Notes/Warnings:
+ inspired by unconventional traveling companions (Brienne and Jaime) from Game of Thrones
+ the rating will be changed to M at some point
+ romance is not my cup of tea, so bear with me XD
+ set in medieval times with steampunk-isc themes and really messed up magic
+ will butcher [or blatantly ignore] a good majority of the Fateverse's magic rules and character backstories to fit the time period
War
"War does not determine who is right – only who is left."
Bertrand Russell
Arturia Pendragon did not become a knight to witness indiscriminate slaughter, nor did she steel her heart with the smothering bindings of self-control to fall victim to emotion.
She did not sign away her soul for a destiny like this.
Smoke darkened the afternoon sky into a thick haze that scratched at the throats of its victims. Amplified by the hollow chambers of the castle cellar, screams echoed off of the stone walls. Smoke and the unmistakable scent of blood. Arturia hastily tied a wet rag around her face in a vain attempt to block the smells. Scarlet patches mottled the walls and floor and dripped down the wooden steps of the stairwell before her; identical liquid trickled from the blood of the knight's blade. Fire licked hungrily at the barred window to her right. A few weeds poked between the metal rods, already alight, and dropped hot cinders down onto the dusty floor. To the knight's left, a hallway void of life, but not of bodies.
There was no honor in senseless killing, but Arturia had a duty to the throne—to the king—and her king had requested the execution of his father's murderer. One generally needed a murderer to execute, which was how the woman in disguise found herself in the castle cellar. They were everywhere. Her route had to be less direct.
These bastards were tearing the kingdom to shreds, and burning what was left. And there was nothing Arturia could do to stop them.
Mercenaries have no honor, she reminded herself, wiping her blade on a spare cloth and readying herself for what lay beyond the stairwell. They will not stop because they are winning and they will receive generous payment afterwords.
Logic helped clear her thoughts, but it would never erase her feelings. Arturia was torn between frustration, helplessness, and disgust. And possibly fear, but more for the safety of her king.
Drawing a deep breath, Arturia gritted her teeth and charged up the steps.
He was not a king yet, but a terrified heir with kingship thrust upon him. Sometimes, Cú pitied him.
…
Nah.
Wide sherry eyes peered into Cú's own vermilion. Horror. Fear. Desperation.
Remembrance.
This child, ignorant to most ways of the world, proved far more experienced in reaping its sorrows. Shirou von Einzburn—the Bae of Good Faith. Stolen from the icy claws of Death by the late king, Kiritsugu, and adopted by the House of Einzburn in a show of good faith to those who did dwell in their kingdom. This boy, this orphan, was to be second best, a prince before his sister's future husband. Illyasviel would be queen; Shirou would remain her shadow.
But that plan was no more. Slain alongside her father, Illyasviel would never be queen. With Kiritsugu gone and having no other heirs, Shirou would have to rule regardless of personal preference.
Two families ripped out from under him, but Shirou von Einzburn would get no break. No sooner than his family would fall to the assault of a single assassin, the mercenaries would come and now, the capital city lay in ruin, burning and broken. Shirou von Einzburn would not have a kingdom to rule for much longer—and that wasn't considering the fact that he would first have to escape the city alive.
"Lancer, who are they? Why are they just killing everyone if I'm the one they want?" The boy's voice, trembling and soft, barely reached Cú's ears over the anguished cries of a widowed woman just outside the door of the temporary shelter.
"There's always collateral damage in war," replied Cú bitterly. Sweaty palms clutched his sole weapon: a thick spear. Gifted to him by the gods, the eight-foot polearm was woven into a carving of ivy that stretched from the serrated point to the wicked blade. In all of his life, the lance was the only weapon capable of bearing his true strength; it had never failed him. "Just stay behind me and don't do anything foolish, kid."
In his own hands, Shirou held a scrap piece of metal. Either a misforged sword or a discarded piece of construction materials, Cú wasn't certain, nor did he really care.
The boy required his utmost attention and loyalty, and dogs were nothing if not loyal.
Cú's grip tightened imperceptibly.
"The tunnel is three huts down. I'll clear a path, so you stay behind me until we reach the hut, then I want you to rush past me, get in the tunnel, and don't look back. You got that?"
"But what about you, Lancer?"
Cú felt a tug on the sleeve of his leather armor. Glancing down, his eyes met the boy's once more.
Horror. Fear. Desperation. Remembrance.
"I can't just leave you to die."
Join the King's Guard, they said. It'll be fun, they said.
Patting the bae of yet fourteen on top of his ruffled mop of hair, Cú chuckled and said, "What makes you think I'm ready to kick the bucket, kid? If I up and died on you, what kind of bodyguard would that make me?"
Hope.
It was a tiny flame—minuscule compared to the cocktail of negative emotions swimming in those wide, umber eyes. Tiny, but existent.
And that was all Cú Chulainn needed to see.
He grinned.
King-slayer. Murderer. Assassin. Mercenary. Bane.
So many names, but none his own.
These mongrels aren't worth a second of my time.
Patience was not in his arsenal, especially not today.
The iron cuffs bit into the tanned flesh of his forearms. Dirt soiled the rags swaddling his lithe form. His muscles ached from keeping in a submissive position for so long. Offense harrowed his patience even further, but disgust shorted it twice as fast.
It was a good plan, killing the king. It kept him interested for quite some time. But an arrow more accurate than his own brought him down, as though to remind him that he was still one-third human.
One-third weakling.
The archer would surely pay, but not today. Today, he would escape the prison. The filthy excuse for detainment quarters would hold him no more, not that it had the power to do so in the first place, and he would show no mercy to any who dared stand in his way.
Gilgamesh had no further obligation to this facade.
Standing, the undercover king cast off the illusion and the rags dissipated in a flash of brilliant light. Gold armor vanquished the filth from his body, glowing under the burn of the nearby flames. The force of the change blew his hair away from his face where it remained. Narrowed eyes, the same color as the blood that trickled through a crack in the wall near the floor, peered at the bars of the windowless cell. Without moving a muscle, the King of Heroes called upon his godly powers and opened a golden portal just over his right shoulder. He raised a gloved hand, grasped the hilt of the weapon that protruded from the portal, and destroyed the bars in a single, fluid sweep.
There was a great clatter as the bars fell to the floor, a few splashing in the puddle of blood near the wall. Gilgamesh strode forward without hesitation, through the smoke and flames dancing along the corridor, through the random splashes of blood coloring the gray surroundings. The weapon dissolved in the king's hand and returned to his mental store.
He had spent too long posing as a simple human. Out of shape. Weak. It was too difficult for him to call on the Gate—far too difficult.
Something was wrong.
Two doors swung inwards directly in front of Gilgamesh. From the door to the left came a mercenary, armed with twin swords and armor heavy enough to protect three grown men. From the door to the right came a gilded sword, arching through the air to pierce the sole spot on the mercenary's armor that remained unprotected. The mercenary fell before the sword's wielder stepped through the doorway.
A knight—dressed in lightweight metal armor. Faean iron, by the looks of it, with dark patterns staining the pale surface. Rough blue fabric connected the metal at the armor's joints and a sash of matching color had been tied around the knight's left thigh to keep the armor secure where a broken buckle remains. A crest on the chest-plate gleamed in the flickering light—the sigil of the King's Guard; a falcon's talons encasing a bolt of lightning. Through the slits in the knight's helmet, Gilgamesh could almost see a flash of recognition before the curved sword leveled itself at his chest.
"It can't be... You!"
It took more effort than necessary to open the Gate, and that pause gave the knight all the time she needed to prepare and deflect the blades that shot from the portals. Gilgamesh gave no indication of his annoyance or surprise.
A woman knight.
She hid her sex well. Armor covered a chest most likely wrapped in bandages. A ragged voice escaped a well-worn throat. Magic altered her entire appearance, and it took a bit of focus for Gilgamesh to see past the numerous enchantments placed around the woman. Perhaps it was not the armor that bore the protection spell, but the knight herself, and placing such a strong enchantment on a person would require more than skill and willpower alone.
Using advanced magics to hide in place sight—something the King of Heroes had been doing for days now.
He suddenly found the female knight potentially interesting, and a plausible escape from boredom.
"You are the man who stuck down his grace, Kiritsugu von Einzburn!" the woman shouted. Raising her sword, she continued to speak in a loud voice as to be heard over the commotion. "Cease your resistance and no harm will come to you!"
Interesting, but not interesting enough.
"No harm will come to me?" Gilgamesh repeated, shaking his head a bit. "You are a haughty woman, but that will not change your fate."
Shock stiffened the woman. As soon as he noticed the change, Gilgamesh opened more portals around him and sent a few experimental weapons her way. The knight recovered with ease, dodging his blade and deflecting those she couldn't outmaneuver. Her technique was impressive, her speed and strength even more so, but her methods weren't without flaw.
To Gilgamesh's great vexation, this act tolled on him more than he had predicted. If he wished to best this woman, he would have to do so with strategy, not sheer force.
I will discover what is draining my mana and it WILL be eliminated, he swore.
Despite his apathetic expression, Gilgamesh sensed a change in the knight's pace. She had been in a hurry, full and ready to temporarily incapacitate the King of Heroes so as to be about her way, but now she planted her feet in a defensive position and leveled a stare.
The knight was perceptive. Too perceptive. She couldn't possibly sense his weakening. It was impossible.
"Only the grandest in all the lands wears armor lined in gold. Name yourself, prisoner."
Gilgamesh openly scoffed. If she knew of the armor but not of his name, he had no more use for her. Opening a sole portal directly in front of himself, Gilgamesh grasped the hilt of a shimmering weapon. "I am Gilgamesh, King of Heroes, and you are of no use to me, mongrel."
Unsheathing the blade from the confines of the Gate of Babylon, Gilgamesh brought his weapon down.
Taiga Fujimura, though young and beautiful, had always been treated with respect. Despite claims to her childishness, she proved a formidable teacher and an empathetic listener. Her maturity had its limits, but she knew when the time came for formal disposition. All in all, her personality was well-rounded, her knowledge unsurpassed, and her amity towards children a true sight to see.
But she was no warrior.
Taiga took shelter as soon as the outer wall fell, only to be driven from safety by the devouring flames. Smoke stole her breath and the roaring in her head almost drowned out the screams of the fearful. She had cut her bare feet on broken plates, bits of rock, and blades that fell from cold, dead hands. Her eyes swam in tears—partly from the smoke, and partly from the swell of emotions that threatened to madden her beyond reason. Charred at the edges and ripped along some of the seams, Taiga's scholar's robes threatened to give out, and regardless of how much the woman wished to claim that she couldn't care less about losing the garment, this was something over which she had control, so she refused to let jade-colored fabric slip between her shaking hands.
A loud battle cry sounded directly behind her. Taiga whirled around with a soundless gasp. Through the dense smoke barreled a figure dressed in navy and royal blue, but no amount of heavy armor could hide the triumphant grin on his scar-riddled face. "The city has fallen!" he cried, brandishing a long-sword. Taiga watched, paralyzed by fear, as blood was flung from the blade as the mercenary stabbed it into the sky, releasing another cry.
If the city has been overrun, nowhere is safe. The royals have fled or are dead. What do I have left to lose when I have so much more to prove?
The mercenary had yet to notice her, even as Taiga stooped to scoop up a sword from the many laying discarded in the burning, blood-soaked street. It was heavier than she expected, but nothing she couldn't manage. Heart pounding against the inside of her rib cage, Taiga began to back away from the ruthless man, never blinking.
Suddenly, the man collapsed.
Taiga, unwilling to breathe a sigh of relief, noted a scarlet arrow protruding from the man's back. Red arrow... A royal archer! She squinting into the smoke, only to shake her head at the futile effort. The fact that anyone could see through the haze was astounding, but she hadn't the time to dwell on the oddities of the world. Escaping with her life would be enough of a challenge, much less deciphering the quirks of life.
Brandishing the sword before her, Taiga mentally thanked the royal archer as she stumbled through the street. However, for every foe she encountered, each fell by the single shot of a red arrow; the archer was protecting her, aiding in her escape. Taiga felt a rush of relief and gratitude, and wondered how, if she was to get out of this mess alive, she would ever be able to repay such a debt.
Bit by bit, Taiga was able to reach her destination: an indistinguishable hut sitting in the middle of a huddle of identical huts. To the naked eye, it looked like nothing more than a place of residence, and even if one was to enter it, that individual would find nothing strange about the place. But Taiga was not any individual. She was the private tutor of the royal family, and she knew things.
A final arrow fell a brute of a man as Taiga threw open the door of the hut. One look at the decimated remains of the inner workings told Taiga that no one had used the tunnel since the assault commenced—meaning that young Shirou von Einzburn did not escape.
Had tears not already been falling from her eyes, Taiga would have began to cry.
Thank you, archer, she thought. I hope you make it out alive.
No sooner than she made her way over to the entrance to the tunnel did the door burst open and a young man tumbled to the ground, leaving a streak of blood across the floor. His head shot up, recognizing the silhouette of a person, only for his eyes to soften when he put a name to the person's face.
"Fuji-nee!" Taiga found herself in the boy's tight embrace. He shook from head to toe, the estranged weapon in his hand clattering to the floor.
Through the door stepped another figure, this person far more coordinated as he kicked the door shut and began to barricade it. Taiga would know that long, blue ponytail anywhere.
"Cú, you're alive! You and Shirou both!" Taiga breathed, a strained laugh escaping her. "That's a relief."
"Like I'd let the kid die," sniffed Cú, and Taiga thought—a bit mischievously—that he sounded rather offended by her comment.
"We're alright, Fuji—uh, Miss Fujimura," Shirou corrected himself immediately. He gave Taiga another hug and the woman returned it.
"We won't be if we keep hanging around," Cú said. He drew a torch from the wall and lit the curtains on fire. "I'll seal up the entrance. You two go ahead and I'll catch up."
Setting her jaw, Taiga stalked across the room and jabbed the lancer-turned-king's-guard in the middle of his armored chest. "Cú, you better not go sacrificing yourself, you hear? I want you by Shirou's side in five minutes, mister, and not a millisecond later."
"Like I'd keep a lady waiting," Cú replied with a dashing grin—part feral, part flirtatious.
For a moment, Taiga found herself fighting back a blush.
That's the last of them. Everyone either escaped or burned alive. The royal archer lowered his bow, suppressing the sadness and frustration welling within him. These mercenaries take no prisoners.
He made to leap from his perch—a high bridge that connected two guard towers hundreds of feet above the ground—when a flash of light caught his eye. Squinting across the city, the archer released a low gasp and he notched an arrow before his mind could comprehend what he had just seen.
...Impossible!
He recognized the armor of the King's Guard, however bloodstained, and the strained gate at which the knight walked. With one arm, the knight had thrown a man over his shoulder and with the other, he brandished a sword. Every step brought him closer to the entrance of the royal tunnel, but from this distance, the knight was unable to see that the hut had already gone up in flames.
Someone survived...
The knight's cargo was a lump of rags, under which might have been a person, but it burdened the swordsmen regardless. Even from this distance, the archer could see that the knight was straining under the effort.
Gritting his teeth, the archer pulled back the bowstring. I can't take any chances. I'm sorry, Arturia, but your quest was impossible from the beginning. There can only be one man under those rags, and he cannot escape this place with his life.
And he let the arrow fly.
The king-slayer must die, or we will all die in his stead.
The arrow sank into the boards of a collapsing structure and, completely unharmed, Arturia Pendragon and her unconscious passenger vanished into the smoke.
Shocked, the archer remained frozen. He had... missed...? His eyes stared out over the burning landscape but refused to focus, even when smoke pricked at them. Fire crackled all around him, drowning out the cheers of the mercenaries as they continued to pillage and raze. Even as the bridge began to sway from people trampling onto the boards at both ends, the archer stayed still.
Surrounded, and still.
He lives. The king-slayer lives.
Inhaling slowly, the royal archer notched another arrow, this one yellow. At both ends of the bridge, the mercenaries hesitated, not wanting to be the man's next victim. But as soon as he released the arrow, the archer's battle would be over.
Aiming randomly at one of the ends, he released the arrow and immediately fell to the wooden planks of the bridge's floor. The archer drew a hatchet from the sheathe on the outside of his quiver and stabbed it into the bridge just as the arrow found its target. A loud explosion rocked the very foundation of the city as the guard tower fell, taking with it the bridge and the mercenaries atop it.
The archer's breath came and went in shallow gasps. The smoke was beginning to affect him. Clinging to the hatchet, he swung from the bridge's remains, barely ten feet above the ground. He timed his landing and dropped; when his boots hit the earth, cinders and sparks rose to greet him.
His city was gone. The royal family was in ruins. The king-slayer was alive.
The royal archer was not having the best of days.
But it was a perfect day for vengeance, and vengeance he would have.
Today you die, King of Heroes!
In a castle far, far away, a man sat at his desk and stared into the candlelight. He thought of fire and doubted himself. The drawn shadows cast by the sole candle aged his face a good decade, though he was barely forty. Weariness crept into his bones as his passion faded. Tohsaka Tokiomi was getting old.
"Father?"
A gentle voice; a concerned tone. Wincing, Tokiomi waved her away and, after a moment of hesitation, the study door closed with a soft thud.
One day, his daughter would rule this kingdom alongside her husband, but not today. Today, there was still time to preserve that innocence. Today, he would be a good father, since he could never be a good king.
I... have two beautiful princesses, he thought, a melancholic smile dancing around the corners of his mouth. They are as graceful as their mother, as wise as our ancestors, and as fierce as I. Some day, they will both make awe-inspiring queens.
They would, but not today. Today, they were princesses of allied kingdoms: Tohsaka Rin and Matou Sakura. Though incredible magic-users, neither sister was prepared for the sacrifices that came with ruling a kingdom. Rin, unmarried and uninterested in marriage in general, would certainly fall without a proper husband, but Tokiomi would never let his daughter wed such a tainted prince as the Einzburn heir. Adopted sons did not carry royal blood in them; Shirou von Einzburn would crumble under the weight of the kingdom. He was no true king.
Tokiomi flinched as guilt momentarily overwhelmed him once again. He had known that the marriage of his eldest daughter to the eldest son of the Einzburns was inevitable, so he had done all he could to prevent such a marriage, but at what cost?
His daughters would not be prepared to make the sacrifices that Tokiomi had in the past month alone.
Against their host's will, Tokiomi's eyes traveled to his lame hand and the infuriating glove that rested there. He would wear that glove until the day he died.
I am a terrible king, but still I am king.
In his heart, Tokiomi wondered if securing his daughter's future—and therefore his own reputation—was going to cost his family everything. For his own sake, the king was prepared to pay that cost.
I am a terrible king, but I am also a mage, and there will be no witch hunt today. Gilgamesh, Tokiomi rubbed at the material of the white glove.
Kill that boy, before he becomes a man and kills us all.