhm. …Master, I will of course do whatever I can to serve you. I am afraid I’m not much of a fighter, though. I’m much more suited to entertainment, or counsel. Support.”

“Well, you did a great job,” I try to reassure, gesturing to the little pieces of…whatever it was, that still line the tunnel. I give her a shaky grin. “Didn’t want to bank on the head being the weak spot, I guess?”

She flushes. “A-Apologies, Master. My thieves were just—t-they’re prone to being…thorough.”

I laugh. Oh, it hurts—that was a bad idea. It turns into a pained cough, and it takes me a second to stop. Ow. “It’s fine,” I manage, “Better safe than sorry, right?” Oh shit. Hurriedly, I tap my coms. “Da Vinci? Roman?

My Caster tilts her head, watching.

Shit. No response, and no sound. Worried now, I take off the earpiece and study it.

“…What is that? –I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” Scheherazade hurries to add.

“It’s uhm—a communicator,” I reply, squinting at it. The little audio speaker and the backing case are gunked up with something. What on—oh! It’s that powder. Shit, was that thing smart enough to know I was on coms? I’m kind of impressed.

“Broken?” asks Scheherazade.

“No—no, I don’t think so,” I say on delay, blowing on it and watching some of the powder disperse with relief, “I think I just need to clean it. If not, I can probably rig that up,” I add, indicating the amplifier I used to summon her.

“R…Right,” she replies, looking from one device to the other. Hesitantly, Scheherazade then glances down the dark earthen tunnel, and at the hole I broke through the adjoining wall. “…Master, why was I summoned? Where are we?”

I feel bad. She sounds so nervous, like she thinks I’ll punish her for asking questions.

It’s honestly sickening, now that I have time to think about it. I know I didn’t have any real options, but I hate the heroic spirit summoning system more than anyone else I’ve ever met—I lost everything just trying to get off it and to the afterlife. I know firsthand the horrors of being summoned to fight and die for strangers whose interest don’t align with your own, and treat you like an object or a slave, over and over again, or worse, force you to commit acts that will haunt you forever. I can’t believe I summoned someone else. I mean—she’s not the first—I also summoned Da Vinci and Makeda, I suppose, but, both absolutely wanted to be here. Scheherazade seems scared. Though, if she didn’t want to be here, why answer the summons? I had no real catalyst—none tied to her, anyway. Yeah, hey, wait. What the hell. Why didn’t I get a family member? Even a distant relative would have made way more sense than her. Was Ab just wrong? I guess, since my body is new, maybe my blood doesn’t work as a catalyst anymore, and he was? I’m certainly still Jewish, but I guess I have less than no real clue what ‘Romani Archaman’s’ specific biological lineage is. He looks a lot like I did, and like Abba still does, so, I suppose I just assumed he was right when he yelled at me over this. It does seem weird, to look a good bit like myself, and not have any genetic linking. Still, the grail cursed me in every single stupid way it seems to have been able to grasp at. I suppose giving me false hope by making me look like my family, but have no direct lineage in this new body, isn’t entirely off-brand…

“…I’m sorry.” Scheherazade is looking at the ground sadly now. “I would never intend to pry. I am only out of my depth, and seeking to do a better job for you, Master.”

Oh shit. I totally ignored her. Man, I really am concussed, aren’t I?

“—Oh—no, it’s alright,” I say hurriedly, although my voice sounds kind of weirdly slurred in my ears for a moment, “I uh—I think I’m a bit concussed.”

She looks alarmed by this, and quickly checks the back of my head.

“—You asked where we are, right?” I say, trying to remember, and a little alarmed I’m not 100% sure I do, “Peru, in the year 2017,” I answer, starting with what I know, “More immediately…I’m really not sure. I ended up sort of teleported down here when I arrived. That’s why I summoned you—I need help, getting out.”

“Out?” she asks, producing a scarf and pressing it gently to the wound on the back of my head.

“Yes,” I say, “We’re underground. More than 100 feet. I haven’t been able to sense high enough yet to find the surface. But, you’re a Caster-“ I realize suddenly, “Do you think you can?”

She smiles apologetically and then nods. “I will do my best.” Thousands of little butterflies and beetles, and a small, smoke-like creature I don’t recognize, appear from her lamp and vanish down the tunnel—I assume to scout it.

It should not have taken so long to think about how she could do that. “Hey—how bad does my head look?” I ask, a little more concerned now.

“…Well,” she says uncertainly, “It is not my specialty, but while you are bleeding, and you have a nasty bump, the cut is not deep, and I see no skull. H-How does your head feel? Are you having any trouble staying awake?”

“No,” I reply. That does sound like a concussion is pretty possible though. I reach up to feel my head myself, and my hand moves slow, and wrong. I stop, and look at my hand, flex my fingers. My motions come stunted, and weak. What…?

“And…the general situation I have been summoned for, Master?” asks my Caster tentatively, apply gentle pressure to my wound, “This is no grail war, and I was given no set of rules, or framework on summoning. Why a personal summon for me? I-If it is not imprudent to ask it.”

“No…it’s…” My vision blurs. I…I’m so dizzy. This…it’s not just blood loss…is it? “S…I’m sorry…” I manage stuntedly, “…something’s wrong. …I can’t….”

“Master?”

I don’t know what happened. I’m laying on the ground. I was just sitting up—I’m sure of it. But I see the cave roof above me now, and Scheherazade looking down at me with big, frightened eyes.

“Mnh…” I moan, pain radiating up from my lungs and across my body. “…Sh…erazade…this—powder.”

It’s all I can manage. My throat feels like it’s closing up on me.

“Powder?” she echoes, looking around for it. I guess she must see some on the ground, because she says, “From the monster?”

“p…son,” I choke out. I try to get up, but I can’t—I can’t move at all. My head feels wrong. I…think…

….

…

..

…

….Nhhhhn….what…happened? I…I should really…check in with…with Da Vinci and…me…Need…to see how…Ritsuka is doing…

Everything hurts, and feels wrong at the same time. There is a stabbing, tingling pain, like the agonizing pins and needles stabs of a leg that’s fallen asleep when you try to stand, only, I feel it everywhere.

What’s going on?

I open my eyes, and all I see is dirt.

Oh right…the tunnel.

That’s okay then. That’s where I’m supposed to be. There’s…some reason I shouldn’t just go back to sleep, though. I can’t remember what it is, but…?

Through blurry vision, I can make out my Caster kneeling over me, holding my arm. That…stings, I think, twitching at the stimuli. It…feels wrong.

‘Caster?’ I try to say, but when I try, I realize I can’t move my jaw. I can’t move my tongue.

“C-Caster…?” I try in my head instead.

She looks surprised, and pauses what she’s doing to look down at my face.

No, that…that’s wrong. She said her…her name is…Scheherazade.

“Master,” she replies out loud, “Are you awake now?”

“Yes,” I reply in my head. My breathing is labored. Why does it hurt so much—what happened? I can’t…I don’t remember. “W…What happened to me?”

“That creature, the Pishtaco, I’ve learned they’re called,” she replies gently, “It carries a powder made of bones, to paralyze victims. Don’t worry! It will eventually wear off—I have already assessed it. But, you probably won’t be able to move or talk for a little bit. …C-Can you? Move, or talk?”

Can I…? I wonder in a daze. I try to raise a hand, and nothing happens. I tell my brain to open my mouth, and again, no response. When I push, I can get a little sound out of my throat, but it’s just a weak moan of pain.

“I…I can’t,” I tell her in my head, “I can think—a-although I’m a little dizzy. But I can’t even move my fingers.”

“That’s alright,” she says, looking a little relieved, “Don’t worry. It will wear off in maybe an hour or so, from what I can tell.”

An hour? That… “How long was I out?” I ask.

“A good while,” she replies, “Maybe thirty minutes. …My scouts returned.”

“That’s good,” I say to her through the mental connection, “Did they find a way out?”

She hesitates, pursing her lips, and idly runs a finger along the back of my hand. Ow.

Again, I twitch in pain at the sensation. Is this from stabbing my palm on the spike? No—I-I thought that was my left hand.

“…We’re deep underground,” she says finally, sounding worried, and sorry. Her eyes are turned away, and so heavily lidded, they almost look shut. “Do you know what Uku Pacha is?”

“I…think so,” I reply. It’s hard to focus. The pins and needles pain is ever-present and difficult to bear. Come on. Try. Okay. “…It’s the Underworld, of the Inca.”

“Yes,” she replies out loud.

For a moment, there is only silence.

She…can’t actually mean we’re…

“We’re not dead,” I say, because I’m pretty sure of it.

“We are in the land of the dead,” she says quietly, “And it is splitting apart.”

“Splitting?”

She considers her words a moment, then continues. As she does, she traces her finger along my arm and hand again, and every touch brings me a little stab of pain that makes my fingers twitch. “…Something is deeply wrong here. The dead are angry. The dead are being defiled by something in the land. And the old—the very, very old dead, are on the brink of waking up. I don’t know what is going on in this place, but it is teetering on the edge of a disaster. If nothing changes…This place will crack open, and either leak out, or drag the area all around it inside itself. If the very old dead awake as well? I…” She shakes her head. “I can’t even guess…”

Scheherazade looks so sincerely worried, and her voice is soft, but the pain in my arm is getting unbearable.

“Please,” I say, “That hurts. Whatever’s wrong with my hand, I can’t take it while I’m paralyzed. It amplifies the pain too much.”

She stops, looking surprised, and sorry, and meets my gaze. “Does it hurt badly?”

“Yes,” I reply. Something’s really…off. If I could just think clearly, I’d know what it…is, but, I’m still so foggy, I…

“…Master,” she says gently, looking away again, into the middle distance as her mind goes somewhere else, “I wish you had not summoned me.” She sighs, looking very sad. Her finger hovers above the skin on my hand, but she doesn’t move it. “…I never answer a summon,” she adds sadly, almost more to herself than me, “Not if I have a choice. But, I never have a choice. …You know my story?”

Pieces are beginning to work their way through my tired brain and set, and I feel a cold fear start to settle in my stomach. “Yes,” I answer in my head quietly.

“…The threat of death was so real,” she says with a regretful smile, “For almost three years of nights. I had a child, the first year. Every month, every day, as pregnancy grew more difficult, my terror grew deeper. Terror that I would fall asleep. The day I gave birth, it was the most terrifying of all. I was so tired, Master. I had never been so tired my entire life. I had this…beautiful new, hopeful baby boy in my arms, wrapped in a bright cloth, like my life was about to begin in a new form, and I couldn’t look at him and feel joy, or love, or peace, or happiness, or hope. All I could feel, was fear. If I fell asleep that night, before reaching a point of interest in a new story, and my husband killed me in the morning, what would become of him? Would he live? Would another woman raise him, for one day and night each, the rest of his life? Would he be set in the grave with me?”

She sounds so far away, but I can hear the fear in her words even now, like ice creeping along a pond and setting into something solid and fixed.

“I had another boy, and another, and ever time…even the day I finally begged for my life, after 1002 days of living in that fear, I was holding an infant, and I didn’t know what would become of us,” she continues. Her eyes close for a moment, and her finger rests against my skin again.

The pain is immense this time. I try to scream, but I can’t open my mouth, and the sound comes out choked.

“Scheherazade, please!” I try frantically in my head, “Wait! Just listen to me! Give me a chance!”

“I finally had some peace, in my life, after those three harrowing years,” she continues, ignoring me, and as she digs her finger along the back of my hand, I can’t think clearly enough to try and communicate anymore—all I can do is try and fail to scream. I know what she’s doing now: she’s digging out the circuits in my hand. She’s taking the command spells.

“Please!” I manage. My whole body begins to jerk in response to the agony rippling down my nervous system.

“Then I died,” she says emptily. She’s no longer looking in my direction at all. “And the Throne took me. …I had done all that, for my sister. For the women who would have been taken next, for the ones already dead. Now, I’ll never see anyone again. I am trapped here. My soul is carved into that horrific cage, and I am only woken up long enough to be used by one barbaric mage after another, until it kills me.”

There is venom in her voice, and hate, but it’s so overwhelmingly swallowed by pain. Agony, loneliness, hopelessness, fear.

I know this feeling. It’s how I felt—or—or it’s another shade of the same color. I wanted to be free. I wanted to see my family. I wanted it to be over.

“I just want it to be over,” she whispers, shutting her eyes. Tears slip past them, and run down her cheeks, and when she opens them, she looks at me again finally, and she does look sorry, “But it never will be. This is it. There is no other side. There is no rest, there is nothing better. I’m trapped. Not 1001 nights. All the nights, forever, for the rest of eternity, and no matter how good a story I weave, I will still die. I will die, and I will be brought back to do it again anyway, buying time, buying time, buying time, and then slaughtered. And I do it for no one.” She begins to sob, shoulders shaking, and her dark hair spilling forward over her shoulders. “A-And my children—my sister, my father-“

She cries harder. For an instant, the pain in my hand stops, and I can breathe and think again.

“I’m—I’m sorry Scheherazade,” I tell her frantically while I have the chance, “I didn’t mean to call you! I called anyone who would answer! —I just needed help. I don’t want to hurt you-“

“You already have!” she cuts in, voice breaking, “I’m here! It’s too late, now! I will die, and the only question is how long, and how painfully! How many nights, and how hard the last will be!”

“Please, I didn’t know—I can try to help you,” I beg.

“—Liar!” she sobs, “I never answer a summon when given the choice! The Throne did not send me, so you must have used a catalyst!”

“I didn’t!” I plead, because I really didn’t! She can’t believe me, though, and her finger returns to the skin of my hand and a sensation like I’ve been stabbed tears through me. “Please! I’m not lying!”

“And now,” she continues, ignoring me again, no longer actively crying, but silent tears still running down her face, “You have called me to the Underworld, and it is full of hateful dead, seeking to kill and drag and trap anything they can find down here, with them. You have called me to the worst possible place.” Her voice cracks again, and her shoulders tremble. “I was not here a moment before I was hurt. That disgusting thing assaulted me, and nearly ended my life. I just---I can’t! I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t, I’m not strong enough.”

“P-Please,” I manage through the stabs of pain tearing across me as she carefully slices circuits out one at a time, “Don’t—d-don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and again, she looks it, “I don’t know you. You could be anyone. You could be good, or bad. You are a mage, but you healed my wound. You were polite. I don’t want to hurt you, but I have no other way.”

“I can protect you,” I try.

“I will never have a chance like this again,” says Scheherazade, “A Master who cannot order me to stop? I can run away. I can be free. I-I will run out of mana, and die, but I can find somewhere safe. I can put myself to sleep, and fade away. The only painless death for a spirit.” She looks at me sadly. “I know that if I stayed, you would force me to fight again. I would have to help you, with whatever has brought you to a place where the Underworld cracks apart. No matter how kind a master you might be, there is no master kinder than the world they’re trying to save.”

My heart sinks. What can I possibly say?

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, pausing her motions to place her hand on my cheek, “If I could knock you out for this, I would, but I will cause more long-term damage if I do not do this while you’re awake. I can use your brain’s active response to the pain to cut and take only what I need, nothing more. You will live. You will still be able to move your arm. All you will lose is the use of your hand.”

“Please, please don’t do this,” I beg again, trying to get her to hold eye contact as long as possible, “If you don’t want to fight, I swear; I won’t make you. I’ll never force you to do anything again. But I have two other contracted spirits—I don’t know what will happen-“

She almost smiles. “-You’re such a bad liar.”

Idiot! How can you quickly explain one mage having three?! Or not being able to call them for help? It doesn’t matter if it’s true! It sounds like absolute bullshit to me, too!

“…It makes me think you’re probably usually an honest man,” she says with regret, lowering her gaze, “…But as well as my magic works on you, you must also be nobility. And I would be a fool to trust a king…”

I try to speak, try to get out a, ‘Please,’ to see how my voice is doing, but while I can move the muscles in my throat, I can’t move my tongue or jaw at all, and the best I can do with my lips is let the tiniest crack open to let out sound, but it just comes out like, “heaee” as an exhale. Shit. Shit. Is there anything you can say without using your mouth?! Think!

“Please,” I say in my head instead, “Please. I’ll dissolve the contract—I’ll let you go. I swear; I swear on my mother, on my God. Just don’t do this.”

She hesitates and looks at me, trying to decide, and I see her begin to tear up, then finally she turns her head away. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe you. I don’t know you. And after I tried to do this, there’s no way you would let me go. I’m sorry.”

Crying, she slides her finger along the back of my hand again, and I feel her cutting away at my spells. It feels like having part of your soul cut off. My fingers jerk wildly, and I scream again. My body begins to thrash on its own as my nerves go haywire, and stab after stab of excruciating pain assaults my brain.

“Stop! I’m begging you! This will kill me!” I shout in my head as loud as I can.

“I can’t,” she whispers, shutting her eyes and turning her head away.

“Ngủ!” I shout in Vietnamese. ‘Muu’—a sound I can make entirely just in my throat. ‘Sleep’.

My second command spell tears out of my hand and into her. She shrieks and falls backwards as the spell carves into her, then drops, and goes still.

In the silence, I breathe raggedly.

Thank you. Thank you, God. It worked.

But for how long?

That’s the real question. I have to be able to speak before she wakes up again, or I’m done. I guess…I do have one last command seal, but if I use it, I have no reason for her not to kill me.

Focus.

Ignoring the pain in my hand, I shut my eyes and focus on my breathing. In, out. Steady. Deep.

I turn my focus internal, and begin willing my pathetic trickle of mana towards my head and neck. Heal. Come on.

After a few minutes of focused concentration, I can move my tongue a little. Good. Good. Keep it up.

This stuff can’t last forever, and I don’t need it to be clear—I just need it to be wearing off enough, and I’m halfway there.

As I wait out the clock in this dismal, stinking dirt pit of a hallway, I turn my head and look at the Caster I summoned. She’s crumpled motionless on the ground, still bloody from the earlier fight, and face still wet with tears. She looks so…pathetic, and helpless there, her finery all spattered with blood, and her neck bruised and bloody. Her long, ebony hair is spattered with mud now, her veil torn.

I’m sorry, I think, watching her still features, I really didn’t mean to summon you, Storyteller. But, I did. So, however it happened, I’m responsible for it now.

What did she say? ‘No master, no matter how kind, is ever kinder than the world they’re trying to save’?

I think about that, a lot, as the minutes tick from five to fifteen. Finally, I get enough motion back that I can move an arm. It’s floppy, like trying to use motor control right after heavy anesthesia, but I can do it. After another ten minutes, I manage to drag myself to the wall and slump against it. There’s no way I can stay upright on my own, but this is better than nothing. She’s still out. I’m more than a little surprised.

Hell of a command spell, I think, looking at the one remaining bright red mark on my hand. She’s a high class heroic spirit, and she’s been out almost half an hour. Huh…

I need to contact Chaldea, but no way I can clean out the coms unit before this wears off, and I’m not even sure where it is right now. I’m in no condition to search so for the next almost twenty minutes either, so all I have left to do is think, and wait.

Nnnh…what…?

Groaning, I open my eyes and blink, trying to remember what’s going on.

There is a man a few feet away, sitting and watching me. He wears white, stained red with blood, and his peach hair is disheveled and dirty, strands of it stuck to his face with sweat and blood.

On the back of his hand, is a bright red command spell.

No.

Terror shrieks through me with unprecedented power and speed as I realize what happened; I fell asleep.

My breath catches in my throat, and I jolt up to my arms, then realize I can’t run—I—I can’t do anything. He’s going to kill me. I fell asleep halfway through, and he’s going to kill me.

Quaking with fear, I lower myself back down and bury my face under my arms.

What can I do? I—I can’t do anything—I’m—I could plead—I wasn’t going to kill him, maybe—no, speaking will make it worse. No! What can-?!

“Scheherazade.” It’s my Master’s voice. The poison has worn off then, and I have no chance.

Heart pounding in my ears, body trembling, I force myself to uncover my head, and look up at him from the ground.

His face is so serious, and grim, spattered with blood. From the second I met him, I could feel this man had the blood of a King in him, and I can only feel it more overpoweringly now. It makes me feel like I’m taking in water with every breath, and I’ll drown just by staying in his presence.

“I’m sorry I forced you to sleep, after what you’d just told me,” he says quietly, “It was the only command I could think of that gave me a chance to survive, and I could say without being able to move my mouth.”

I gape at him, wide-eyed, in terror. I-Is he mocking me? I don’t-

“I’m not angry,” says the King. His eyebrows lift in the middle, like he’s concerned. Why is he saying this? What is he trying to do?

Grimacing in pain, my Master leans up a little. “I understand, why you did it. And I’m truly sorry that I summoned you. I didn’t mean to do it—I have been thinking about it for almost an hour now, and I’m still not sure how I could have. I used my blood as a catalyst, and at least as far as I know, I have no relation to you at all.”

I don’t understand. He sounds sincere, but that isn’t how summons work. Why is he lying now?

"I'm sure you will have trouble believing me,” he says, looking at the ground for a moment and smiling sadly, then focusing back on me, “I just don’t know what else to say. As unbelievable as that is, it’s the truth. I really was—am, contracted to two other spirits as well, but I’m cut off from them here. I’ll explain whatever I can, and answer any questions you have, but even with almost an hour to think about it, I don’t know how to begin this conversation with you. Everything happening to me is so…bizarre, so outlandish, it all sounds like a fever dream when I say it out loud.”

I feel completely at a loss. He’s smiling, and his face and voice are gentle, but that’s all wrong. I can feel his strength and power, his authority. Why behave this way? What is he hoping to trick me into? I don’t understand.

“Please,” he says, and my head echoes with the sound of him desperately begging the same word, helpless on the ground. Unsteadily, he holds out his hand.

I flinch, and shut my eyes.

“Get up; I won’t hurt you,” he promises, “I meant what I said. I’m sorry for how you were summoned. I’m not going to punish you for attacking me before; I understand why you did it. Although I have no idea how I caused this, if you say you were forced into the summon, I believe you. Accident or no, that’s my responsibility now. I’m sorry you were hurt.”

Sick with anxiety, and very afraid of saying the wrong thing, I make myself open my eyes, and I shakily straighten up until I am kneeling before him. I lift my chin and force myself to look up into his eyes.

He’s smiling at me, as if he’s sorry. His hand is still extended. I-I’m not sure what he wants me to do; does he want me to take it?

“Please, say something,” he asks worriedly.

I don’t understand. I can sense the blood of a king in him. This man is very strong, deep down, no matter what he looks like. He’s a human, worse, a mage. I just tried to betray my Master and run. I don’t understand.

“…M-Master,” I whisper, then falter, unsure what to say.

“You don’t need to call me that,” he says, looking down with a tinge of regret, “I wish I’d introduced myself more properly. If I’d only reexamined my priorities, we might have avoided all this.” Meeting my gaze again he adds, “Please, call me Romani, or Doctor Archaman.”

“Doctor Archaman,” I choke out, voice quivering, “I…I’m s-so sorry. Please. S-“

“—I told you already,” he cuts me off, voice friendly and soft, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to kill you, either.”

I feel myself tear up, and try to choke it back.

“What’s wrong?” he asks worriedly.

“Please don’t torture me,” I whisper, shutting my eyes. I feel tears spill out, and I can’t hold them back.

“S-Stop trying to come up with horrible things I haven’t said yet I won’t do!” he says in distress, “Scheherazade, I swear; I’m not going to do anything bad to you. I won’t. Please, open your eyes.”

I force myself to swallow and I do.

He studies me for a moment, then stretches the hand he still holds out closer to me. “Please, listen to me, alright? I know you’re in a horrible situation. I know I got you hurt, and then I did something cruel, to save my life. I truly didn’t want this. You said you didn’t want to hurt me, right? When you were cutting out my command spells.”

I flinch, and look away.

“—No, please, look at me,” he begs.

I do. His eyes are bright and clear, not like any king I’ve ever seen before. But, they’re also hunted. They…they look the way my eyes look to me, when I see myself in a mirror now.

“I believe you. I know you didn’t want to, and I know you were telling the truth about trying to hurt me as little as you could. What I did to you, I did for the same reason; I ended up here on accident, against my will, and I want to survive. So, please. Let’s start over.” His arm is starting to shake from effort, but he keeps it up. I guess the poison hasn’t entirely worn off. “I meant everything I said to you. If you want me to dissolve your contract, I will. That’ll kill you, though—not quickly, but, you’ll run out of energy, and vanish. If that’s the best I can offer you, though, I’ll do it. Here and now.”

“…Why?” I ask him, trying to believe, and finding it impossible, “I…”

“You bandaged my head,” says the King, gesturing to the hair scarf I took off to bind his head wound. It’s still in place. “You did that after I lost consciousness. After I was helpless. Probably, after you’d decided to take my spells and run. You knew when I woke up, there would be a miniscule chance I’d be able to speak, but you didn’t take the spells in that half hour I was unconscious, and you didn’t seal my mouth shut, because you knew as much pain as I was about to be in, I was likely vomit as a reaction, like people usually do when tortured, and if I did that gagged, I would choke on it, and die.”

My eyes widen, and my pulse quickens again. How can he possibly know that? I-I didn’t say anything.

“I was a stranger, and a human, and a mage. I was a threat,” he continues evenly, voice almost calming, “But you stopped my bleeding, and you kept my airways clear. You were kind, and understanding. You explained your reasons, and you waited until I was conscious to do it, so you could see which circuits activated my seals, and only cut out the part of me you had to. Usually, when a mage steals spells, at best they take the entire arm.”

His words freeze me in place. I knew he was strong, but I had no idea how quick he was. I feel completely cornered.

Since I still haven’t moved, my Master finally lowers his arm and unsteadily drags his body forward, motions stunted, then reaches for my hand. I shiver at the touch, but I force myself not to pull away. Gently, he lifts my right hand in his, and places his left on top of it.

“Scheherazade, you are not a cruel and treacherous servant, or a coward. You’re unreasonably kind, for one the world has been so merciless to.”

Stunned by his words, I look up at him. Past the blood and dirt smeared across his worn face, there is nothing but sincerity and respect in his bright eyes.

“You could easily have killed me, or hurt me, and gotten away. The only reason I won, was because you held back, just in case I didn’t deserve it,” he says, “Thank you. Please, let me return your kindness.”

“…Who are you?” I ask, searching his face.

“I can’t answer that fully somewhere like this, with ears,” he says, holding my gaze, “But I haven’t lied to you about myself. I’m Doctor Romani Archaman, a member of the Chaldea Security Organization. I’m here trying to fix the thing you sensed down here, and anything else dangerously wrong in the area. I’m trying to keep the world safe. I’m also a lot more like you than I can explain. But, I hope you can believe that.”

For the first time, I do.

I shouldn’t—I know I shouldn’t, but. …But everything he’s said that I know the accuracy of, has been true. And if this man wanted me dead, or punished, I would be helpless already to stop him.

“I do,” I whisper.

He smiles, a real, massively relieved, slightly awkward smile. It’s…the least intimidating he’s looked since he was unconscious.

“Thank you,” he says, like he means it, and he gives my hands a very gentle squeeze, “Now.”

Exhaling, he hesitates long enough to give the horrible dirt tunnel an unhappy look, then turns his focus back to me.

“I’m trapped down here, and I want to get out. I have people who need me topside. If you are willing to help me navigate, I would be deeply in your debt, Queen Scheherazade,” says the man, bowing his head to me like a royal envoy, “I am injured, and desperate, and alone. I need help.”

No one who has…ever summoned me has called me ‘Queen.’ I think no one remembers I was given that title, by the end of it. I am always seen as the prisoner, struggling desperately to survive. Not the woman who lived.

“However,” he continues, looking back up, and giving me an apologetic smile, “It does not have to be you, my Queen. I can try to summon again, once I regain some strength. I know this is not your fight, and you are here against your will. I won’t keep you as a prisoner. If it’s your wish, I will release you from your contract, and let you pass back on to the Throne.”

I wonder, if he means that. I wish I could sense truth, like he seems able to. But, that’s not the kind of magic I know.

Would you really, foreign King? I think, thoughts racing, imagining every possibility they can, Even with a world to save?

“If you choose to stay, I can’t promise we won’t be attacked,” he continues, and his face falls a little. I can see him thinking hard before he continues, and when he does, his voice is quieter, more subdued. “Actually, I’m certain I will be. And you may be hurt. You may be killed.”

I feel a shiver run down my spine, but I keep my eyes on his.

“All I can promise,” continues the King, “Is that I will do everything in my power to keep you safe and alive. If you are hurt, you won’t be hurt alone, and if you die, it will be over my own dead body. I can’t promise you more, because that’s everything I have to offer, but if you take it, I will never betray you, or leave you behind.”

For a moment, I stay quiet, watching the lantern light flicker in his eyes.

“…No one has ever spoken like that to me before,” I say quietly, lowering my gaze finally, and looking at the back of his hand. It is not in my nature to trust people anymore, but I have been given a stronger reason than I knew could exist. “Alright, then….” I say, looking up into his eyes again. For a moment, I see a flicker of fear in them. He’s not sure what I’ll do.

Which means he doesn’t have the conceit of a manipulator. That was the fervent appeal of a man giving it everything he’s got.

Which means…he really is just asking for my help.

My lingering doubts mostly fade around me, and I place my left hand on top of his, then look up into his face and give him my own shaky smile. “Very well, my King; I accept. As long as you keep your word, and protect me, I will do whatever else I can to help you escape.”

“Oh thank heaven,” he says rapidly in an exhale, and then he laughs weakly and gives me a friendly smile, “Alright. With that out of the way, do you think you could help me walk? The poison’s mostly worn off, but I have the motor control of partygoer one shot away from blackout drunk.”

I laugh in spite of myself, and give a nod. “Of course, -“ I stop, because I was going to say ‘Master,’ but he’s asked me twice now not to call him that. “—Doctor,” I decide instead after an awkward two seconds, and I help him up, still feeling a little shaky myself.

“Uh—could you grab my staff for me?” asks the Doctor, pointing to where it fell, “It’s sort of my only form of self-defense right now, and if I’m going to be fighting monsters, I’d like to have something with me.”

I nod, and lean him gently against the wall, then go retrieve it.

“—Oh—my communicator,” he adds like he’s almost ashamed of himself, “And the—”

He looks past me, to the little pool of black blood in the back of this tunnel, and he stops, gaping. Oh…of course…

“Uhm,” I say, voice quivering, “I’m afraid I uh. Well—I wasn’t sure how those worked, and I didn’t want you to call your people and tell them what I’d done, so I’m afraid I…snapped them both in half.”

“…” He stares at the broken metal stake at the edge of the pool, face blank and skin ashy, “…S-So you did.”

“I’m terribly sorry!” I try, anxiously handing him his staff, “I— …”

“…Well, okay,” he says, like he’s working through this, “Uh—that happened. …Maybe I can fix them, when we’re somewhere safer. You just snapped them—you didn’t grind them to dust, so, it’s at least not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Y-Yes! I didn’t do anything extreme,” I say, hurrying to gather the four broken pieces of equipment. I brush as much dirt and blood off them as I can, then present them to him.

He still looks a little shaken, but he takes the pieces and looks them over, then gives me a faint smile. “This isn’t so bad, actually. I think I can at least repair the bigger one.”

That’s such a relief. After the way he’s behaved, I feel more and more ashamed of my actions.

“Alright,” says the Doctor, rallying. He gets the pieces into his little backpack, then grips the stick in his left hand, and gives me a nod. Anxious, I put his right arm around my shoulder, and help him begin to walk. “…Do you know which way to go?” he asks.

“Yes. I saw all of the nearby areas with my scouts,” I answer, “I will take us towards the surface, in the most direct and least-dangerous way I can.”

“There’s a way up?” he asks, excited and surprised, “I-I mean, a pre-existing one?”

I nod. “This was a place for the dead to rest. Tombs always have an opening, even ones like this. Otherwise, the dead could not cross. This place has many openings, but they are not all ones a living human can use. -But that’s alright. There are several meant for the living. One is not too far.”

“Thank you, Scheherzade,” he says sincerely, and he looks at me with respect, as if I am a peer, “I really…really needed you. I think I would be dead down here alone.”

“You are welcome,” I reply quietly, thinking through his words. He’s a very strange man.

For a while, we travel in silence. The Doctor seems too weak to spend energy speaking—honestly, from the visible effort on his face with every step, alone, I’m amazed he’s able to keep going like this at all.

I know I’m taking a tremendous amount of his mana. It’s strange…I—I can’t figure him out. He’s…so weak. But he’s not—I can feel it. I can always tell if I am with someone who is royalty, and I know this man is a King, or—the son of a King, maybe. He’s something. A Chieftain, an Emperor, a Sultan? Yet he’s introduced himself as a doctor, and I don’t think he was lying. I can’t quite puzzle it out.

Why is he here? He said to deal with some threat to the world, and I suppose the dead here could be that, but, it sounded as if there was more. If he’s a King of some kind though, why is his only weapon a wooden staff? I saw his technique in that fight, and he has a flawless execution, but he was only choosing the simplest of spells to use. He was… --it’s like watching a world-class vocalist sing a child’s song. I don’t understand. Why does he have so few circuits? Even if he was an average human, and my sense of his lineage is wrong, he would still have an almost impossibly low number of circuits in his body. The statistical odds alone are…

It doesn’t make any sense.

I watch him for a moment. He’s so tired now, he doesn’t even seem to notice. His eyes are half glazed-over, and sweat runs down the side of his face with every step. He’s a very beautiful man, but there is nothing elegant about how he’s dressed. He’s dressed like a Doctor. And he doesn’t…he doesn’t smell of blood like a mage, either. Back when I was summoned, I couldn’t tell—the stench of that black pool of blood was so strong to me, I couldn’t even smell the bloodlust of that monster over it. But, now that we’re away from it, I can tell he doesn’t smell of blood at all.

And he was speaking Hebrew. I knew the language—even before becoming a spirit. But, he’s only done that for spellcraft, not in conversation at all. That can only mean it’s the language he learned magic in, and he’s doing it for maximum efficiency in his work.

Uhg! None of this makes sense to me! And the unknown is terrifying; how am I supposed to guard against that?!

I-I don’t get it. I just don’t. Am I wrong?

As we wind through this awful maze meant to keep the living and the dead apart, I find no answers. I am so sure I am correct, but I am also certain he is not hiding what he is. The only guess I can form is that he’s somehow been cursed.

He reminds me of stories, of people transformed by some spirit or monster, into an animal, or another human form—usually older, or uglier, or just very different. Often, it’s a punishment, sometimes it’s to hide them, and then, sometimes it’s just a bad roll of the dice. And that’s possible, isn’t it? Maybe something has happened to him. At least that could make all these disjointed pieces that feel so in opposition, make sense.

“…Are you alright?” The Doctor’s voice is weak and dry when he speaks, and when I glance over at him, I can see his little remaining strength is fading.

Foolish man, I think, feeling an emotion I am not accustomed to as a spirit, In another hour, like this, you will be unconscious, and at my mercy again. Doesn’t that terrify you?

And he’s asking me how I am?

“I am not flesh and blood,” I remind him gently, “Focus on yourself, Doctor.”

“You can still tire,” he disagrees with a self-effacing smile, “and I know I’m a poor source of energy for you.”

“I don’t mind,” I reply, “…But, I’m almost healed, from before, since you wish to know.”

“Good,” he says, shutting his eyes for a just a moment, and sighing.

He looks so pathetic. He’s bloody and covered in grime and sweat, his throat is bruised, and his arm shakes on the staff. I wonder, if he’s afraid too.

“Alright,” I sigh, and I stop, forcing him to stop with me. He looks at me in confusion.

“Is something wrong?” asks the Doctor. A little out of it, and moving with the jerky movements of a man upon waking, he raises his staff and steps in front of me, looking for danger up ahead.

He really means to try, doesn’t he? I reach up from behind and place a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright. Nothing is wrong. You are simply too exhausted to continue, and we both need you to replenish energy so we can heal.”

“…” He thinks quickly, looking increasingly distressed. “…No—we can’t. There could be more of those things down here.”

“Master,” I say coaxingly, forgetting he told me not to call him that until it’s too late, and I turn him to face me, “If you continue to force your body onward, you will die. You are already badly damaged. And if you die, I will lose my anchor, and die as well. Did you not swear to do everything you could to protect my life?”

“-I’m stronger than I look,” he says, giving the hall in both directions a dubious look, “and I can’t just leave you alone here while I sleep.”

“You are not that strong,” I argue, calling his bluff, “And you will not be leaving me ‘here,’ exactly. While I would have loved to get past the maze, we are along one of the far walls, near a dead-end. There is no reason for anything to come here. I can at all times sense the safest place around me, and in this maze, this is it. I will hide us from any enemies, and I will keep watch. Something would have to trip over us to find us here, and if somehow something does, when I feel it coming, I will wake you. Besides that, I will rest too.”

Persuasive as I am, he considers this place again, still not certain, taking in the carvings, the pressure, the horrific miasma. “…Are you sure?” He looks so worried. I can’t decide if it’s funny, sad, or sweet.

Maybe it’s all those things, and more.

“I’m sure,” I promise, “…May I?”

Torn, he hesitates, and then finally, looking defeated, he gives me a nod.

I shut my eyes and picture a mental landscape, a safe place, a last bastion; a room, with a door that can close and lock, and windows, to see threats coming. A bedroom to retreat to and curl up in. A place to stay alive.

Territory creation is easy for all Casters, but it’s nature to me. I’m a conjurer, and I was, in a way, even back when I was alive.

Around us, the hall transforms into a bedroom. There are stone walls with a few slit windows like an Archer would use—to keep an eye on the hall ahead—but otherwise, the area is closed. Glowing lanterns hang above and cast warmth and intricate shadows, and plants climb the walls, filling the area with the fresh scent of flowers and myrrh. A colorful rug with woven patterns that tell the story of a girl transformed into a bird covers the floor. Pillows and cushions line the edges of the walls, with a low table built against one, holding a pitcher and a plate of bread and fruit. In the center of the room, a large square bed sits, posts holding a canopy above it, with bright blue gauze and pink trim, royal blue blankets, and silver-stitched pillows.

I hear an exhale from the Doctor, and I glance at his face to see genuine wonder there. It makes me feel proud. This is generally not a trick my Master finds impressive or useful, let alone amazing.

“This is beautiful,” he says in almost a whisper, and he smiles at me, “Your territory?”

I nod.

“It’s very comforting. Usually panic rooms look like a prison to me. This…it reminds me a little of my mother’s room, when I was a child…” I’m not sure he meant to say that. I’m not even sure, from the distracted, almost feverish way he looks, that he’s aware he has.

“Alright, Doctor,” I say gently, placing a hand on his arm and maneuvering him towards the bed, “It’s time for you to rest.”

A little out of it, he lets me. “How does it work?” he asks, gaze still on the room around us as I sit him down.

I consider using my abilities on him to coax him to take off his filthy coat, but I’m afraid as keen as he is, he might notice, and distrust my motives. Better not…

“It takes and transforms the nearby energy, into a workshop—which in my case, is a room like that,” I reply, kneeling and going to remove his muddy shoes, “The cost is low already, but transforming nearby energy supplements that, and cleanses the area. You’ve noticed the way even the air here feels oppressive to breathe—”

“—Oh you don’t need to do that,” he says apologetically as he finally notices what I’m doing when his shoe is halfway off, “—Sorry.” Bumbling over himself, he tugs off his formerly white boots. “—Uhm—but yeah—I know what you mean, about the air.”

I sit back on my knees and watch him. “That miasma is an element of this area, but in here, it doesn’t exist; I’ve transmuted it into stones and cloth, and as the area outside naturally sustains and replenishes its properties, I will continue to absorb them on contact and use it to sustain my own. –Could you take off your jacket too? And the pack?”

“—Hm?” he asks, and I can almost see the wariness starting to spike in him.

“—It’s just,” I hurry, and I pick up the edge of his coat, which is still soaked in a half-dried mixture of mud and blood, and show it to him.

Bending forward on the edge of the bed, he grimaces at it. “Ah. Yeah…” As he takes in his state for real, I think he relaxes a little. It’s an innocent enough request; he is truly filthy.

Awkwardly, he pulls off the pack, wincing, and I stand up to help him maneuver it, and then the coat, off. The coat clings to his stomach, and he has to be gentle with it, trying not to tear at the shirt and the wound beneath it, as he gets it free.

“From the outside, my workshop will look simply like the dead end of this tunnel. It has bounded fields to conceal sound, smell, magic—anything inside here that something out there might sense as unusual,” I continue as I help him, “It is completely hidden from the outside world. If something by chance were to bump into it, they would simply think it is a dirt wall where the tunnel ends. Even if a noble phantasm were fired at it from close range, it will absorb the shot itself, protecting anyone inside—even an EX rank Phantasm will only shatter it, not breach beyond, on the first hit. -Impractical for battle, of course, given the time it takes to cast, but a very good place to rest.”

“I’ll say,” he agrees with genuine interest, “This is truly impressive.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking his pack and coat, “I will clean these for you while you rest.”

“—Oh—You don’t have—”

“—It’s very easy,” I reassure him, setting them on a stool for the moment, “I’m a Caster, remember?”

He looks a little torn. I guess he’s intelligent enough to not entirely relax, even around someone who has agreed to help him. And I did already maliciously break some of his equipment…

“…That’s very kind of you. And honestly, I would really appreciate it,” he offers with a sigh, reaching up—I think to rub his temple—but stopping when his fingers meet the scarf I bandaged him with earlier. He draws his hand back and gives me a very, pathetically sad look. “You’re not my servant though-“

“-What?” I say, genuinely taken aback. Am I being dismissed?!

“—Oh, noo—no I mean,” he fumbles, “—not my literal servant—not an attendant? –Y-You don’t have to wait on me!”

His face is flushed. He still looks half-feverish, and half-dead. Incredible he still has enough strength to work ‘embarrassed’ in there too.

I laugh without meaning to, almost under my breath, and walk back over to the bed. “I won’t, then. But you need help right now. When I need help, you can wait on me.”

I’m not sure that answer pleases him, but he doesn’t argue—he just looks mildly distressed.

“Water?” I offer, trying to distract him.

He starts to say something, then sighs, and accepts the jug I bring over. “Thank you, Highness.” He relaxes a little with the words. “…You’re a very kind person.”

I think he is too, but I’m not sure yet, and I can’t afford to be wrong, so I don’t say it.

“What about you? I know you don’t need to eat and drink to live, but you must be tired too—has your wound finished healing now?” he asks with concern.

“It has,” I agree, moving the scarf around my neck, to show him.

He beckons me closer, so I kneel and place my arms on the edge of the bed, then hold still as he inspects it with the focus of a real doctor.

I know this was my idea, but I am suddenly nervous again. I know this man has truly done nothing to hurt me since summoning me here, and his words seem sincere, but kneeling by the bed, alone with him, I am enveloped by the sense of just how fearsome and overpowering a King this man must be. The magic tied to my spirit core is screaming at me that he can in no way be some normal, human doctor, and I should flee from him. It makes me want to cower at his feet, or run away the moment his back is turned. I don’t know how to reconcile the feeling, with the person I am experiencing firsthand, who seems as meek as a puppy, and as gentle as wetnurse.

“It does look healed,” he says after a moment, with such sincere relief, and even sickly as he is, he gives me a friendly smile. “If your bite felt the way mine did, I only wish we had a couple of self-geas scrolls on us, because that tongue is a sensation I’d love to forget.”

That’s so incredibly accurate. I also would love not to remember it.

“You should still rest though. I know I can’t supply you with a normal amount of mana, so please tell me if you think of something I can do to supplement it. My only real hope so far, is that it’ll get better the closer we get to the land of the living,” he says with chagrin.

“…Doctor,” I say uncertainly, still leaning against the edge of the bed, and watching him, “could I ask you about something, now that we are somewhere the world cannot hear?”

“Oh,” he says, I guess remembering what he told me earlier, and he looks more than a little worried, but he nods. “Go ahead.”

I consider saying something like, ‘My magic works supremely well on you, so I know you’re royalty,’ because I think he’s likely to lie to me if I don’t give him proof, but, I’m also not sure I want to tip my hand that way. After a moment, I settle for, “…As a heroic spirit, I can sense when someone near me is…like Shahryar.”

“I give off that impression?” he says, looking dismayed.

I have to work to not laugh, and to remain serious. “No—not ‘like him’ as a person. Like him in power—a King. Royalty.”

The Doctor’s face drains of color.

I was right.

Why doesn’t he want me to know that? Alarms sound inside my head, and I seriously consider aborting this conversation entirely, just to be safe.

No. …He’s weak, and he’s feverish right now—I have seen how cunning he is. If he is a threat, this will be the best opportunity I have left to act. Once he is recovered, I will have no edge at all. I need to know.

“…You seem normal,” I say slowly, watching his face with great care, “Your circuits are poor quality, and few. You dress as a civilian. Your manner…is like a doctor. And yet, I can also feel…the rest of you. Under the surface.”

He listens quietly. His face remains bloodless, and I can sense his heart beating fast, but his muscle do not tense for a fight—I am watching for that. His expression becomes more worried and beaten, than angry or on guard. When he thinks over my words, I do not get the sense he is planning an attack.

“…Your question is, ‘who am I’?” he asks.

I nod.

For a long minute and ten seconds, he considers this again, and then he pushes himself up off the bed, wincing, and lowers himself next to it, so he is kneeling beside me. I find this somewhat alarming at first, but all he looks, when he comes to rest opposite me, is worried.

“I will tell you, Queen Scheherazade, if you want to know,” he says carefully, choosing words like footholds on cracking ice, “But, there is something I am dealing with—fighting, really, and knowing about this is dangerous. If you let what you know slip, and he becomes aware…everything will fall apart. Right now, he’s trying to destroy everything—time itself. The past. Humanity. The future.”

That almost sounds nice. I don’t want anyone to suffer, but if there were no humans left, surely the throne would cease to exist, and we would all finally be free to rest, and see our families again. I could be free.

“My daughter,” he adds, and the distress in his eyes is so evident and real, I immediately feel guilty at my previous thought.

Dunyazade, my little sister. My sons, my daughter. Of course he wants to keep his child alive. The suffering I went through for three years, I did so the women around me could live normal lives, to their natural conclusion, especially Dunyazade. For me, they’re all safely in the past now—at rest, out of reach, in their afterlife. But his isn’t there yet.

“Do you still want to know?” asks the Doctor, “And if you do, can you swear to me you’ll keep it to yourself?”

I…

I don’t…want to betray him. His eyes are so fervent, and full of pain. I keep remembering the way he said, ‘This is going to kill me,’ in my head, before fighting back. Like death was the only line he couldn’t let me cross. …And…a part of me, a significant part of me, is afraid that if he tells me the truth, I…will find some reason, to betray him. I think…I think I do not trust myself.

“…Could you,” I try hesitantly, faltering as I speak, “Could you tell me what you are? Without telling me your identity?”

Surprised, he thinks about that, then says, “I can do my best.”

“Do that, then. For the rest, I…I would need to think,” I reply.

“…Alright,” he says, “…You were correct. I uh. –I’m not a king. Not anymore. But, I was. I was a king, who left his mark on humanity, and after my death, I was claimed by the throne.”

His voice has quickly become quiet, and sad.

“…I won a grail war. I was granted a wish. …I felt a lot like you,” he continues, and he sighs. The guilt carved into his face is hard to even comprehend, “…I missed my family. I was tired, of the cruelty of mages who summon us and treat us like animals. I was tired of being forced to do things against my heart. I was tired of having no future. I just wanted to go home.”

His voice is very quiet on the last line, but I hear it.

I feel a pang in my chest.

“…I was given a last life,” he says, finally looking back at me again, with eyes sadder than I think I’ve ever seen in a man, “this life. When I die, I can go on, to obscurity. But, the grail is not a falling star; it’s a monkey’s paw. I’m never going to make it there. When I was removed from the Throne, something I was tied to in my first life was woken up, and now, it’s going to destroy everything. I have to stop it. I-I’m trying to.”

Apologetic, after a second he adds, “I’m afraid that’s about all I can say, though, without explaining everything.”

“It’s quite enough,” I reassure.

So, a Hebrew king, who knows magic, and was renowned enough to be placed on the Throne of Heroes, important enough to be tied to something dangerous in death. That does not tell me who he is, but it narrows it down to very few options. From his wit and diplomacy alone, I would have thought him Solomon, but that King had one-thousand wives; I cannot imagine him a man who was very genteel, or respectful towards those like me. He would probably be a terrifying man to be around… So, then who?

I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to know, I remind myself, Unless that has changed, I should not try to figure it out, either. It erases the point of not knowing.

“Thank you,” I say, shutting the question out of my mind.

“I have to say though,” he says, giving a closed-eye, weak laugh, and rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m not exactly thrilled you could tell what I used to be, when I’m supposed to have a brand-new lease on life here. I didn’t realize something beyond my own screwing up and dropping hints was a thing I had to watch out for.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I believe I’m the only heroic spirit with this skill,” I say apologetically.

“Huh. What are the odds,” he says in the voice of a man who doesn’t believe in coincidence.

“Thank you for indulging me. It…puts my mind more at rest,” I say, hoping he will leave it at that. I stand and offer him a hand. “So please, rest now.”

He nods wearily, and lets me help him back to his feet, then flops rather unceremoniously onto the bed on his back, legs hanging off the edge at the knee, and looks up at the canopy.

“…Can you wake me, please? Let’s say…after two hours?” asks the Doctor. He fiddles with a watch on his wrist.

TWO hours? How little does he sleep?

But then, I suppose his situation is pressing, and I don’t know all of it yet. “Only two?” I ask.

“I’ve got a kid out there to take care of,” he tells me—I assume it’s the daughter he mentioned, “She’s alone, like I was – above ground, at least!” he adds, to reassure me I think, “But…”

There is such deep regret on his face.

I’ve seen him drop his guard a number of times now, and he doesn’t strike me as a liar—just…as someone who knows how to perform to survive—someone like me. My kindness to my husband was never a trick, it just was a need, not a want. This man is like that—but, every time he’s dropped his guard so far, he’s seemed a little less out of his depth, and a lot more heartbroken, than before.

“…It’s a war zone,” he says simply, turning his head to meet my gaze, “and she’s a child.”

Of course. That is simple, then.

I think if he’d given any other reason, I would have lied, and tricked him into more rest than he wanted to take, because his health is deteriorating, and he needs it. But, I understand destroying yourself for the person standing behind you, so I nod, and I mean it. “Two hours.”

Relieved, he smiles, then lays back and shuts his eyes.

I pick up his clothes, and use some simple magic to return them to a clean state, listening for his breathing to change. I can tell he’s not asleep—and I’m not surprised, as hard as sleeping under this much pressure is—but once it slows a little, into a more relaxed state, I begin to hum to myself, a poem by Ishaq al-Mawsili.

There is no real reaction from the doctor, so I begin to let magic seep into the song. I feel strange, doing this without something to hold in my hands. The absence of cloth or parchment is a missing shield. Still, I was designed for this, and I was specifically designed for using my magic on kings. He’s the ideal target.

After a few minutes, I increase the amount of suggestion and spellcraft in my voice. My words ease and lull, quiet, and reassure, and after another five minutes or so, I can tell from his breathing that he’s truly asleep.

Still humming, I go to the bed and listen carefully, just in case. The moment I’m sure, I increase the intensity of my magic astronomically, and layer on the heaviest sleeping spell I can. The man lets out a faint, worried sound, and moves his head fretfully, then is overcome, and goes still.

Relieved, I keep singing, mostly under my breath now, and conjure an hourglass. As the sand of two hours begins to fall, I carefully lift the doctor’s legs, which still hang over the side of the bed, and set them up on top. Gingerly, I circle to the far side, then climb up with him.

Alright.

Time to finally get some real answers.

With him all but dead to the world, I can finally get near enough to study him in detail and see what is truth, and what is performance.

His sleeping face is pale and covered in sweat, mud, and specks of blood. There is a faint, pleasant scent to his hair, some kind of soap, but it’s all but buried by the stink of decay in this place, and the metallic smell of blood. Placing the back of my hand against his forehead, I can feel the heat of a light fever. He is unwell then.

Careful not to hurt him, I unbutton the shirt he had on under his coat, and gingerly work it free of the dried blood on his stomach. Despite my best efforts, he makes a faint sound of pain, and frets a little in his sleep.

I can see why.

The wound itself is still fresh, unhealed—a circular tear about the size of an orange, just above his navel. The bloody surface is half-scabbed, and the skin around it inflamed and painful. A quick scan shows me that his intestines are healed, which is a relief. I suppose he must have just left the surface untreated, as it was a flesh wound, and he has such limited magic to work with.

Ah that’s right—he did the same for me, only, he slowly healed the rest of mine as we walked.

…And left his to fester.

… It’s not a serious wound, and I’m sure it will heal on its own—slowly. But it must be very painful

I break my singing to whisper, “You’re very pragmatic, Doctor, but you could be less so towards yourself.” Still, it’s reassuring to see. Very, very foolhardy, but reassuring; it means he did prioritize my safety above his, even though I’m a spirit and he’s a living man.

This is not a situation I was prepared to be in at all. I mean, I never feel prepared for a summon, and would greatly prefer to never be summoned at all, but even for me…

What should I do?

It feels so despairing, that thought. I find myself more and more inclined to believe him, but if he’s right, I am terrified of what that means. I was sure he would kill me, when I woke from that command spell. I was certain he would be a master like every other I have ever been called to serve, who would abuse and torment me, before discarding me and forcing me to lose my life. But, if he isn’t.

…

I watch his face for a moment, trying to find some kind of answer, but to what question inside me I am not sure.

He looks tired. It’s funny, in a sad way; when he was awake, he looked much more rested. He must have been trying to put a brave face even on that.

Now, he just looks like a man worked ragged, asleep on a bed. A very weak, very normal, very human person. Like anyone.

He isn’t, though.

If he’s telling the truth, he’s like me.

I don’t think…I don’t think in any world, I ever would be strong enough to win a holy grail war, but in some reality where perhaps I was impossibly lucky, I would have wished for the same thing: to escape this. To go home. To finally, finally be able to rest, without fear. Because rest with fear is not rest, it is just a different type of waiting.

And I am so tired.

I just want so badly to go home. To cross a finish line that doesn’t even exist anymore, and have done enough that I can be safe, and rest.

What a luxury, to close my eyes and not be afraid of waking up.

How sad, to so desperately wish for that of all things, and become instead a man at my mercy, who looks like this.

The world indeed is cruel, I think with a note of pity so deep in my chest it aches.

It has been so long since I was asked to be the person who could look at that truth, and be what the world will not. I hope I can still remember how.

Careful to keep singing under my breath so he will sleep well, I create some supplies, and clean the mud and blood off him the best I can, then clean and bandage his wound. I clean his shirt the way I did his other clothing, and then put it back on him. I do not wish to cross a line that might make him feel distressed, so I do what I can to use spellcraft to clean the rest of his clothes and skin without removing anything more. I’m sure it’s imperfect, but I’m also sure it’s worlds better than nothing, and it’s the best I can do. He is at least no longer soaked in blood, and the surface of his stomach wound is salved and cleaned and should begin healing. Finally, I get the muck out of his hair, and leave it brushed, then get him under a blanket, and go to sit on a cushion on the floor myself.

It's so easy. All of it. He barely fidgets while I work. If I had wanted to kill him, or to take his last spell while he was out, it would have been so easy to do.

I am in awe. The strength this man possesses to know that, and still choose to be here. I know the taste of bravery in helplessness, and it is a far cry from bravery with strength. It is unfathomably harder.

I rest on my stomach and watch this man with my chin on my arms. How can he stand it? It’s hard enough to live at all. How does he wade into a pool of terror in the pitch black night, and feel the ripples of things swimming beside him, and continue to wade?

…I wonder, how many nights it has been for him, since this began. How many days more than you should have, have you been able to live so far? And how many more do you need, to be able to finally rest. Can you see the finish line ahead? Or are you so far away, you have to take its word that an end exists at all? It must be crushing. So much power, so much experience, and trapped in a form like this, trying somehow to ignore both and find a third, better way. And why? Pity? Kindness?

…or, recognition, maybe.

You said you didn’t call me, I think, watching his sleeping face, You used your blood as a catalyst. And I can’t think of any Hebrew king I am blood kin of. But I had to come. I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

It’s a paradox.

Or, it’s a lie.

Unless, it isn’t… The more I have thought about it, the more I can see a third answer. We are in a land of the dead here, and he used a pool of the dead’s blood for the summon’s energy. So, maybe here, in a place of spirits, it was not his physical body or blood that was catalyst. Maybe, it was his spirit. Maybe…his after-life, is the most like mine. Maybe his spirit in a land of spirits, tried to call out to family, and my pain was the echo most similar.

It is true, I never say yes to a summons. I never will. I have only ever been dragged from the Throne against my will.

But, I wonder, if I had heard my own voice calling.

Perhaps I would have called back.

The half-dead man on the bed tosses weakly in his sleep, and his head lulls back, throat exposed. His pink-gold hair wreathes his face like feathers, and it makes me think of very, very old stories, as I watch his chest rise and fall.

Maybe I did.

[shadow-pixelle]

Here's a random DCxDP snippet!

Wrote this on Monday. Was gonna post it yesterday and then kinda... forgot. It's a completely disconnected snippet- that is, I have no context for what's going on here, what kind of AU it is, or much of anything else at all. Also currently have no plans to try and expand it, though I might mess with it in the future when I have time? We'll see.

Honestly 80% of the reason I'm posting this is because I sent it to Kali and absolutely devastated her with the worldbuilding, so shrug.

--

“I need you to understand,” Danny said, gripping the side of the table. Tucker put a hand on his shoulder for support, and he leaned into it slightly, being very careful to keep his focus on any Bat other than Hood. “And I mean really understand, that this isn’t just- a crime. It’s not that simple.”

“Phantom…?” Red Robin sounded confused, and slightly wary.

Danny couldn’t blame him, given the situation. Ancients, Danny had just had to give up his secret identity just to make sure he didn’t try and kidnap a Bat. Nothing about this situation was normal or reasonable.

“The Infinite Realms has a lot of beings in it.” Tucker said carefully, and Danny could kiss him for being willing to lead the conversation. “Like, a lot. And they’re all ghosts in some form. But the thing about ghosts is that they can’t be killed. They’re already dead, or- like, similar to dead? The only thing you can do to stop them is imprison them or End them.”

“And Ending someone is serious.” Sam took over, stepping forward to lean into Danny’s side. “Ending someone… nothing comes back for that. When we say Ended, we mean it. There is nothing left.”

“The previous Ghost King was a being called Pariah Dark.” Danny began, fixing his eyes on Batman for someone to focus on. “He was insane, a tyrant and a conqueror. Violent. Unwilling to compromise. Anyone who stood in his way was dealt with, one way or another. He wanted to claim everything.”

“No-one tried to stop him?”

Danny’s eyes flicked to Nightwing as Tucker laughed, raw and exhausted. “He was the Ghost King. He ruled the entire Infinite Realms. He carried the sort of power that gods dream of.”

“The Ghost King can force his word, his Rule, on pretty much every being in the Realms. As close to absolute power as you can get, in the end. Everything in the Realms is made from ectoplasm, and the Ghost King can manipulate that at levels most people can’t even start to believe. There’s only two types of beings that can even try to resist that.”

“One’s the Ancients. They’re old ghosts, the oldest you can get. Incarnations of gods, concepts, things like that. But the problem with that is that they’re also limited, kinda. They can disobey the Crown, no matter what sort of Rules it puts out, but fighting back? They can stop him, sure, that’s how Pariah Dark got sealed away the first time, but they can’t stop him being King. They can’t take the Crown, even if they win. They’re bound too much to the things they incarnate, the gods they were and are. They can’t be the Ghost King. Those ties stop them being as firmly Ruled over, but it means they can’t take the Crown away. All they can do is delay it.”

“The second,” Danny took over again from his friends, grateful for their support, as the various Bats around the room looked horrified. Afraid. And for good reason, really.

It was only going to get worse.

“The second were beings called Halfas.”

A breath.

“Halfas are the only beings in the entire Infinite Realms that aren’t entirely ecto. Not alone. They’re… well. Half.”

“Half beings.”

“Half living, half dead.”

“And because of that, they’re the Balance.” Danny leaned into Sam, letting Tucker step closer again. “Equally alive and dead. Equally bound to their ecto and not. Halfas were the Balance because they cannot be Ruled.”

“From what we understand, Halfas were created by the Realms itself.” Sam said quietly. “They existed to be the Balance. Slipping from living to dead to living whenever they wanted, all the powers of a ghost and all the benefits of a living being mixed into one.”

“They were rare, because they couldn’t be killed. Kill the human side, and the ghost half keeps them alive until they recover. You can’t kill a ghost, and anything that could contain a ghost, the human side walks right out of. They were there as Balance, between the living and the dead. Advisors to the Ghost King, helping to keep things smooth between the living and the dead whenever they had to interact. Balance. Beings that couldn’t be Ruled by the Ghost King because they were as much alive as ecto.”

“They were there to stop tyrants.”

Tucker nodded at Robin’s quiet voice, and paused. It was an offer to Danny, he knew, to take this part as well. He and Sam knew everything about this. Danny didn’t need to be the one to explain.

He spoke up. “From what records say, there were around six thousand Halfas at the start of Pariah Dark’s reign.” He told them. “They were the Balance. They saw what Pariah Dark was doing and had a duty to stop it. Up until ten years ago, there were no Halfas in existence.”

The group seemed to pale.

“Halfas can’t be killed, but anything can be Ended.” He said quietly. “Pariah Dark went around every single Halfa that came to stop him, and he destroyed them so utterly that they cannot exist any more. Not as ambient ectoplasm in the Realms, not as shades or smaller spirits, not as a being in the reincarnation cycle waiting to live and die. Every single one of those Halfas no longer exists, because he destroyed everything that made them them and then destroyed all the remaining pieces as well.

“Dark Pariah was a tyrant. And he was the reason that I learned everything about my entire species from second or third hand knowledge. Everything that I know about myself? I either figured it out myself, found it in some of the few books that still exist about Halfas, or heard it from the Ancients. And those last two didn’t know much at all, in the end. Halfas were so rare that the only thing most beings got were rumours, and the Ancients weren’t an exception to that, and not many Halfas ever bothered to write things down about themselves and their powers. They couldn’t die, after all.”

Danny shivered, a little. Sam and Tucker leaned in more on either side, keeping him upright as much as the table was. None of the Bats were moving.

“I’m telling you this because I need you to understand,” he said again. “Pariah Dark was a tyrant. A nightmare. The worst thing to happen to the Realms ever. He committed so many genocides that there aren’t records of it any more, and the only silver lining,” he spat the words, mocking, because there is no silver lining in senseless slaughter, “Is that all but one of these were against the living. They were allowed to exist as ghosts. Pariah Dark was a monster.”

Danny wrenched his eyes away from Batman and looked directly at Red Hood. He pushed down the impulse to take him away, to hide him, to get him to Frostbite for help and maul and destroy anyone who got in his way, who tried to threaten him-

He pushed down his shudder, and looked Red Hood directly in the eyes.

“Pariah Dark was a monster, and even he would consider what was done to you unforgivable.”

Hood jolted. So did the rest of the Bats, looking for all the world like they’d just restarted breathing again, no longer frozen in time.

“We can’t explain to you what we’re seeing.” Sam said from his side, and she sounded almost apologetic. “It’s- literally, there are no words in any living language to explain what it looks like. And we’re only Liminal, a little bit dead. We don’t see as clearly as beings like Phantom do. But it’s-”

Words seemed to fail her, and Tucker reached around Danny’s back to squeeze her shoulder in comfort.

Danny tried, pulling his eyes away from Hood again so he could think past the urge to steal him away and hide him somewhere safe. “It’s like I’m looking at a baby.” He tried to explain. “Or- I don’t know. A puppy? Whatever cute little thing you want to go with. Something small and delicate and needing to be looked after. Something that shouldn’t be on it’s own, because it’s too young to survive. Like someone took a premature puppy, and then just.” He paused. Gestured. “Just mutilated it. Whatever horrible things you can think of, the most evil things you can imagine at all, just. All of that. And then left it crying in the trash to rot and die, except it can’t die.”

None of the Bats that he could see out of the corner of his eye look well. Hood was-

His core, the half-mangled thing that was barely there, barely able to exist and yet still trying desperately to survive, was shrieking in horror.

“Phantom’s a Protection spirit.” Sam murmured, into the silence of that. “He’s a guardian, every instinct he has is aimed at keeping people safe.”

“I can’t look at you right now.” Danny confessed to that tiny lost child. “If I look at you too long, I just- Every instinct I have is telling me to get you away, to take you back to the Realms and hide you somewhere safe while I get a doctor or twelve, and that if anyone else gets even close to you they need to be mauled. I transformed because those instincts were even worse in ghost form, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone who wasn’t responsible for this.”

“I want to wrap them up in vines and strangle them.”

“I’d kinda like to suffocate all of them in sand and then mount them on a wall or something.”

“And they’re Liminal.” Danny added. “They’re not even fully dead, barely even dead at all. Any being of the Realms that sees you is going to want to help, or at least get vengeance, because it’s-

“It’s not even something Pariah Dark would do, and he committed a genocide of an entire people just because he didn’t want to be held accountable and couldn’t stand having people he couldn’t control in the Realms.”

For a long, long moment, no-one spoke. None of them even seemed to be breathing.

Danny flickered his eyes across Hood one more time, then focused on Batman again.

“So,” he said, as firmly as he could. “I’d quite like to know who did that to him. Because my next step is going to be to call the Council, get war declared on them, and then erase them.”

[pilferingapples]

Fantine Fic Recs!

Things being how they are for Fantine, these are pretty much all AUs, but I'm going to roughly sort them into Canon Era AUs and More AU Than That:P

Actual Canon Era:

A Bit of Philosophy on Love, by mgrbienvenu A conversation between the grisettes

Canon Era AU

the Less Miserables series, by @robertawickham : Chance twists a little differently for Fantine, and she starts on the road to a very different life. Featuring a lot of Zephine , too !

At Summer's End, by @saltedpin : Fantine meets a stranger on the road to M sur M , and it changes her path and theirs. A fix-it for multiple characters!

Ailes des Jais, by @akallabeth-joie : canon era, BBC setting, following up on THE hot new character from that series: Fantine's Bead Bird. Ignore my snark, this is a very sweet little tale.

Silent Night, by crimsondust/ @aflamethatneverdies : fixit for Georges and Fantine !

Grand-père Noël, by @akallabeth-joie : fix it fic! Victurnien makes a grave error and ends up helping out. And Cosette and Fantine get a mysterious visitor...

A Right to Flowers, by @midautumnnightdream: Fantine stays in Paris, and life goes a little more gently. Fix it fic for Fantine and many others.

Vulture, Lark, Sparrow, Owl, by @breadvidence: " ... in those explorations of the Infinite there are realities where the most wretched souls are extended pity in life which they elsewhere knew nowhere but under the sheltering mantle of our mother. All that Providence required was a little more snow, and a cloud traversing the sky out of season sufficed to renew a world" . Fix it fic in M- sur -M.

More AU Than That

A Favour, from @shitpostingfromthebarricade : Modern setting. Fantine and Favourite meet again some years later, now both single mothers, and renew their acquaintance.

As a Hen Gathers Her Brood, by @shitpostingfromthebarricade: A Scarlet Letter AU!! getting out classic lit in our classic lit....

Miserable Spectres, by crimsondust/ @aflamethatneverdies : a Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell AU ! Focuses largely on Fantine and Eponine as parallel figures.

En l' annee 2014: a wonderful modernizing and rewriting of Fantine's story --and Favourite's , and Dahlia's -- to bring it into the 21st century. I am in awe of the translation of themes and details across the centuries. Go go go read.

If You Ever Need Help, Call For Me, by jubilantly: a fairy tale AU! " Fantine helps three animals, and gets help in return when she needs it."

Under a Moonlit Sky, by badassindustries / @badassindistress : " The year is 1817. After Félix Tholomyès' little suprise, a despairing Fantine thinks she might go to her hometown of M-sur-M to find work. Instead, she decides to find Tholomyès and make him acknowledge Cosette. Enter a young man who would love to have an excuse to travel South (as far away from the law faculty as possible) and is uniquely suited to hunting down terrible men" . Also Bahorel is a werewolf. Don't worry about it .

And as always , tip your fic writers (leave comments !)

[illumiera]

"a same-scar for my same-soul"

thinking about how Elentari has no scars except for the one right over her heart. thinking about how it's a memento of the worst night of her life, the night her whole family died at the hands of the Dark Brotherhood, the night she died until Mara herself brought her back to life. thinking about her grief and guilt and how she could simply hide it away, but instead deliberately wears gowns and dresses with necklines that expose it to all who look: you see? I survived; I'm still here.

thinking about how Miraak, who has many scars, sees it and understands the nature of it because he bears one in the exact same spot, dealt to him by Vahlok. thinking about how, through Mora, it became the death of him until Elentari brought him back to life. thinking about how he, too, chooses not to hide it away.

thinking about the two of them kissing each other's matching scars: you see? we survived; we're still here.

[caelysiiium]

y'all made me realize there's still not a single tanfang first time fic on ao3 (which is actually crazy to me) and now I have to write it

[waitineedaname]

thinking about the parallels between the golden core transfer and wen ning's revival makes me want to eat glass. wen qing and wei wuxian both helping each other save the other's younger brother, through a life-altering procedure that their brothers ultimately could not consent to. wen ning is seen as wei wuxian's masterpiece, the most impressive thing he ever pulled off with demonic cultivation -- though the secret was kept tightly, i can't help but wonder if the fact that jiang cheng survived was just as much of an accomplishment for wen qing, proof of her skill and talent as a doctor

[honeydots]

always innocent in red

[fineapplequeen]

Oh yeah baby let's fucking gooooo, I've been waiting over half a year to get chapter 35 out I'm so fuckin pumped!!! BIG spoliers in the comic ahead, NO lineart, you'll take my crappy sketches and you'll LIKE it!!

Scribbly makes my chest feel bubbly

[ziracona]

Hey folks! As always, Tumblr gets the update first. Time to make a break for Chaldea. [Fate/GO AU – The Kid (pt: 1, … 22,23, 24, 25, 26, ?)]{Some spoilers for original Grand Order run/through Temple of Time, vaguer situational spoilers for later arcs}

-

“How’s it coming?”

I glance up at the beautiful dark-skinned queen above me. Her head is tilted, eyeing the makeshift workshop I’ve essentially pulled out of a steamer trunk.

I wish I’d gotten the chance to know you better. I guess I should be thanking my lucky stars one of the people here seems to know me at all, though.

“Pretty good!” I say, which is true mostly. I bite through a thread, and hold up a little white jacket. “I don’t have time to make it very versatile,” I add, thinking about the last one of these I made. About how many. About the first one, too. About the little girl who wore them, and is out there right now, about to wear one for the first time again. “Really, there was only time to focus on its ability to help focus precise magical energy. I’d prefer to give her something better, but, I guess I’ll have to wait on that.”

Queen Makeda smiles.

“Is it weird?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Probably,” she agrees happily, “But which part?”

“The seeing the future. That’s one of the few Caster skills I don’t possesses in any form,” I say, “But, you just looked at the next two weeks. Did you already have this conversation?”

She looks at me very quietly and very thoughtfully. Maybe it was a dangerous question for me to ask? She did say even talking about what is seen, even seeing it, can change the outcome.

But, she blinks, and the smile comes back. “No, not this conversation. This one is new. …It is weird,” she adds, “when I go through one that is not.”

I bet, I think. Huh, so in the events she saw, I didn’t ask. She must have said something different afterwords, about not wanting to share too much, which prompted me to ask, which—Mmm, this kind of magecraft makes your head hurt. Best to drop it, for now.

“They about ready?” I ask, standing up with my coat. For all of this conversation being new, she didn’t show up until I was on the last stitch of my mystic code, so some of what’s happening must be in line with what she knew to expect. That’s…probably a good thing, I decide, favoring some optimism.

Queen Makeda nods. “Memory partition went smoothly. That Archer was a caster in life, so while he’s not really good at this, and hasn’t done it before, it was easier to explain the theory of the process to him, and get it done, than it would be with your standard Archer.”

“I wonder if he could be summoned as one?” I wonder as I straighten up to follow her, “A caster, I mean.”

“Hm. I guess he could,” she says like she doesn’t expect it to happen, “He’s not a normal heroic spirit, though. He belongs to the Counter-Force, so, the rules might just not really apply like they should.”

“Speaking of,” I say, eyeing the area around us, and finding it blissfully free of other heroic spirits—I guess they’ve gone to try and help Roman and Ritsuka, “I know why you’re here—or, on the throne, I guess I should say—but what are you going to tell him?”

Queen Makeda eyes me, then looks straight forward. “That I can’t explain it yet.”

“Mmmm,” I agree with a smile, “Passing the buck to future you. God’s best temporary solution.”

That merits a little chuckle.

“And you?” she asks. I feel her eyes on me, but keep mine ahead.

“I’ve told him I think as much as I can. Right now, anyway. Maybe more of the particulars will help as we go, but..." But I have no idea what the fuck is going on, I think in my head.

Obviously, this didn’t happen the first time. Which means this is…an alternative timeline? An alternate reality?

Why? I guess I know why I’ve still got my memories, as almost impossible as that is, but. “Why do you remember?” I ask Queen Makeda.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her turn her head and raise an eyebrow, and then she faces forward like me as we walk, voice low, so no one we pass might hear. “I put myself on the throne. I make my own rules.”

A simple answer. I can’t know her details, but it’s true she chose to become a heroic spirit. Gave up an afterlife of freedom to join us in the shit, because Solomon was lost. I guess it’s easy enough to believe she could at least cut herself a better deal. And if she’s lying for some reason, and I can’t see why she would, I guess it doesn’t matter now anyway. If there is one single thing I can count on from the Queen of Sheba, it’s that as long as I’m with Archaman, she’s not against me. Something we have in common.

“So.” I stare forward, let out a breath. One of us has to say it. “What is this?”

She pauses in her step. I wait a pace, for her to match my stride again, and she does. She doesn’t look over.

“I don’t know.” I can hear in her voice she doesn’t like the answer. “I shouldn’t be here yet, and neither should you. It’s not our timeline. No…it’s not…our first timeline.”

Not our first?

I guess there’s the semantics of real and not real if you look at it as ours or not.

“So. An alternate reality?” I hazard. “A singularity?” God, I hope not.

“…”

I steal a look, and the line of her mouth is set. I didn’t expect her to look any specific way at all, I think, but somehow, it still wasn’t like that.

“…In our worst case, I think we have to consider it could be a Lostbelt…” she says finally, voice bitterly sad.

“A what?” I ask, glancing over, brow knit.

She looks back genuinely surprised, and then like she’s mentally kicking herself. “Oh, of course. You died before- …” She lets out a breath, and stops walking. “Could you…?”

I throw up a bounded field for sound, and across the plane of swords, just barely in line of sight, I see Mozart’s head shoot up, and him give me a look. God damn that little Caster is adept at sensing things.

“The singularities you repaired? The ones Goetia caused? They were made to make the timestream unstable, to destroy things with pinpoint attacks at major events in history. A Lostbelt is a similar concept, but instead of a specific time targeted for its significance, made to cause massive damage to the flow of time and the world as it was, it’s more like…You know how the basic theory of time itself, is that we stand on a point in a river? Time behind you is set. You’ve done it. But ahead of you, it splits, into billions of possible little streams.”

“Entropy,” I agree, “People misdefine it as the state of extant decay, but it’s not. It’s the lessening of futures, in a sense. Of potential futures. The more defined, final state of something, the lessening of potentials, as the energy of an object is spent from the potential, into the concrete.”

“Exactly,” agrees Queen Makeda, “Time can be viewed, in a sense, as just another object experiencing Entropy, experiencing a lessening of potential futures, as the energy for them is transferred from potential, into the existing world around us. A decision tree becoming set. A Lostbelt, is what happened when you died. It’s a calculated attack on the Earth—or, the original Earth—our Earth. Our…everything: history, lives, everyone who ever lived, everything ever gained, or lost, or sacrificed for, experienced, made. All of it. By going back to an earlier branch on the decision tree of time, as it were, and—with massive magical cost—diverting the flow of time into a different branch. A ‘Lostbelt.’ A world that was lost, that shouldn’t be, grown out of a decision that wasn’t made.”

“…And like time…” I say.

“…Only one branch can, in the end, be chosen,” she finishes with me. Our eyes meet, and I see the weight of it all.

It hurts. I wish to God I was still with Ritsuka. I—in a sense, no, in two very real senses, both here and there, I am. But, in a sense that hurts me right now, I’m also not. Not for either of them.

“…You think that’s what this is?” I ask, gesturing to the world around us. Shit, if it is, then…? What do we even do? Try to destroy it? I…

I can see Roman, up ahead, talking to Ritsuka. Congratulating her, tapping her shoulder, all excited and goofy and somehow full of hope still, after all the world has put him through. All he knows is waiting ahead, for it to ask of him and take. I can’t stand it. She’s a baby again, like when I first saw her. Not the young woman I left, whose last expression was horror and pain, who I left alone. The kid, the one who looked at me with the same surprise this one did, when I first met her, and then gave me a grin. Not broken yet.

They’re standing by Emiya, and I am struck by the look in his eyes. He must be exhausted. He usually hides it well--…hid, it well, in Chaldea. He made food for people. He was like a mom to the kids. But occasionally, in the worst of it, I’ve seen this look on him before. He had it when he was first summoned, and he had it at the Temple of Time; again, in Shinjuku, looking in a broken mirror. It’s a look like he’s trying to beat himself over an anvil into a shape that can hold up, hold out, just one more day. Something alive and dead, more than any heroic spirit I’ve ever known. I am struck by the look, because I have seen Ritsuka wear its shadow too, after the Temple of Time. I didn’t think about it before, but watching her now, without a hint of it on her face, I see its absence in his shadow.

I can’t, I think, an agony in my chest, I can’t kill them. I wouldn’t stand against my own, either. If they were attacked, I would protect them. But…to work against…any Roman, any Ritsuka. I just…

Could the universe really be so cruel? I wonder, knowing the answer, Would you dare to give me such a task after the last one? Could you really do that to him, to her? I look at Roman, Makeda.

“…No,” says the Queen of Sheba.

I turn to her.

“…'No’?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t rule it out. I know it’s possible, but…It’s…wrong, too.”

Wrong? “How so?” I ask, hope starting to spike.

She gives me a sorry smile. “I’m really not sure what specifics it’s safe to tell you, so I’m not going to share most until we’ve made that death-defying jump in your Shadow Border. All I can say is that I don’t think it’s a Lostbelt. I don’t know, because I only looked two weeks in the future, but…” She considers, bites a lip. “People are…missing.”

“People are missing,” I echo, trying to guess.

“And other people…are here. Who shouldn’t be. Not in a ‘this is another time,’ or ‘another version of time,’ way either. It’s…specific. Targeted, almost. Like….” Whatever it’s like, she doesn’t say. She looks past me, at some of the civilians, and I turn to look with her. It hasn’t even occurred to me that they might be significant, beyond me being glad we saved some people, of course. But, she’s picking specific ones out of the crowd one by one at lightning speed like she’s checking her answers on a math problem, and her expression says whatever she expected, she was right.

She turns back to me.

“I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you more, eventually, but.” She shakes her head.

“Right. The jump.” I agree. “We do need to survive that part.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think this is Lostbelt. I don’t think it’s a Singularity either. I think it’s something very, very different.”

“Not an alternate universe then, old fashioned, pure and simple?” I ask hopefully.

She shakes her head, then hesitates and tilts it, thinking. “Maybe, but not pure and simple, if it is.”

“Can you…if not with the why, give me a hint at least to the what?” I ask.

She has taken a few steps already, but right at the edge of the bounded field I threw up, she pauses and turns to look at me. She thinks, and thinks again. Then meets my gaze with an expression I don’t know a way to describe. “In a word, ‘Life.’”

————————————

“You said that this whole…everything happening early, you think it’s simultaneity?” says Da Vinci with a grunt of effort on the last word.

Together, she and the Doctor lift a piece of armor plating, and I hold it in place at the top, from on the roof of what we’ve got of the car, as Robin attaches it.

I’m amazed at how strong she is, after the effort all four of them in the memory-transfer…walk…whatever it was, expended that hour they did it. I’ve never seen pure concentration leave anyone looking so drained—for his part, Emiya’s barely on his feet. He’s still going, waving his hands, summoning piece after piece after piece of this thing, with no end, but he looks like he’s about to throw up, and we spirits aren’t really supposed to do that anymore.

When they’d just finished, Da Vinci didn’t look a whole lot better, and neither did our two Masters, but she’s bounced back, hard. So has the Doctor—or, well, he’s putting a really brave face on and doing pretty well at least. My lord has insisted on helping, despite how much we tried to make her rest, but she looks even worse than Emiya, so she’s been asked to sort the smaller bolts and wires and circuits. Which she’s doing, with the dedication of a woman restoring a priceless painting.

She’s really something, I think, watching her carefully sort parts of the dashboard Emiya has made, hands shaking, but not dropping a single bolt.

I smile. It…feels a little odd on my face, after the last…I…I have no idea how long I was in there, I realize. Time blurred so much with half a neck, I couldn’t even guess. But surely weeks, maybe months. Still, everyone else is bouncing back from hardships so dedicatedly, I have to try and not let them down. And, I do feel more and more like my old self. It’s strange, to be part of a team this big as a heroic spirit, but I am used to it very much from my time alive. It makes me happy to be able to do it again.

“Kotarou, can you attach this to the top?” calls up Billy. He tosses some kind of antenna my way, and I catch it, pretty easily find the slot where it’s meant to go, and give him a nod.

“Well,” manages the Doctor, out of breath, as the piece of plating he was securing is welded in place and he’s free to let go, “It’s the only thing that makes sense—well, no, it still doesn’t. But, it’s the closest I can get.”

“I understand that,” says Da Vinci thoughtfully, turning and looking for her next part, and crying out an ‘Ah-ah-ahhhh!’ of extreme dislike as she sees Cu Chulainn going past with what I guess is a really delicate piece, and she snags the crystal-looking device from his hands and hugs it to her chest. He sighs in annoyance at her, but shrugs, and goes back to get something different. “—but,” she continues, turning back to the Doctor, who is on his way now to attaching a hubcap to one of the wheels, “That’s…well, it isn’t how simultaneity works.”

“Oh?” says David, sliding half out from where he’s welding part of the undercarriage.

“Yes.” She turns back to the Doctor. “Simultaneity doesn’t work in events causally connected.”

“That’s what I thought,” says one of the human civilians. The doctor and Da Vinci both look at her in surprise, having forgotten she was there. I didn’t. There were only a few of the humans who had skills that they were able to talk their way into being considered both useful and trustworthy enough to help in building this car, and who Queen Makeda OK’d from her look into the future, and she’s one of those few. She was also the girl who brought Miss Da Vinci a sketchbook to work on when this plan was pitched, and I noticed back when she did that that there were a lot of schematics drawn on the pad, meaning she must do some kind of scientific work. She’s been awful quiet since being handed transistors to affix to part of the cab, but I can tell she’s been listening.

I don’t really think she’s a threat—I mean, I don’t think any of the humans here are. Even if they ordinarily might be, it would be hard for any of them to have an allegiance counter to continuing to be alive. Just, it’s my job to protect my lord, so it’s better to be careful and not need it after all, than ignore potential threats no matter how unlikely, and later wish you hadn’t.

“Well,” says the doctor, stopping what he was doing and wiping his forehead with a sleeve. I guess he and Da Vinci reached the same conclusion as me, regarding the young woman because neither one seems deterred in talking by being reminded she exists. “As a theory, yes. But not if an active force faster than the speed of light is in play.”

The human girl tilts her head, thinking about that.

“Did you catch her name?” I ask Billy and David mentally, since they’re the two close enough to know who I’m talking about.

“No—sorry,” says Billy sheepishly, and a half-second later David very proudly says, “Well I did—It was Adele.”

Adele, Adele, I think, committing it to memory with the face.

“Okay. Sure…” says Da Vinci slowly, considering the point as Doctor Romani goes back to work, “But in that case, what would that force be? It can’t simply be an…aberration in perspective, you seeing, or, experiencing events two months before they happen. Either you would have to be…living, or something, at a speed faster than the natural state of existence itself, or he and you would have to be traveling normally, but the incineration itself, would have to be happening at a speed so much faster than light that…”

He's nodding.

“But…this didn’t happen the-“ She stops mid-sentence and rolls in her lips in with a whoops look on her face.

He turns his head to watch her.

She gives a ‘haha ^u^' ‘ look back. I don’t know what either of them are thinking, but after a moment, she sighs, and says, “…You know I’m from a time in your future. I know from you, that this isn’t the way it happened.”

…But…then.

“…So, something changed…” he says with interest, brows furrowing. He sets down his wrench and turns, still sitting, to face her.

“Not just one thing. Unless it changed quite a while ago, and it butterfly effected a lot,” she says, voice lower. I can hear her from up top, and David can, I’m sure, from under the car, but I’m not sure anyone else could at all, even Adele – maybe Billy though.

“…You couldn’t say what?” he asks her.

She thinks, then slowly shakes her head. I am very sure it’s the truth, because she looks so genuinely annoyed by her answer.

“Maybe not as much as I think,” she offers after a moment, letting out a breath. Absently, she tosses the crystal in her hands from resting most of its weight in one palm, to the other. “For all I know, it felt like this to anyone caught outside in the incineration of humanity. It took a whole year the first time, for it to finish, from Chaldea’s perspective, once it began. Maybe the only real difference is that you weren’t in the same place.”

The Doctor thinks, then nods. “I hope you’re right,” he says, offering her a slightly worried smile, “I think that’s the best case answer for us all.” He goes back to his work on the tire, and then adds, “I wouldn’t worry about the displacement itself as being the root issue—the entire incineration is based on disrupting time. Of course some things would, or at least could, get severely broken. I think we’re better off trying to figure out the why here. That’s the part that worries me.”

Da Vinci nods to herself. She glances at him and watches him fondly, like a family member, and then smiles. “Well, you gave me a lot to think about. Thank you.”

“Keep me posted, if you figure anything o—”

“—Oy, lovebirds! He seems fine with a walk and talk, but you gonna stand there with an engine component all day, or get back to it? We’re on a schedule,” snaps Cu Chulainn as he passes Da Vinci, deeply peeved.

As interested as I am in their conversation, I think I’m with him on this one. I’m not sure how much longer Emiya can hold out, and I don’t want to find the answer to that the hard way. My Lord looks so hopeful and calm right now, working on her part of the Border, but I still remember the look on her face when we thought it was a bomb, back in the city, and there was nothing we could do about it. I don’t want to lose again. Not for this Master.

“Sor-ry for breathing for thirty seconds,” says Da Vinci, both very wrong about the amount of time that took, and clearly not actually mad at all. She hefts her crystal and vanishes inside the border after him.

It’s a lot of work, finishing the border, but with all three of the casters working together, the initial memory-transfer went fast enough that at least we aren’t under a time crunch. I mean—w-we are, but, not a worse than expected one. All told, there’s a lot less panic than I expected from the situation.

I mean, I know I’m off my game—I’m still trying to, in an almost literal sense, put my head back on straight. I almost wish the throne took memories passively during a summon right now, because I’d love to spend less time thinking about the last month—it’s slowing me down, and I can’t be like that. I have to be at maximum efficiency always, for any lord worth serving. And with the entire world at stake?

It's…terrifying. I mean, thank luck it’s not just me, not by a long shot, but this? …Heroic spirits are used to threats, but aside from maybe the Counter Force agent, we mostly don’t get called in on retainer for End of the World on this scale. I really want to do a good job. And yet, it’s not as bad or as terrifying, as it should be. Maybe because it’s so many of us? I think that at first, but, no. I don’t really think that’s it either. As the Border comes together, and I watch, and work, I think it’s for a lot of reasons. It’s like…watching a weaver finish a blanket, pulling on the loom, threads lining up and winding together just right, to make the correct image when it’s finished. Doctor Romani is capable and calm, friendly, a little bit humorous. It’s hard to imagine a more likable man to follow, even if he doesn’t always exude battle confidence. That makes sense to me though, I mean, he’s medical staff. His job is a good bedside manner. His job is to heal.

Wait, that’s not right, I think, helping Robin lower the last part of the engine into the front while Billy starts to secure it, He’s not. Not really. But then again, yes, he is. He’s just a lot of things, now, I guess.

I should be reassured to have what (although he hasn’t mentioned it) if my memories from the throne are right, and despite how ruined my head is right now, I’m pretty sure they are, a Grand Caster with us. Even without his spirit origin, his knowledge alone should be the most comprehensive a person could wish for. But, funny enough, that knowledge is not what’s helping the most. It helped, sure—his memory partition idea worked wonders, and the Border, a chain summon—but it’s his demeanor that’s making this run smooth. It’s the Doctor-ness. And he and his new caster—or, Da Vinci—they work like two shoes in the same set. Even though he doesn’t know her, her knowledge of him seems to be enough to find a rhythm immediately, and I guess, him being a former spirit, a relationship only one party remembers being picked up again is hardly news.

On top of that, Ritsuka is great, not just as a master, but she is spending a lot of time working with the civilians. They were angry, and scared, and who could blame them for it? Now, the ones who can help are attaching drive chairs to the Border, and the ones who can’t are helping take care of the injured, or keeping the few kids here calm, working out a shift schedule for sleeping, handing out food. I think my new lord would make a great community organizer.

Probably most important, and largely because of her and the first young civilian man who started trying to help her out there, whom I've heard her call Patxi, their mood has changed. Or, maybe their outlook. In only a few hours, they’ve become hopeful, and united. It’s a real sight.

And then, of course, there’s the other spirits. It would always be reassuring to have a reliable seer, so the Queen is very welcome, as is her assurance we’re going to make it through this. But the others? It’s funny. Like they mentioned right before the world ended, they seem to have, except for me, all come in sets. It can’t be coincidence. I believe in chance and fate both, a give and take of free will and destiny at war, but I know enough to know when something was happenstance for sure, and when it definitely wasn’t. One or two of us would be nothing, but the entire set? That’s too much coincidence to be coincidence. Especially with the Doctor pulling his own set immediately here. The Archer, Emiya, and his Lancer—they know each other. Despite their bickering, Cu Chulainn is like a hawk, trying to make sure the man stays alive, and Emiya always relies on him first, if anyone, in battle. I think maybe they were rivals, based on the sort of strange…frenemyship, that they have going. Billy and Robin are best friends, excited to be together. And then of course, Salieri and Mozart are tied by life and death both, even by nature, on Salieri’s end. It would be hard for anyone to be more connected, except perhaps David and the Doctor, by blood.

It has been helpful, in a way that cannot be accounted for in any other means. There is a trust that doesn’t need building, at least within sets, the ability to predict and work together has at least halved our difficulty and time on most of what we’ve been trying to do.

Which leaves me.

I am not at all unhappy to be here—I am very, very lucky. Not just to be rescued, but, to be working with someone like Miss Fujimaru. But…I don’t fit. I’ve met Robin, once, but I don’t remember it. I think it must have just been a mage ritual, and probably one of us killed the other. It was nothing of significance. Nothing with grudge, or friendship. Business, and fast, and impersonal, and not one that left anything but an echo on either of our memories. So then…why?

As the hours slip past a full day, and into the second, I keep wondering this.

I feel like…there must be an answer. How can everyone come in sets, but me? How can everyone have a clear purpose here, but me? I see the two new Casters whispering together some, and I hear the Queen of Sheba say something about fate, like a pattern, like a game of chess. I don’t hear the context.

But I think. I am always thinking. It is my duty, because I have someone to keep safe.

So, if it is a tapestry someone wove, like my instincts told me, then what thread am I? If it is a game of chess, if there is a reason, or a pattern, or fate. If there is anything at work here, but chance, and I feel so, so deeply certain in my gut that there is, then…why me?

I cannot find an answer. I look from every angle. Connection first, then purpose. Billy was the first. Emiya had the reality marble, and got Ritsuka her crest. Robin Hood I am told by Billy, kept Ritsuka alive by figuring out a way to make her invisible, and Cu Chulainn kept everyone alive at Ur Shanabi. Doctor Romani has knowledge. King David saved his life. Mozart made the summons here possible. Salieri saved Mozart. Sheba and Da Vinci are saving us now. So, why me?

I helped, in Mercury’s battleground. I am helping now. But, would they have needed me? Besides which, if I hadn’t been at Mercury, they wouldn’t have needed me for help with the aftermath at all. Everyone else was at Ur Shanabi. I was the only reason they went to Mercury. So why? Why me?

It’s not some…feeling of inadequacy. I’m an assassin; I know I’m weaker than most classes, and that’s okay. I am what I am, and I have my strengths as well as weakness. We all do. It’s just…I’m afraid, that if there is a reason, which there must be, I’m missing it. And that that is a mistake. That because of it, I will make some…error, in someone else’s cosmic chess game I just can’t quite make out, and it will cost the best master I’ve ever had. It…disquiets me. So, I keep thinking. I keep thinking, and thinking, and thinking, but I don’t find.

A few hours before the border’s completion, which should land a good ten hours before our deadline, still lost in these thoughts, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Sorry. Am I in the way?” I ask Da Vinci, who stands behind me.

“Yeah—if you could scoot a little,” she says, reaching over and past me onto the dashboard, affixing a screen to it. I duck out of the way and take a step back, reminding myself to finish connecting the wires I was halfway through whenever she’s finished.

It takes a few seconds, and she straightens up and turns, and as she does she glances at me, then gives me a long once-over.

“…What?” I ask a little nervously, all things considered.

“Nothing,” she says, what sounds honestly, “It’s just interesting.”

Interesting? “Me being here?” I guess.

She begins to step past me, then pauses, glancing past, to the people in the back of the Border, attaching seatbelts to the many, many rows of seats. Maybe, I think, looking for people she doesn’t want to overhear.

“Yeah,” she says, satisfied by who she sees, or, doesn’t, “I told you I know all of you, except the Avenger.”

I give a nod. “I’m…sorry,” I think to add, after a second, “That I don’t remember you.”

She smiles. “Eh, it hasn’t happened to you yet. I don’t think you could. Although I’ll be very offended if you forget me now.” She preens happily.

I smile on impulse. A very interesting woman.

“Okay.” Ritsuka’s voice, from outside, and a second later, she steps in. “I think all that’s left is the protective coating, and the seats, right?” she asks, spotting Da Vinci.

Da Vinci gives a nod. Ritsuka beams, relieved. “Well, and a few wires and such on the dash, but it’s easy stuff left,” adds Da Vinci.

Right. I step past her and resume my own work.

“What else can I do?” asks Ritsuka, “Should I help with the seats, or mapping out where people are going to go?”

“Mmmm,” considered Da Vinci, “Do mapping—you’ve talked to the civilians probably the most, so you’ve got a good idea of family units that’ll put up a fight about being separated.”

“You got it,” says Ritsuka.

She starts to go, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Da Vinci watching her. “Ritsuka,” she calls, when my lord is almost out the door. Ritsuka pauses on the step up, and glances back. “What would you say is the reason everyone is working so hard here? You too?” She sounds as if she’s puzzling something big slowly out in her head.

“The reason?” echoes Ritsuka, brow furrowing. She starts to answer, but then, seeing the look on Da Vinci’s face, she pauses to think harder about the answer.

Watching her, I feel a flicker inside my head, and I’m suddenly getting memories that aren’t mine—they’re hers. I have no skill like this. Maybe it’s the mystic code Da Vinci made for the memory transfer, that she’s still wearing, linking up on accident somehow, or maybe she’s thinking so hard she’s thinking at me on accident, with the link between Servant and Master, I-I don’t know, but either way, I see a sudden flood of thoughts like a flurry of snapshots and six second clips.

I see Patxi, who was the first of the civilians inside Blade Works to start helping her, offering her a hand and telling her to stand up and fight for it. I see her memory of Cu Chulainn ready to go ahead and die, because he was free, and Emiya pushing for them to get the Doctor to save him. Salieri, and Mozart, and the things they say to each other all strung together, heavy and light and a little jarring. The way Billy reacted, to what must have been finding Robin in Ur Shanabi, pistol whipping someone into a wall and sliding to a rest by the bed. And then I see her point of view of the way Billy talked to me. It makes the bottom of my stomach drop out, seeing my head half off in that trap in her memory, but she remembers it so much clearer than I do, and there’s something I’m deeply grateful to see, in the way Billy looks sick, taking a knee by me. She thinks of what I said to her, when she freed me, like it’s as important as these other memories. I see someone I think is the cowboy, in a trap very different from mine. Then memories of mages, things they said to her at Ur Shanabi about us being dead familiars, followed by a pile of memories of the ways we talk to each other, and to her. It almost breaks me, to see it like this. I don’t know if I’ve seen anything as beautiful, since I died, as the way this girl remembers us.

She thinks then of what must be her mom and dad, and a brother, they look so much like her. Eating a meal, fishing, her and the brother play-fighting over a game. And she replays moments of fear, again and again. Some of them I haven’t even heard the other spirits talk about. I see monsters, of all kinds, and humans with guns, mages, and threats, and I feel pain as her hand breaks, and she’s thrown back, as she falls, and the overwhelming terror she felt in the city, when the skyline began to dissolve.

And still. Those memories are tempered, by memories of everyone else here. Of their fear, and of their hope. Adele with her sketch book running up to help, with no idea what monsters who ruined her world we might be. Of Patxi helping her organize. Of the people sharing snacks, and bandaids, and ripping up shirts to hold a broken bone in place with one of the sheathes of a sword from this empty reality marble holding us up as the last bastion on earth.

The moment of connection breaks as she refocuses on Da Vinci, and I cannot look away, nor do I want to. There is a feeling in my chest I didn’t know before.

“Isn't it obvious?” says Ritsuka. “To live.”

.

—————————

.

“Preliminary systems, online!” calls Da Vinci.

“…Did you really have to put that right here?” I ask, feeling the most uncomfortable I think I’ve ever felt in my life.

“YES,” comes her absolutely untruthful reply.

I do my best not to look at it as I flip the last of the ignition switches, and slide forward to lock the captain’s chair into jump position. To help power the border’s calculations, and to operate a jump with as much precision as possible, Da Vinci has constructed and entered some horrible human-sized tank of bio-gel and hooked herself up to this massive apparatus, and the biometrics-to-mechanics streamline I get, but why she had to bolt the damn thing to floor literally three feet from me so there’s a giant glowing blue vat of scantily clad genius woman looking down on me at all times, I cannot begin to understand. Honestly, at this point, I think she and Makeda both are just having fun kicking the shit out of my walking corpse.

Well, I think, closing my eyes and trying to regain a little composure, At least if we all die in a few seconds, you can look her in the face and say something snippy with your last breath.

Weirdly comforting.

“Wonderful! And we’re almost ten hours ahead of schedule!” says my father happily, sliding into the co-pilot’s seat and swiveling it into the lock position beside me.

“Get out of that. It’s for Makeda,” I say.

“What? Why?” he asks, trying so hard to look hurt, “She can’t have any more experience driving a modern vehicle than I do.”

“The only heroic spirit here with any experience driving modern vehicles is Emiya,” I say flatly, “Makeda can look into the future.”

He clicks his tongue in disappointment and, when he can’t figure out how to un-lock the seat, just unbuckles the strap and crawls off over the top.

I put my head in my hands.

“There, there,” comes Makeda’s voice.

Dammit. Didn’t want her to see that.

I feel her hand on my shoulder, a reassuring squeeze, and then she taps the unlock on the seat, and slides into place on my left side, reaching up to flip her array of switches in the same sequence I just set mine.

“This is your technical advisor speaking,” comes Da Vinci’s voice through the P.A. system she’s using while inside the biogel vat, “We’re about to take off for Zero Sail. Everyone, if you could please take your seats, buckle-up, make sure all carry-on objects are stored in the proper bins, and lock your tray tables in the upright position.”

“That last part’s a joke,” I say, tapping the P.A. button myself, “There are no tray tables, but please do buckle up.”

The border is using a very basic, but sturdy, space warping spell to be bigger on the inside than its shell. This thing is massive and built like a tank, but it’s hardly a size to accommodate our over 200 passenger loadout, so thank heaven that was already part of the original design.

Beside me, Makeda checks a screen on the console, watching an array of 196 passenger seats to make sure they all indicate safety measures met, plus one in the back, and eight up front, for the heroic spirits and Ritsuka, the captain and co-captain seats for Makeda and me, and then of course Da Vinci’s weird little gel tube. Two-Hundred and Eight. That’s all of us, I think as I watch all but the last one, Emiya’s, lock one by one into flight ready.

“We’re sure about this?” I ask Makeda, even though I was the one who made this call in the first place.

She nods. “You could leave him, and have Ritsuka use her last command seal to call him after us, but you don’t need it. Running out of energy to sustain a reality marble causes it to end, as does any other means of countering it, such as breaking the user’s cast, or countering it. Dragging the caster into the void sea is an unusual way to do it, but it’ll break the cast, and it won’t break the cast until we’re all out of it, because being out of it is what will cause him to drop the reality marble. Just like you said.”

I take a breath. At the very back, I see the light indicating Emiya’s seat’s flight readiness turn green.

“I saw it, too,” says Makeda, knowing what I was hoping she’d say.

It’s weak to want that kind of reassurance. I know it. But the day I’ve had…

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it, and I give her a shaky smile. She returns it, hers like a sunbeam.

“Aaaaalright!” calls Da Vinci over the P.A., “Please stay calm, and at no point try to leave your seats until the ride is over. Keep in mind, this is a hell of journey we’re about to take, and it involves an unrecommended amount of screwing with physics and magecraft, so it is absolutely imperative that if you seem to see yourself leaving your body and floating up, you make the conscious choice to go back down into it! It’s your body folks. Just keep thinking that, and you’ll all be fine.”

“Yeah,” I click on the P.A. myself, “Uh. This is the resident doctor speaking. Please, do your best to focus on your breathing, and the reality around you. If you feel inclined to shut your eyes, think about the sensation of your hands against the armrests, and focus on that. Please ask the names of the people immediately to your sides, and if they begin to look unwell right after the jump, say their name until you get a response. So long as we do that, I promise, everything is going to be okay. This will be a little bit bumpy, because we’re driving a tank over a hill of swords, but don’t worry. There’s no physical obstacle ahead. Just stay calm, focus together, and it’ll all be alright.”

I feel eyes on me and glance over as I turn off the P.A., and I see Da Vinci looking happily down at me.

It’s so strange. I truly can’t doubt her account that she knows me. Everything about her makes me sure it’s true. But, it’s still strange. Even as a heroic—well—having been a heroic spirit, still, the sensation of someone knowing you deeply, when you don’t know them, it’s not a thing you can encounter enough for it not to feel strange to you.

At least it seems like I made a good impression, I think, and I start the ignition.

“Here we go,” I say to Makeda.

“Here we go,” she echoes with considerably more enthusiasm, closing her hands around the co-pilot steering wheel.

I flex my fingers once, then do the same, and hit the gas.

We take off with enormous speed, zero to one-hundred, and I hear shouts and screams form behind me, but it’s surprise, not fear. They’re holding together well—amazingly well, for what they’ve all been through.

The adults are, at least. A few of the children seem to not be taking it so well. I--I wish I’d had something to give them, to make it easier. If we’d had more time, I-

“OooooH, the wheels on the bus go round-and-round!” a boy’s voice starts to sing at full volume.

I think it’s the Russian boy who’s been helping Ritsuka so much—Patxi. The song is absolutely too young to be the mood choice for the age of the kids with us, but every one of them knows it, and after a second, I hear several terrified children’s voices, and motivated parents, join in just the same. The space behind me becomes just a blur of sound to me after a few seconds as the engine kicks up a gear and roars, but I can tell it’s worked, and I’m glad for it.

There’s a sudden calmness with the thought. I almost laugh.

She was right, I think, glancing at Makeda as we near our target speed, tearing through these mountains of sand and sword, Of course we were going to make it like this.

“Speed!” I call to Da Vinci.

“Understood! Expanding Void-Reality Observation Device: Paper Moon!” calls Da Vinci through the P.A., “Destination: Chaldea Base, Antarctica! Expanding Logic Formula on the Shadow Border’s external armor; removing existence verification for Reality Space—now! Future Prediction: hypothetically prove mirror world plane in twenty seconds! Relaxing space-time friction decompression for 0.4 seconds. Systems all Green.”

This is it. I close my fingers hard around the wheel and focus on my own existence with every fiber of my being.

“Shadow Border, untether from reality! Void Space Dive, Zero Sail: unfurl!”

There is a sensation like one gets if they drive over a hill to quick, or drop fast on a roller coaster, but not just in my stomach. It comes from every direction at once, like a wave of queasiness, and I see myself floating above my body and force myself to focus on going back in. Not. How. I’m. Dying!

“Holding!” calls Da Vinci’s voice, “Zero Sail successful! Emerging again from void space in thirty seconds! Everybody hang tight—we’re almost there!”

This has got to be the most agonizing thirty seconds of my life, I think, trying not to vomit. Despite the abject terror, I feel a strange thrill with it though. I’m no adrenaline junkie, so it kind of shocks me. I think it must just be that as backed into a corner as I am right now, I’ve felt this way for years now. And this is the first time I’m jumping into hell with a group of people I trust, to rely on. Somehow, even in the middle of this, that feels good.

Behind me, I heard the song stop when we jumped, and shouts with it, but there is sound from our citizen passengers again. They’re doing what I told them. I hear a lot of voices calling a symphony of names and reassurances. I hear Ritsuka’s voice, and Kotarou, just behind me, among them.

Beside me, I look up and see Da Vinci’s eyes practically glowing, a grin plastered on her face. Of course, I think, weirdly reassured by that, How else can a genius get her kicks? Makeda doesn’t look any more normal, though. When I glance at her, she’s also beaming adrenaline rush at the dashboard, fingers dug into the console and eyes sparkling. Aaaand how can a prophet get hers.

I sigh. Well. We’re doing this.

And somehow, that must be time, all together, because I hear Da Vinci call out:

“Annnnd, four, three, two, one! Begin jump out!”

The Border makes a horrible sound, but seemingly encouraged by it, Da Vinci calls, “Activating Paper Moon! Initiate planet navigational chart plus/minus convergence. Commencing Shadow Border docking sequence into reality boundary: disengage mirror world plane voyage! –Though the stratum divides, I continue to exist. Reapplying timeflow attraction from Reality Space. 0.09 second difference between target coordinates and current recognition—hell yes! Almost perfect! Here we go people; Emerging from Void Space! Ten seconds to arrival in Reality Space again!”

Ten, I think, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two—

There is a flash of light so intense I have to shut my eyes, and the same sickening stomach-drop all along your body sensation as when we went in, and the next second there is a physical thud, and I’m opening my eyes and fighting for my life to pull the border even as it hits solid ground and drifts, hard, exiting into reality at speed.

“Zero sail complete!” comes Da Vinci’s voice, “Reality Space entered successfully! Congrats everyone, we lived!”

“AH!” I scream, Makeda with me, as we are greeted with the sight of conference room wall coming up on us at almost two-hundred miles an hour.

WE’RE INSIDE! FUCK! OF COURSE WE’RE INSIDE!! THERE WAS NO WAY TO KNOW THE OUTSIDE IS INTACT! DAMN IT!!

I slam the gas to get traction as I yank the wheel. “THE DOOR!” I call to Makeda. She gets it and drags her wheel with me, and we barely make the conference room door, flattening six tables and any number of chairs in our way, taking half the door frame with us, and shooting out into the hallway at the most horrible speed possible. We slam the breaks with some room to do it now, but the end of the hall is coming up too fast, and I call out, “LEFT!” as I spot a hallway branch up ahead. We hit it with so much speed we’re driving on the wall for a second as we pull almost a ninety-degree turn to keep from going through the wall, tire tracks on the blue-white, sterile Chaldea Security Base walls. I hear all kinds of sirens going off in the building, and shouts, from inside and out. Oh God, help.

Having foresight I forget in the moment, Makeda slams on the horn as we tear down the hallway, and I see three staff members physically fling themselves through doorways to avoid being roadkill. Shitshitshitshit—

We’re down to almost eighty now, and slowing. Where are we—think! Oh thank heaven—that’s the hall to the command room up ahead.

“LAY ON THE HORN!” I call, swapping sole driver control to my wheel and dragging us left, hard, and then through a sturdy pair of double doors that thank God aren’t locked, and blow open, before slamming the wheel to the side as hard as I can and pulling the break, letting the border drift to a stop in the center of the massive room, destroying two work stations and a massive screen on the way as I wince.

Finally, the horrible thing stops, in the literal smoke of its rampage, on the center of the command room floor.

“…Did we survive?” calls Amadeus from behind me.

“Yes!” I manage, looking over my shoulder, and then at Makeda’s screen. Seats all still green. “Anyone hurt?”

There’s chatter, but no ‘yes,’ so I take that as a good sign, and collapse in relief against my console, turning the engine off.

There’s a whoop from Billy, and the entire machine erupts in cheers behind me.

“Congratulations on a successful voyage everyone! Welcome back,” comes Da Vinci’s exceptionally pleased voice from the P.A.

Collapsed and glad to be, I feel Makeda put a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks,” comes my muffled voice from through my arm.

“Told you we’d make it,” I hear her say proudly.

Yeah. You did. Have I ever been this tired before? No, I don’t think so. We really made it. I stay in my puddle of relieved, exhausted nerves, until I hear someone say, ‘Can we go out?’, and everything terrible reboots at speed and I shoot up.

“No! No—wait!” I call, tripping over myself in my hurry to unbuckle. I get caught going over the seat and have to hop to right myself. “Hang on! We uh—we just tore through the indoor halls of a security organization in an unregistered, military vehicle that sort of teleported inside a bounded field! Let me go out first—they know me. I can, uh, talk them into—” I had been going to say ‘not shooting us’, but there’s 196 scared civilians staring at me, so I manage, “Uh—cooling off about that. Give me a second.”

I hold up a hand towards the passengers, glance back at Makeda and my new Technical Advisor, then walk to the side door.

Oh, Olga Marie is going to have my head for this. I wish I’d thought about that part and what to say, just a little.

Taking a breath, I open the door.

To my absolute lack of shock, there are about fifty staff members with guns trained on me.

“Wait wait! It’s me!” I call, hands immediately up.

“…Doctor Archaman?” call one of them.

He lowers his gun, and I recognize him.

“Duston?” ask, taken aback. W-What is an engineer doing security’s job fo- …

No, I recognize more than just him. As the others slowly follow suit, I realize I know almost everyone here at a glance. Four of them work in the medbay.

“How did you get-?” asks Dustin, looking from me to the Border, “When did you get…?”

“What is going on?” I ask genuinely, taking a step out, “Where-“

Immediately I am doubled-over by an immense pain in my head, a wave of thoughts and images and feelings that aren’t mine—or—they are? A-Are they? W-what---what is…?

I must have fallen, because the next thing I’m aware of is my father holding me, trying to help me up, Dustin a foot away now, asking if I’m alright. I don’t know how either of them got where they are.

What’s happening, I think, blinking, trying to clear my head, That can’t have. W-Which can’t have…?

I look up, and no, my father’s really here. That must have…have all happened. He’s holding my arm. Behind him, I see the Shadow Border, see Makeda at the top of the steps, with Ritsuka. But then. …

“Where’s Mash?” I manage as I make it back to my feet, leaning on my father.

“She’s in her room, resting after the Rayshift,” says Dustin, “Like you told her to.”

Oh no. But. That can’t. That’s not…

Whatever hit me before, I feel it building up in my head, and I almost lose my footing, dig my fingers into my father’s arm to keep upright.

“Rayshift?” Da Vinci’s voice. Still wet and barely dressed, I see her in my periphery stepping off the Shadow Border behind me.

I give her a panicked look, kind of hoping somehow she can explain to me what just happened, because my mind is failing to pull an explanation.

“I don’t…understand…?” says Dustin, looking from me, to the Shadow Border, then at the staff around him. “Who is that—who are they? And…Sir?”

The pain swells in my head, a barrage now. It feels like the jump in the Border did, when I was looking down at my body, but in reverse. Like I’m too much jammed in at once. I know what’s happening then, and simultaneously, I don’t.

“I-I’m sorry.” I manage to find my father’s face through the way my head is swimming, and I focus on him. Do my best to lean into him. “I can't explain fast enough. I’m going to be alright—I won’t die; don’t worry. But I think I am going to faint now, and I might be out for a couple of hours. Thank you.”

I go out with the words like a light, my last thought how hard the floors are here, and that I sincerely hope he will catch me.

.

————————————————

.

.

Timeline: Two Months, Eighteen Days, Twelve Hours Forward. Coordinates: -4.R48X91, -R1.559X48 Graph: 10912.1313

.

Blood tastes like nothing in my mouth; I only know it from its smell:

Sharp, harsh, and routine.

“Got another one not burned out just yet.” The voice is casual, and close, but clipped too. Mercenaries, or military, something with practice and rank and an order. I know he’s talking about me.

“Leave it,” says the leader, “The more juice we get out of this, the better.”

“You sure?” asks the first man. I feel a boot nudge my right shoulder. Despite the injury there it aggravates, it doesn’t even rate in my head as pain against the background of everything else. “Can’t be too careful with a Servant.”

“It’s an Archer,” comes the second voice again. Closer. “They’re just like this. Burn out slower than the rest, without a source sustaining them. It’s not a skill to be worried about. He’s won’t get up and shoot you.” A gun fires, and I feel a bullet shatter my right shoulder. Usually a human weapon shouldn’t do that to me, but he’s not wrong. I’m all but dead already. And that one, I do feel.

“See?” comes the leader’s voice again. “Come on. We’re breaking camp. Just leave the system up and running. We’ll skim off what we can on the way. We’ll probably get a decent amount, even if they’re up less than another half hour.”

There are more orders barked, unimportant exchanges, sounds, and a small group moves out around me and leaves.

It becomes almost quiet.

Minutes pass. Just the sound of trees somewhere lush and a little humid. Bugs, some small creatures in the underbrush. And the churning, loud, irritating thud of the engine in their magecraft machine kicking over and over, the thrum of the stakes still operational.

It’s not just mine, I think slowly, trying and failing, like I have been since waking, to get my vision to clear.It’s been three fourths of an hour, but still, I can hear the thrum of stakes other than the one through me. He said ‘another.’ But how many now? I listen, try to hear it past the much louder machine. Focus on frequency. …Three. I hear three distinct, operational stakes. There are two more of us still breathing.

Almost as I think it, though, I hear a whir, and a thrumming stake winds down.

One more.

Me, and one other.

I can barely remember what happened. We were summoned into the middle of it. Chaos. Like being materialized into a woodchipper. Sounds and light, magecraft resonating inside my head. I can’t imagine what it even was, or why. This isn’t supposed to happen. How can they have known?

It’s what I keep thinking. They didn’t summon us. I know, because I didn’t accept a contract. I heard no order given to a single one of us, no command seal, no nothing. It was Alaya. I was brought by the world, by the Counter-Force. We all were. So how. How could they possibly know when and where it would drop us?

It isn’t…it can’t happen. But I can’t ignore the fact it has.

And every last one of us, we’ve failed.

Me and the other poor bastard here still bleeding out too.

I don’t even know who the others were. I didn’t have time to know.

They can’t have known. You can’t set a trap like that at a summon you didn’t create. How. How?!

The Counter Force has one fucking job. I am angry with it. It failed here.

There’s no point in cursing it, but there is nothing left to do but curse.

How was it so effective?! As many of us as there were, how did that trap account for everything Alaya brought? How can they have known?

There’s no point in wondering that either. There’s no point in anything. Even this clinging to life.

And still.

Still, won’t any living thing try to survive? Even half living. Even un-alive?

I guess I don’t really need a point. I don’t usually have one anyway.

I am on my stomach, a rod the width of a tank barrel, clear through my back, about six feet up and another four at least past me into the ground, pinning me. There are sigils in it, sigils in the carved lines on the ground, diverting the magic it leeches out of me to whatever machine is making the thudding fifteen feet off. I can’t even turn my head far enough to see past a few inches off the ground. I can only see part of a tent, and two empty poles, where things like me have already died and vanished. The last of us is past my feet, and no matter how I contort myself, there is no way to turn my head to see them. I could call out, I guess, but what would be the point? We will both die anyway. We will both forget this ever happened in a few minutes. I can’t even be sure they’d be awake to hear me in the first place, and the effort would only kill me sooner.

No point at all.

The second to last hum is gone, then, and any decision beyond that is made for me.

Just me, I realize with an emptiness as the air here grows closer to silence and I feel a presence fade completely.

At least once I am gone, it will be quiet here.

For a moment, I blearily watch my arm and hand, the deep gold crackles along darkened skin, like some sick joke, the way it could evoke kintsugi in the mind, and is the opposite.

What was ever the point?

Obstinate despite the impossibility for some reason, I take a breath and reach up behind me with my left arm, until I find the stake. Agonizingly, I force myself to lift the now badly damaged right arm too. Torn up from the summoned, clinging to materialization by a thread, I just barely get both hands up behind my back, and wrap them around the edges of the pillar sucking what’s left of my materialization away. It’s sharp. What does it matter, I think, and I pray the kind of prayer someone who doesn’t believe in praying anymore gives when facing the barrel of a gun, and I dig my fingers into the cool stone and rip up with all my might.

The pillar slices through my fingers.

I cry out and drag my hands back down, shaking. I feel the tears like a heartbeat in my hand, sharp and ragged. My right hand is severed, only a thumb I can feel left on it now, and as I drag my left back into focus by my head, I see on it the stubs of four fingers and the thumb, cut clean through, and lacerations across the palm that almost sliced it in half completely. I no longer have the appendages to try again.

That really is it, then.

Exhausted, I relax the muscles I still have, and I wait, the thudding of the machine sucking my last dregs of energy away impossible to truly turn out.

My vision blurs, and I let it. There’s no reason to expend the energy now, to try. I can’t get free, and I can’t win a fight. It’s time to let go.

It’s only death, I think. Death is hardly a friend, but it is old, and I know it better than even myself at this point. So, I wait as the blood pools.

…and wait...

The curse of being an Archer class persists. What must be another quarter hour slips through me, before I begin to see the half a hand I have left turning transparent at last.

Thank God, I think in nothing but exhaustion.

It is then that I hear something coming through the trees. It’s east, from behind and to the right of me. Before, I could have turned my head, but even that much effort now would kill me. That shouldn’t matter, but I am too tired to care.

I wait, and listen.

Movement, branches and leaves, and then footfalls. Not before. Before, it was flying or riding. But about fifteen feet off, it begins to walk.

I can feel energy too. Whatever is coming, it’s strong.

It approaches me from behind, and stops by my back for a moment, then a bare foot steps into my twelve inches of blurry vision, and then another. There are intricate spirals of gold wound around the ankles. I try to look up at their owner, but I no longer have the strength to lift my head.

“Oh? Well look at that. You’re still alive after all. Thirteen heroic spirits, and you’re the last one standing. You must be pretty tough, to survive that long like this, in spite of how you look.”

A woman’s voice.

She takes a knee, and I see dark hair, and find the energy to force my head up by an inch. I still can’t see shit, and despite all my effort, I cannot lift my head higher. She reaches down and takes my head in her hand and tilts it for me then, and it’s no longer an issue.

“Mm. You’re in some trouble here, huh?” she asks carelessly.

I glare at her. If I had the strength, I would spit. Sadly, I do not.

“Oooh, what a scary look!” says the woman who looks like a blurry, glowy nothing to me with the sun behind her and my eyes failing. She’s having fun with this. I really wishI could spit. “You know, you should be a little more courteous. I was planning on helping you, if you were nice.”

I hate that I feel a twinge of hope at that.

I’m not stupid. I know she’s fucking with me. Kicking me around because I’m helpless, and it disgusts me, but hope is instinctive. Even in me, occasionally. Something in my expression must betray me for a microsecond, because I see the blurry shape of a face smile.

I swallow, which hurts, and give her the most withering look I can, which probably isn’t much, about to black out.

“Well, as fun as you are to play with, I think you’re going to vanish if I really take my time. –You can hear me, yeah? I know you’re basically a walking corpse, but-” She wipes some of the blood on my face back with a palm, leaning closer, and then stops mid-sentence.

I’m too tired to try and react at all.

“H-Hey, don’t actually die, okay! Here.”

I don’t really process the words.

She takes my discorporating, shred of a left hand, and I feel something smooth and resonating against my palm as she forces what’s left of fingers shut around it.

“Okay! No more time to waste messing around!” I hear her voice like an echo as she stands. There is a sudden sharp, awful pain in my torso, and then I yell with a voice I didn’t think I still had as the pillar is ripped out of me and up. I hear it thud after enough time to mean she must have launched it several yards somehow, but I can’t put more meaning to that past the pain and instinctive jerking of body parts trying to work with a substantial piece of itself missing. I roll onto my side and curl up, fingers closing around the thing placed in my palm and crushing it until I feel it shatter, shards of glass or rock digging into my palm. A massive bust of magical energy accompanies it, rocketing up my arm and into my chest. I feel my about done-in core re-stabilize, body parts re-construct out of new ether, pain subside. And with it, as it repairs itself, my head clears.

After a few seconds, the hole in me closes, and I roll onto my back and take a shaky breath, staring up at cracks of bright blue sky past palm fronds.

“Wow, you made it after all,” comes the woman’s voice, pleased.

I’m exhausted, but with my broken shoulder only cracked now, I push myself up onto my elbows and turn to look.

She’s tall, pale, --Japanese, I think, with massive dark brown, almost black hair that floats around her in a nonexistent wind, and glowing gold eyes. She has summoned something like an intricate floating gold longbow the size of a kayak, and is sitting on its curve as if it were a mount.

“Hm.” She smiles at me, very proud of herself. “So, can you walk yet?”

I spit out some blood.

She laughs and flicks a wrist, summoning a glowing red gemstone, which she slings at me with the casual force of a baseball. I catch it on instinct and look down. There are shards of one just like it still embedded in my hand. I can see the shards shrinking as my fingers re-grow, a transitive alchemy. I know what this is, then.

“Why?” I ask, lowering the hand with the gemstone brimming with magical energy.

“I want a bodyguard,” she says carelessly, leaning forward on the tip of her bow, “And you seem capable enough, so long as you’re not dead.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“You’re a servant. Those jerks with the guns killed all the other ones, and it’s not like I can just go and pick another one up at the nearest mall. My options are limited.” She makes a casual gesture with her hand, all confidence. “Yours too, for that matter.”

“You’re a heroic spirit,” I say. I was too dead to sense before what exactly she was, but I can now. And a high class one, by the feel. Divine, at a guess.

“So?” she says, “All that matters is I’ve got enough magic to keep you, me, and a couple more going, if I wanted to. I’m independent. You need a master.”

“Is that an offer?” I say, a little taken aback. Not unheard of, but it’s not exactly standard for a spirit to bind another spirit to itself.

“Obviously,” she says. She hops off her bow and walks over, crouches down with her arms on her knees, and tilts her head at me, hair billowing out behind her. She studies me a few seconds, and her eyes flicker, turn a deep red, and there’s something about them that I feel strangely towards. Strangely and intensely, like I can’t even remember feeling before, ever. Then they’re gold again, and she breaks her eye contact and shrugs, and I’m left completely unable to tell what just happened. “So, are you ready to go?”

I wonder if I even can walk yet.

Probably, if I have to. She wasn’t kidding about the quantity or quality of magic in the gemstones she’s packing, at least.

“What makes you so sure I’ll follow you,” I say dismissively, pulling myself up off my shoulders to sit at her level. Ow.

She snorts. “Of course you will. It’s not like you have any better offers. Plus, you want revenge on the people who did this to you, don’t you?”

Yes.

“You need me at least as much as I need you.” She becomes suddenly flustered. “You need me more!—I don’t need a bodyguard, I just want one! But you, you need not to be dead. So?”

I watch her. She’s…familiar, somehow. But I have the memory of a block of wood, now. Even day to day. I wish I at least had a better impression if it was good, bad, or neutral familiar.

“Well?” she prompts, crossing her arms in a huff after about ten seconds of silence.

“You did a bad job of that. If you wanted to make me be your servant, you should have forced me into a contract before you gave me the gemstones,” I point out.

She clicks her tongue and snorts in disgust. “And what kind of bodyguard would that get me? If I made you a thrall, you’d be chomping at the bit to stab me in the back at the first opportunity you could survive! No. You don’t want someone with a dagger to their throat as the guy protecting you; the only kind of bodyguard worth anything is one who actually wants to take a blade for you. Or at least is willing to. Anything else is a waste of time.  I’d rather have someone owe me a debt any day, than be holding a loaded bow to them. A bow only works until you mess up. A debt sometimes works even after you do.”

There is an inarguable logic to that. It’s an unusual thing for a person to say, admitting to pragmatism rather than acting out of the goodness of their heart, but then, I guess she’s not trying to make me feel indebted. She’s talking about debt as if it’s a physical object, like the stone I’m holding. And in its own way, I guess she’s right. Whatever else is true about her, I think she means what she’s said, and my personal way of thinking or not, it’s a level of candor I can deal with it. And, I do owe her. Her pointing that out doesn’t change it.

“Fair enough,” I decide.

I drag myself to my feet, a little unsteady, and she hops up and reaches out a hand like she might catch me, then sighs and deflates as I steady my stance and blink down at my damaged limbs.

“No wonder you’re taking so long. You don’t just hold the gem. You either focus on it and suck the magic out, or you crush it to activate it.” She’s pointing to the gem I’m still holding. “Just holding it won’t do anything.”

I glance down at the red stone, pulsing slowly like a heart in my palm.

“…” When I look up, she’s watching me carefully. “I have more,” she says, almost a smile playing across her lips this time, “If you want to hold onto one for insurance, in case you have a reason to ditch me later, that’s fine, but use one of them so we can get going. Jeeze.” She summons and tosses me another little gemstone, a blue one this time, but with much the same feel to it in my hand. This one, I crush.

The energy surges through me like the pulse of an AED, just like the first, and I feel less severe wounds close, stiffness lift, senses sharpen.

“Good boy,” says the woman, very visibly pleased, “Okay then. Follow me.”

That would usually piss me off to a violent level, but the woman doesn’t reek elitism when she talks. Just a careless, playfulness, like this is a game we are both playing, and she is quite enjoying. She floats back up to her giant bow, and begins to ride it casually. I decide to let being talked to like a dog slide, all things considered, and fall into step just behind and to the side.

Very strange, how things turn out…

“What do I call you,” I ask after a moment. That’s strange, too. Usually, I wouldn’t feel the need to ask someone that. Maybe…maybe I did meet her before, on another summon. It wouldn’t be a surprise. I barely remember any of my own life. I’m lucky to know my name. Every summon is a blur. All but one, which I wish I could forget. Still, I don’t have nothing. Even I get echoes here and there.

“Ishtar,” says Ishtar, glancing at me, “Or ‘My Goddess,’ or ‘My Lady,’ would do too, I guess, or ‘Lady Ishtar.’ ‘Queen of the Heavens.’ ‘Goddess of War. Justice. Fertility. Love, Law.’”

I get it, okay. What a pain.

“…And you?”

I look over in surprise, but of course that’s the natural thing to be asked here. “I don’t have one,” I reply.

She double takes and stops walking, or, floating, and crinkles her brow at me. “Yes you do.”

? “No,” I say, “Not anymore.”

“Well, I’m not calling you nothing,” she huffs.

“I’m an Archer,” I offer.

“So am I; I’m not calling you my own class,” she says in even more disgust, arms folding over her chest.

I sigh internally. Okay. Then… “…I’m an Alter,” I offer after a moment of consideration.

She is about to shoot that down too on instinct, but then thinks it over, and sighs. “That’s the best you can do? You won’t give me, your Master, your True Name?”

You haven’t made me forge a binding contract yet, ‘Master,’ I think, but I say, “I don’t really have one to give anymore.”

“That’s…depressing.” She looks me up and down again. “What happened to you? Not the mage trap thing. Before that. I have literally never seen a gallu look so burned out. You look like if a heroic spirit had to solo bottleneck the exit to Kur for a thousand years.”

Thanks. I shrug.

“You’re not much for conversation, huh?” she says, genuinely disappointed.

I almost laugh.

She can tell, I guess, because she smiles at me. “Well, I will for both of us then, ‘Alter.’ But you’ve gotta get a better name sometime. I wouldn’t even call my dog just, ‘Dog.’ Everything deserves some kind of a true name.”

I gesture to the jungle ahead, and she gives a sigh and starts moving again.

It occurs to me then.

“Where exactly are we going?” That you’d want or need a body guard for, too?

“Oh! Right.” She looks over her shoulder at me with those glowing gold eyes, and they flash like the sun itself for an instant. “Hunting.”