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britishassistant · 2 years ago

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People Die When They Are Killed (So Let’s Keep You Breathing)

“Kalim!” His footsteps pound as he races through the hallways of the school, breath coming in harsh pants. “Kalim!!”

Not here. He’s not at the front desk, not in the classroom, not in the Light Music Club room, so where—?!

Jamil’s eye catches the full moon rising outside the window.

He grimaces and throws open the next door.

He’s got to find him. The punishment for returning to the Asim compound without Kalim doesn’t bear thinking about. And that’s even if his stupid master has just done something totally innocuous in the name of having a “proper Japanese high school experience”, like go over to one of his many, many friends’ places for a “jam session”.

On the night of the start of the Fifth Holy Grail War.

The back of Jamil’s hand itches.

He grits his teeth. It’s a rash, just a rash, nothing more. He’s Kalim’s aide, a servant, maybe one with the potential for magecraft, but nothing compared to the Asim heir, one of the seven participants in this new Grail War.

He’s the one to do the dirty work, take care of the practicalities of technology and slit throats in back alleys. If they ever thought differently…

Why did he humor Floyd’s mood in basketball club this evening?! If he hadn’t, he and Kalim would be safe in the compound, preparing for the summoning. Instead he’s running through a dark school, searching for—!

“Jamil?”

He whips around on his heel to see Kalim emerge from a storage closet.

“Ah! Jamil!” The stupid, asinine, self-absorbed, obsequious, pusillanimous blockhead cheers as he waves. “Did’ja come here looking for me? Sorry I’m so late! Lilia asked me and Cater to put all the stuff back after club this evening, but Cater had a date to get to, so I told him to go ahead so I’d do it! But then the guitar amp got jammed, and it scraped the wall, so I was looking for some paint to—”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you?!” Jamil hisses, marching over. “We need to get back to the compound right now!”

“Huh? Why?” Kalim tilts his head to the side.

Jamil fights the urge to pull his hood over his face and scream.

“It is,” The very edges of his tone are teetering with enforced politeness. “The first night of the Holy Grail War. The one that you are summoning a servant for, and participating in. It’s not safe to be outside right now.”

Kalim frowns even as Jamil begins frogmarching him away from the closet and towards the stairs, bucket of paint still in hand. “Well, yeah, but Uncle said that they wanna wait until like, really late to try it, right? And it’s just the first night, everyone else will still be summoning themselves.”

It takes everything Jamil has not to facepalm.

“Except,” He grits out. “There are certain times that are more ideal for summoning certain servants. You’re aiming for Caster at 2AM, but some servants will be summoned later than that, and most will be summoned earlier. And it’ll be a win for the master of the Shroud family or the Kingscholar family if they manage to take their opponents out right away rather than wait until everyone’s summoned and ready. Honestly, do you pay any atten—?”

He doesn’t even see anything coming.

One moment, he’s pulling Kalim along, intent on getting back to the Asim compound—

The next, he’s hitting the ground, instinctually throwing his master under him as the windows next to them explode.

It almost sounds like the very wind itself is trying to kill them, the whines and shrieks of gusts as wave upon wave upon wave of arrows pierce the walls and doors on the other side of the corridor.

Kalim is screaming, crying, and it’s all Jamil can do to try and push him to crawl towards the stairwell.

It’s a servant, he thinks as he tries to ignore the way his heart is pounding, the terror trying to get him to lose focus. The servant of a rival master, taking the opportunity presented to murder the heir to the Asim and any witnesses. Probably Archer, if the arrows are any indication, though Caster or Berserker aren’t totally out of the realm of possibility—

Kalim shrieks again as the windows on the floor below are shattered, the brightly colored fletches quivering where they’ve embedded themselves in the floor.

Right. Enemy servant. They need to either get out of the building (bad idea, open space with nowhere to hide from the threat, death sentence) or else find somewhere to hide and call for help.

Somewhere the servant can’t easily pick them off from the outside—!

“The coach’s office,” He gasps, “Behind the locker rooms, go Kalim, go!!”

Kalim’s eyes are wet and scared, but at least he responds to Jamil’s order, nodding and darting down the stairs as fast as he can, running bent double with Jamil hot on his heels.

The locker rooms are on the ground floor, right by the stairs. While they had thin slits of windows near the ceiling, to provide some natural light for the occupants, Coach Vargas’ office, piled high with dusty paperwork and sparkling trophies, does not have the same luxury. Small, contained, with no easy access from the exterior—it’s the only truly secure room in the building that they can easily reach.

Kalim raced through the door and Jamil pushes it shut behind them, frantically straining to drag the coach’s desk in front of it and fumbling around in the dark to find the fire extinguisher and loop it’s cord around the handle, just to be sure.

There’s a moment where he and Kalim are panting in the dark, ears straining to hear anything.

A distant crash.

His phone is in his hand before he even knows what he’s doing, jabbing in the number for Jakuzure-san, the senior steward of the Asim compound in this country.

“Viper-san?” Comes Jakuzure-san’s indistinct, shaky voice. “Where are you and Kalim-sama? The masters expected you both back—”

“We’re at Night Raven College.” Jamil says, barely able to keep the panic out of his tone. “Kalim and I, we were—there’s a servant outside. They’re using arrows, they’re trying to kill us, I, I don’t know if the master is nearby or not. We’re in the coach’s office, hiding for now, but it won’t last long. We need help, backup, now.”

“A-ah! Right!” Jakuzure-san’s voice gets even more tremulous, if possible. “I shall inform the masters, and they shall have our contingent of mages—!”

“Jakuzure? Who’s that?” Are the muffled words that Jamil can barely make out.

“Namir-sama! It is Kalim-sama’s aide, Viper-san. They are trapped at Night Raven College by a rival servant!” Jakuzure-san wails.

“What?!” Jamil can hear Namir Al-Asim’s voice much more clearly as he raises his voice and gets closer. “That little fool is…wait. Stop. Don’t you dare—! Give me that you doddering old fool—!”

“But Na—!”

There’s nothing but a dial tone.

Jamil stares at the phone in disbelief. He hits redial, and again, and again, and again—!

“Ja-Jamil?” He looks up to see Kalim’s quivering form in the corner, barely able to make out his features in the dark. “Th-they’re coming, right? W-when are they getting here?”

He wants to tell the truth for once, just once. No one’s coming, Kalim. They’ve left us for dead, so that Jawad or Namir can take your place as heir. We’re going to die. We’re both going to die here, in Coach Vargas’ office, and it is all. Your. Fault.

His throat tightens.

“They’re held up. Some other master is trying to get into the compound.” He lies. “We. We need to get ourselves out of this.”

The distant crashes are getting closer.

“Oi~~! Young masters~~! Come out, come out wherever you are~!” The voice calling out is light, boyish, like it could be one of their underclassmen. “It’s seriously lame for super powerful mages like you to go playing hide and seek like little kids! Won’t you come give me a challenge~?”

Kalim’s whimper is like a gunshot. Honestly, does he want this servant to catch—!

Wait.

“Kalim,” Jamil’s whisper feels too loud, far too loud, but this may be the only way they survive this. “Do you remember how to draw the summoning seal?”

“What?” It takes a moment, but he sees the metaphorical lightbulb go off. “Oh! Oh, so if we summon my servant in here, we can deal with the guy outside and go save everyone at the compound!”

“Yeah,” And, Jamil adds in his head, if you have a summoned servant already, then Namir’s plans to usurp Kalim’s place as the Asim representative and heir will come to a screeching halt. “You didn’t drop that can of paint?”

“Nope!” There’s a sloshing sound. “Ah! I think I spilled some.”

It’s hard, trying to ensure the lines and characters are correct when daubing white paint onto the carpet with their fingers by the dim light of Jamil’s phone screen.

Kalim shifts as Jamil places the finishing touches. “Wh-what about the catalyst? It’s back at the compound.”

“We’ll have to do without.” Jamil replies brusquely. “It’ll be harder, but not impossible. Just means we won’t know which servant will come.”

He hears Kalim’s intake of breath as he prepares to ask another question.

The next crash is right outside the office.

“Huh,” The servant’s voice is bright, slightly exasperated. “Are you hiding around here, little princelings? I’ve torn most of the building to shreds, so this is the last place left to look~! Jeez, you brats really love to make a guy work for it, ya know?”

Jamil tries to stifle the terror in his gut as he finishes the last sigil. “There! Kalim, do it now!”

“R-right!” Kalim’s whisper is filled with resolve.

He rubs his hands together, and Jamil feels the small room begin to fill with the cool feeling of Kalim’s magic, like standing by one of the canals or in the spray of a fountain on a scorching day. The incantation rises and falls, like steps to a song almost forgotten.

There’s a muffled thump.

Nothing happens.

“Kalim?” He whispers. “What—?”

Three arrows pierce through the thick, reinforced wood of the fire door to Coach Vargas’ office with sharp, staccato thuds.

“Found you~” The servant sing-songs.

“Kalim,” Jamil starts, volume rising with the number of arrows destroying the door. “Any day now would be great!”

“I-I can’t!”

“What do you mean, you can’t?!” Jamil snaps, stress making his voice crack. “Either you do this Kalim, or we die!”

“I’m trying, I am, but I, I, just—!” And there’s the wobble in his voice that Jamil has hated ever since they were kids, the one always heralded a crying fit, that lead to his parents taking him aside and saying be nice and let Kalim do better than you this time, you need to let him win, he is an Asim after all. “I can’t, Jamil!”

The noise that emerges from his throat is inarticulate and nearly bestial with frustration.

“Get out of the way then!”

“Wha-Jamil!!”

It may be fine for Kalim, who can mess up and mess up and mess up and still be fine because he’s the heir of the Asim, doted on and praised and adored.

But Jamil is a Viper, is the one who always has to clean up these messes, who has to cover for these mistakes, and he has never ever had the luxury of being anything less than perfectly vigilant. Not when it was the life of his master and his own head on the line.

Please, he thinks as he opens the magic circuits he’s avoided using, that he’s been taught to pretend aren’t there, as he recites the incantation he’s not meant to know, somebody, anybody, come here and help me fix this. Don’t let me and my stupid master die like this!

He pushes—!

It burns, like sand scraping the nerves of his arms raw.

There’s a blast of bright light that fills the tiny office and whites out his vision.

The first thing he feels is the cool night breeze on his face.

The next is Kalim, quivering behind him. His hands are fisted tight in his hoodie.

When he finally blinks his eyes open, he finds his master unharmed, if ruining his favorite hoodie with the white paint coating his fingers. Instead Kalim seems to be staring at something…behind…him…

Jamil Viper turns to look.

The figure standing silhouetted in the moonlight is a monstrous one.

Towering horns protruding from its head, its eyes bulging and yellow, the stark white of its face contorted into a fearsome grimace which bare the tusks erupting from its maw. It looks like it walked out of the museums Kalim dragged him to when they first came to this country, thick leather and tarnished steel buckled over flowing, bloodstained silks. It clutches a polearm, the long, thin blade at the top gleaming viciously under the moon.

Behind the figure stands a grotesque beast that can neither be cat nor weasel for all that its features bear some resemblance to those animals. It’s head is maned with what could be an octopus’ tentacles, and its tail and hindquarters are scaled, with a hood cobra head swaying at the end of its tail, tasting the air. The grasping hands which serve as its forepaws clench and uncurl, the black skin of them cracking as the main head swings around to take them in, phosphoric blue flames leaking from its eyes, it’s ears, seeping out from between its bared teeth.

Jamil stares, mouth dry. There’s a throbbing in his right hand.

“I ask of you,” You say. “Which of you is my master?”

The boy with short white hair lets out a whimper and shifts closer to the one with long dark hair. “Ja-Jamil…!”

That one hasn’t stopped staring at you with a mixture of shock and awe since you materialized. Maybe not the most conventional summoning, especially since you can’t really feel much mana flow from him to you, but hey, you’re here, aren’t you?

In a physical body and breathing again since you died, what? Two hundred, three hundred years ago?

You shift your mask to the side of your head to get a better look at the boy you’ll be calling Master for the rest of this Grail War.

Hm. Skinny, but not underweight, some muscle on him from the way he’s crouched in front of his friend (who, white-haired, better fed, less muscular, better quality clothing, adorned with jewels, hiding—silver spoon heir or you’ll eat your mask). Wary line of the mouth, so not some idealistic brat you’ll have to babysit and cater to the whims of. Maybe a bit untrained in the magic department, but there’s potential there, you can feel it. Lovely hair, silky and well cared for, worn long as a samurai’s should be.

And your command seals on the back of his hand.

Not bad. No, not bad at all.

You kneel before the boy—this “Jamil”— and bow your head respectfully before your liege lord. Behind you, you can feel Grim mimic you, as best he’s able.

“Well met, Master. I am servant Rider. I and my allies will be in your care from now on.”

Your Master swallows, licks his lips. Is he nervous?

That’s kind of cute.

Which is, naturally, when you hear a bow being loosed.

Your naginata snaps out, slicing the arrows in half before they can touch your new master.

“Excuse me,” You lift your hannya mask back over your face, turning to confront the interloper. “We are trying to have a civil conversation here.”

The red-headed Archer gasps. “Oh no! I’m so sorry mister, I’ll just put killing you on hold…not. You’re in the Grail War now, newbie! Ya snooze, ya lose.”

“What was that, ya punk?!” Grim snarls, tail lashing and hissing. “Minion! This guy is challenging the authority of the Great Grim Sama! The strongest yōkai and the finest hero who ever lived!”

“And I’ve never heard of you!” The Archer says cheerfully.

Grim lets out an inarticulate shriek of rage.

You sigh as you study the Archer.

That garb…definitely old Europe, pre-1600s at the very least. Noble bearing, but someone who’s got used to roughing it. Plus that red hair and those arrows that strike as fast and true as the wind…

“You know, I always thought you’d be a bit nicer.” You say conversationally, “With the whole tragically dispossessed noble, steal from the rich and corrupt shit. Right, Ace Trappola?”

Ace Trappola, servant Archer, actually begins choking on his own spit.

You guess this is why people say never meet your heroes.

“Wh-how the hell does some freaky-ass masked weirdo know who I am?!” He demands.

“I was born in 1853,” You deadpan. “Even we’d heard of legends like you by then.”

The guy actually scuffs the floor with his boot, lets out a borderline embarrassed laugh as he scruffs a hand through his hair. “W-well, of course you have! You’d hafta be from some backwater to not have heard of—!”

Your naginata swipes across where his throat would have been had he not sprung backwards.

“Yes.” Your sweet smile under the mask is apparent in your voice. “I also heard how you unfortunately died to some monk bleeding you like a stuck pig. I may not have the same level of finesse as he did, but please forgive me if I get too rough, okay?”

Ace Trappola lands in the center of some kind of dusty field, teeth bared in a fierce grin. “That wasn’t cute at all, you know! Ah man, just my luck that I’d be stuck educating a crazy upstart of a junior.”

“First lesson,” The arrow in his bow quivers, appears to split into hundreds and thousands of itself even before being loosed. “Don’t get so cocky, brat.”

The arrow screams as it is fired, blotting out the moon and the stars with how many of them are covering the night sky and converging on you and your master.

“Grim!” You bark.

“On it, fgnah!”

Grim inhales to the point where he’s swollen to almost twice his usual size, the flames around his head sputtering and almost going out.

When he exhales, the night is lit with a torrent of his blue fire.

You knock away a few errant arrows from your master and his friend that managed to escape being melted in the inferno.

“W-wait!” The friend cries. “You, you can’t fight him!”

You blink at the inherent ridiculousness of this statement. “Yes I can. That’s what we’re doing right now. Fighting him.”

“N-no! I mean,” The friend wrings his hands, flaking white stuff. Is that…is that paint? “I mean we don’t have time for you to fight him! There’s, there’s a master attacking the compound, we gotta get there and help them out right away! Right, Jamil?”

Your master says nothing, still staring at you.

“Jamil?!”

“Huh? Oh, ah,” He coughs, suddenly looking anywhere but you. “Yes, Rider, it. It would be best if we made a strategic retreat for now. We need to return to the Asim compound, as we don’t know what Archer’s master is planning.”

You could take him. You and Grim could make mincemeat of Ace Trappola, given enough time and property damage. But if your master says otherwise…

“Alright.” You nudge Grim’s flank. “If that is what my master desires, your wish is my command. Would you be able to direct me and Grim if you rode in front?”

Your master and his friend nod.

“Heh! Be grateful, humans!” Grim boasts as he kneels down and you hoist yourself onto his back. “Thanks to my minion’s begging, I, the Great Grim Sama, shall allow you to ride me!”

The friend scrambles up with all the eagerness of a child mounting their first pony. Your master looks a little more wary as he approaches and grips Grim’s fur to get a good handhold to swing himself up and over.

“Don’t worry,” He stiffens up as you murmur to him. “I won’t let you fall.”

Oh, you think as he clutches at his ear and twists around to stare at you, wide-eyed. You like this one.

“Running away so soon?” Ace Trappola jeers, nocking another one of those multiplying arrows. “As if I’d let you!”

You lean over your master as Grim begins to run, your body weight pressing him and his friend down below the protective mantle of Grim’s manes. You’re not exactly eager to find out what those arrows will do to you if they lodge into you, but better you get turned into a pincushion than your master.

And if this Archer thinks that wielding your naginata one-handed will make you any less precise, then he’s about to pay dearly for it.

You see his arm prepare to let the arrow(s) fly—!

Something large and black comes hurtling through the air and hits Ace Trappola in the face.

You stare as Archer topples over under the weight of…

“Is. Is that a pot?” Your master asks, squinting.

“It’s a cauldron. I think.” You tilt your head.

“Nyaha! Nice one, minion!” Grim cheers, “That’s what you get for messing with the Mighty Yōkai Grim!”

“But that wasn’t—”

“WHAT THE HELL?!” Ace Trappola screeches, flailing under the huge mass of cast iron. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?! DID YOU SERIOUSLY THROW A FUCKING CAULDRON AT ME?!”

“It’s dishonorable to attack an enemy’s back.” A serious voice calls. “As heroes, we should obey the laws of chivalry when engaging in our battles.”

The servant who has entered the field is the very picture of a knight in shining armor at first glance. His plate and chainmail gleam under the moonlight, his spear polished to an unearthly sheen.

But his face is decorated with a blue warpaint that makes you suspect his legend is much older and less clean-cut than he initially appears.

“Oh yeah, and it’s real fucking CHIVALROUS to throw COOKWARE at someone fighting a battle that YOU AREN’T INVOLVED IN, DUMBASS!!” Ace Trappola finally unearths himself, looking worse for wear. “What, did your mom drop you on your head ten times over or something?!”

The new servant’s expression darkens.

His posture shifts until he resembles a rowdy brigand more than a noble warrior, the new shadows blotting out some of the gleam from his armor, making it appear rougher and used.

“Hah?!” The blue warpaint turns his face into a mask almost as terrifying as your own. “Ya got somethin’ t’ say about ma lady mother you snot-nosed little fuck?!”

And there it is.

“A lady?” Ace Trappola smirks, bow now aimed at a new target. “That wasn’t what she sounded like last night~”

Wow. You didn’t know someone could turn that color from rage.

The servant—probably a Lancer—launches himself towards the Archer with a war cry.

“As fascinating as this is,” Your master mutters in front of you. “Maybe we should use this opportunity to make our escape?”

“Seems like it could be fun to watch,” You gently nudge Grim’s flanks. “But that probably would be best. Now, we’ll just make our escape qui—”

“FGNAH! SO LONG, SUCKERS!” Grim proclaims at the top of his lungs, heedless of your and your master’s attempts to get him to shut the fuck up. “YOU MAY LIVE TO SEE ANOTHER DAY THIS TIME, BUT THE GREAT GRIM SAMA WILL RETURN TO CONSUME YOUR MEASLY SOULS!!”

With a single bound, Grim leaps from the ground to the roof of the ruined building your master was taking shelter in. He takes a running start, and vaults over the flimsy fence at the top into the air.

Your master and his friend scream.

You grin.

The flames that form beneath Grim’s legs aren’t like wings, you don’t think they serve any practical purpose to help him fly. But it makes for an astonishing sight nonetheless—looking down and seeing blue fire between you and the sprawling city below.

“Fl-flying!” Your master’s friend gasps. “We’re—we’re actually flying!! Look, look Jamil! It’s like we’re on a magic carpet, for real!! We’re flying!!”

“Kalim, be careful!” Your master scolds as he yanks him back from where he was leaning over the side to get a better look. “You are not going to break your neck after everything we’ve gone through to get out of this!”

“It’s not like it’s a big deal.” Grim rumbles beneath you dismissively. “Even if he fell, the Great Grim Sama would catch him, ya know?”

“That’s not the point,” Your master groans.

There’s a faint crash behind you.

You twist around to see Ace Trappola pull himself out of the roof of the ruined building and begin yelling at the Lancer back on the ground.

Did. Did that Lancer try to stop you all from escaping. By throwing another servant?? At you???

You shift back around. “What kind of troublesome war have you gone and got us involved in, Master?”

Your master groans, burying his face in his hand. “Don’t blame me for his incompetence.”

You can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes you with that sentiment. How many times in life have you thought the same thing?

You think this is the start of a beautiful partnership.

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