The Strange Medium Guy with a Bad Haircut

Aka Pearson Mui

Presents

A Revolutionary Girl Utena/Fate/Stay Night Crossover

Fate of the Roses

Writer's note/disclaimer: All characters not created by me are owned by the following individuals/groups:

Chiho Saito

Be-Papas

TYPE-MOON

Kinoko Nasu

CLAMP

This story is not written for profit, as any or all of the aforementioned individuals would gladly sue me to oblivion should I go insane and attempt such a stupid move.

Prologue

On a hill, overlooking a small church, a white horse waited patiently for its next command. It didn't snort, nor did it try to paw at the grass as a sign of restlessness. As far as the horse was concerned, the rider's word was law, absolute and unquestioned.

The rider would have thought that to be mildly ironic. Much like his horse, he too was resplendent in white. His clothes took on a regal, yet military look. Golden epaulets adorned his shoulders, and at his side was a sword in its scabbard. Thankfully, he had not had much occasion to use the sword recently.

White gloves combed through short lavender hair. The cool breeze and the light rain helped keep him awake. He was exhausted almost beyond description. It was no mere weariness of the body, but of the soul as well. In those few moments when he dared to sleep, to give himself some measure of rest, that he could feel his thoughts take on a dark and selfish bent.

Your name means "God," it whispered to him. You have power beyond what most could imagine. Cease these trivial labors and show them what true peace is like. Let them cry to you for help as often as they like, but answer only the few. They don't appreciate you and they never will. No matter how many you save, they will always call for you. How does it feel to be always reliable, always put upon, o noble savior? Take what is rightfully yours.

He sighed and looked at the ring on his left ring finger. It bore the stylized symbol of a rose, but it was no mere decorative bauble. Had events gone another way, it would have been the key to his relief.

It would have been something wondrous, he thought to himself. And it all started with his dear sister.

Even she wasn't quite sure where she had gotten the idea. She had been worrying about him, hoping that she could find some solution in their voluminous library. There were neither solutions nor solace to his situation, though. He was alone, the only Prince, and he had undeniable obligations to his people.

Exhausted, she went outside and sat on a bench near the lake. She had hoped that the surroundings could quell the nagging sense of imminent defeat that she was feeling.

Somewhere along the way, she had fallen asleep. She claimed that a voice, gentle and kind, told her a story in her dreams. It told a tale of a war for possession between seven mages. It was a battle to seize a relic which would give the winner the ability to make a single wish come true. No matter how noble, how twisted, how grand or how petty the wish, it would be granted.

As she related this part to him, he had nodded abstractly. A wish-granting relic, no matter how powerful, was a one-shot deal. It was a danger to anyone who would voice a wish that could be misinterpreted in even the slightest manner. A wish for world peace, for example, could result in a world that was totally devoid of life. A wish for an end to famine and other forms of suffering might take a similar path.

What truly caught his attention was the method of battle that these seven mages used. Obviously, they used offensive and defensive spells. Some of the later mages had modified conventional weaponry to counter even the strongest defenses. A "magic bullet" was not an unattainable ideal.

However, these were background noise to the true weapons. Each mage, dubbed a Master, would summon a Servant and bind them to their will with a command seal. Each Servant was a specialist in a certain class. One might specialize in melee combat, another would be long-distance. One Servant was even a powerful mage.

All of them were the spirits of legendary heroes given flesh by magic. As they fought each other, their ultimate weapons indicative of their identities would be revealed. In the end, only one Master and one Servant could use that relic to grant that wish.

The voice had told his sister that the battle had raged three times, leaving no clear victor. On the fourth attempt to gain the relic, its physical form was destroyed by the victor, but at a terrible cost. The fifth and final war had the relic, now corrupted as an instrument of destruction, destroyed once and for all.

She awoke from her slumber and bolted from her bench at the lake. With renewed vigor, she once again combed their library for hints and clues as to whether or not a miracle could occur.

One Prince could not possibly hope to see to the needs of everyone in his realm. However, seven Servants who could be sworn to his cause would lighten his burden immeasurably. He saw the merit in this desperate plan, and offered what help he could. She traveled far and wide for the materials that could offer salvation. She even went so far as to craft a temporary receptacle for these heroic spirits, should they not be needed. This Throne of Heroes, as she called it, would be used only in an emergency.

The summoning, however, offered little except disappointment. Of the seven heroic spirits that they had hoped for, only six had materialized. The seventh Servant was but a small, glowing orb. Upon touching it, he realized that it contained the memories and power of that missing Servant, but the soul was nowhere to be found.

Unabashed, he tried to rally the remaining Servants to his cause. It would be for the common good, he told them. They would be heroes once again, and they would be living a second chance.

It was around then that they started attacking each other. They were not interested in being part of a greater good. The remnants of a compulsion to battle were too strong for reasonable words to get through. They were intent on killing each other and anyone who stood in their way. Each and every one of them was determined to be the last one standing, and the surrounding country could have been laid waste if he hadn't acted.

With regret, he did so. He forced the six Servants who had materialized into the Throne of Heroes with his sister's help. She then laid a seal upon the Throne so that only in desperate times could such power be accessed. They, and only they, could free the spirits.

That left the wayward orb of memories and power. It seemed harmless enough, and he felt it almost calling to him. Once again, he prevailed upon his sister to seal this odd phenomenon away, but not in the Throne. The closest he could come to a command seal was the signet ring that he wore.

That had been seven years ago. He wandered his country, helping whomever he could when he felt their pain and anguish. His empathy, he mused, was both his best and worst part.

He was pulled away from his reminiscing by the solemn ringing of the church bells below. Not knowing why, he had his horse go down the hill, closer to the church, but still some distance away. His keen eyes spotted two young boys, no older than 10, walking out of the church. One had long, straight red hair, and the other had long, vaguely wavy green hair. The red-haired boy was marching resolutely out, and his companion was of a more disconsolate gait.

"Wait! Are we really going to let that girl do that?" the green-haired boy asked.

"Then show her something eternal," his friend replied, not looking back.

He watched them go, and he could feel someone in utter anguish. It was obvious that this was a funeral, but there was an undeniable force that was pulling him to the church.

Two men in dark suits stopped him. He could forgive them for not recognizing him. After all, it was dark, rainy, and he probably looked nothing like his usual self.

"Sir, this is a private funeral," one of them began. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave."

His companion looked startled, then nudged the first man in the ribs. There was a frantic whispered conversation and both men parted to let him through, horse and all.

"My deepest apologies, sir, I didn't-"

"It's all right," he reassured them with a confidence that he barely felt. "Whose funeral is this?"

They told him. They also informed him of a missing girl that they'd been assigned to find.

"I'll take it from here," he said simply, dismounting. "You'll find her soon."

It was dark in the church, as expected. He trusted his instincts, and they led him to a small room with three coffins. Three of them were occupied, but two of them had corpses, and recent ones at that. He didn't have to open them to know.

The third coffin, however, contained a young girl, curled up in a fetal position among the scattered flower petals within. She had been crying, and she resolutely closed her eyes at the new intrusion.

"Leave me alone," she said quietly.

"Coffins are for the dead, little one," he replied. "You still have a life ahead of you."

"I don't want it," she told him and tried to bury herself under the petals.

He sighed to himself. This little girl's pain was calling to him? And yet, there was something, a spark that could be fanned into something greater, if given the chance. It would mean, of course, giving up his last link to a well-meaning experiment.

Given how that experiment had turned out, it really wasn't much of a sacrifice, now was it, he thought to himself. His sister, of course, would ask questions, and he would have to answer to her.

Despite his fatigue, he smiled. He gently stroked the girl's pink hair until, almost against her will, she rolled onto her back to face him. For one disconcerting moment, he had the feeling that this was what she would look like if she were truly meant to be in the coffin.

A whisper of power flowed through him as dormant candles flared to life. The girl blinked at the unexpected light, each had their first good look at each other.

There was no pity in his eyes. Those beautiful eyes were full of kindness, concern, and honest compassion. He could see the trails that her tears had left from her blue eyes. Without a word, he helped her upright and kissed the tears away. He then gathered her into a hug and gently stroked her hair until she stopped shaking.

They parted, and she saw his gentle smile. She felt the weight in her heart lift, even if only slightly.

"Little one who bears up under such sorrow," he began, "never lose your nobility." He took off his rose signet ring and put on her left ring finger. "This ring will lead you to me."

He stood up and held out his hand. In awe at how tall he was, she took his hand, and she stepped out of the coffin. She took a glance at the two coffins that contained her parents, and for a moment thought that she was going to retreat back. He felt relieved when she came forward with him.

When they exited the church, the two men in suits were waiting. He gently urged the pink-haired girl to her guardians, and she shuffled reluctantly to their protective custody.

His job finished, the man in white turned to leave. His horse was waiting patiently near the drive leading to the main road. Nobody had gotten close to it, which was quite fortunate for all involved. In these increasingly turbulent times, he had half-expected someone to try to make off with the horse. They wouldn't have succeeded, but it was reassuring to know that he was still held in some esteem by the ordinary people.

"Who are you?" the girl asked, her blue eyes wide with wonder. He was happy to see that the shadows around her eyes had faded, at least for the moment.

"You don't know, little miss?" one of the guards asked incredulously. "That's none other than-"

The guard was quietly hushed by a gesture from the man in white. This was followed by a faintly mischievous smile as he put his index finger to his lips.

Walking towards the girl, he knelt down and pointed to the ring she now wore. He wasn't sure if she had seen him, or the uniform and its trappings. He supposed that it didn't matter.

"Remember what I said, little one," he murmured quietly. "As for who I am, I am but a passing prince. Saving people is part of what I do." Getting up, he strode to his horse. Before he got on, however, he gave her a little wave.

As he rode off, the girl clutched her newfound treasure. She no longer wanted to join her parents in death. In her darkest hour, someone had come and given her hope.

It was the gentle, quiet manner which impressed her the most. He wasn't flashy or overbearing, but there was a certain confidence that she couldn't help but notice. It seemed as if he knew exactly what to do in any situation, even rescuing a silly little depressed girl.

How wonderful it must be, she thought, to be a prince like that. Every parent called their girls their little princesses, but princesses were dependent on everyone else all the time.

Utena Tenjou fingered the rose signet ring on her finger and decided that she didn't want to be a little princess anymore. She wanted to be like that prince, to help people in need. Maybe someday they might meet again. He certainly seemed like the kind of person who kept his promises.

Some distance away, a young girl blinked. Green eyes looked around inquisitively, and she angled her head as if she were trying to listen for something.

[What's wrong, dear?] her mother asked, her words tinged with a British accent.

[I'm not sure, Mom,] the girl replied. [I thought that I heard someone call me.]

The mother eyed her daughter for a moment. [I didn't hear anything. Are you sure about this?]

The girl cocked her head and looked around one more time. Upon hearing nothing, she shook her head and sighed. [I guess I imagined it. Weird.]

The mother smiled indulgently and patted her daughter gently on the back. [Come on, my little miracle girl. Let's go home.]

The girl smiled brightly as she grabbed her mother's hand. She didn't quite tug her mother home.