"Well, sis, seems there's only one option left."
Atalanta nodded calmly but the light of battle entered her eyes. Achilles drew a line in the stone in front of them using his hero-slaying spear.
"Prepare yourself, Rider. I shan't let you try and win without trouble."
"Hmph, you'll have to run faster than those foot races that interrupted your hunting so much."
She stared at Achilles.
He blinked first.
A few minutes later, Atalanta removed her shoes and Achilles put away his armor and orange scarf in silent anticipation.
A few minutes ago, Karna had wandered over to the other side of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, to place the mass of red feathers he called a cape—Achilles thought it was actually comfortable and fuzzy on a cold day—just outside the limits.
The two Greeks had decided on a foot race to settle the matter of whether not they would get to act as the vanguard. Karna cared not for it so the two Greek Servants were left to argue hotly. Achilles wanted to use Troias Tragōidia as the lawnmower it was but Atalanta's Phoebus Catastrophe was useful as a preemptive strike.
The Chaste Huntress would run barefoot. Achilles wisely didn't make any jokes about it this time. The first and only time, he walked away with more than a few arrows in his arm. Furthermore, Achilles was one of the few who she allowed to discuss the issue of her legends in detail.
While Achilles was naturally the fastest hero in the Greek mythos, Atalanta possessed far better footwork. So he took off his silver shoulder guards after Karna suggested it though it was more like criticism.
Well, if Achilles hadn't realized by now that it was in the Lancer's nature to calmly reveal such observations, then he'd be sparring with Karna instead of racing Sis.
"Your body is vulnerable to only those of [Divine] blood, like me, or to acts not forged from malice," Karna said easily. "So why is it that you would wear armor that might slow you down, no matter how negligible? Even if you were to be injured by some Heroic Spirit with godly blood running in their veins, you would relish the challenge."
'Cause the scarf looked better with the armor Hephaestus gave me. But he didn't dare say it out loud in fear of seeming overly narcissistic, and he knew Atalanta wouldn't appreciate frivolous things like that. It was a miracle that historians highlighted his bloodthirstiness instead.
Except for the bit with Patroclus as anything but his lover. That stung a lot.
"Uh." Achilles whipped his head back and forth between a bemused Karna and a disapproving Atalanta.
She shook her head.
"Well, it was a gift," he answered lamely when Karna didn't stop waiting for an answer. "You understand right?"
Karna dipped his head before moving into position. A tiny smile appeared and Achilles's heart warmed. It was like a blessing—the other demigod was very nice to look at, when he wasn't getting poked by his armor's spikes. And as one of the famous heroes of the Iliad; he was used to being in the center of attention, liked it even.
He huffed though. Hades, that was a bit disconcerting to experience for himself. Too damn similar to Odysseus's disapproving looks.
Watching Atalanta hold back chuckles helped him get over it.
Before Achilles was about to ask when she wanted to begin, Atalanta disappeared into the corridors, melting into the darkness like it was the forests she was raised in. He knew she hadn't went into spiritual form; she simply ran off.
Atalanta, Archer of Red, was one of the few Greek Heroes who were boasted of being the swiftest runners. Not even a Saber-class Servant could chase her down when she put her mind to it.
"That's unfair, sis." Achilles dug in his feet and broke into a dead sprint from the force. "At least say 'start'."
Stone houses, water gardens—everything did not blur, rather, he ignored the objects that prevented him from running straight ahead.
Eyes on the prize.
Leaping over fences and benches didn't slow him down. It only made him determined to go faster, to prove to Atalanta, that no, he wasn't reliant on triggering Dromeus Komētēs by stepping off Troias Tragōidia. Running through a battlefield in one breath and destroying all obstacles, it was like a cheat code, if it wasn't for the necessity of an exposed heel. Utilizing it wouldn't exactly gain Atalanta's good graces. He only need look to the golden apple for a prediction.
The wind whipped his face, blowing his hair back, and exhilaration nestled itself into his heart.
A flash of verdant green and a golden tail was up ahead. Achilles knew this was the only opportunity he had to surmount her speed.
I'll make it up to her later, he decided.
"Oi!" He screamed at her back.
Atalanta tripped and when Achilles passed her, she reached out and seized his scarf. Achilles followed her example as she already leaped up, darting out of sight.
Clambering to his feet and giving his all in this foot race, he still couldn't quite make it, even if he surpassed her A-rank Agility.
Ahead, his vision sharpened into a courtyard just before a boundary. Ancient trees rose above on both sides of the wall. At the center Karna's cape was laid out for the victor.
Her nimble build vanished into the red, feathery bed that was Karna's cape. Achilles slammed into her not a second too late. She snuggled inward to throw off some of the force.
"Sorry, but I'd like to still cut through the vanguard." he rolled off the cape and sprawled onto his back.
He huffed as Atalanta poked her head out, leonine ears twitching.
"I refuse." She sank back into an ocean of red feathers, sounding extremely satisfied. After taking one look, Achilles couldn't blame her.
It was a very nice cape. Achilles patted it absently.
"Want to race again for it? Best two out of three?"
No answer. "Fine, I'll be taking position as vanguard then."
Karna intervened before Atalanta could pounce.
"Achilles. Consider this: why not let Atalanta strike the first blow? Let her shoot a calamity on Tauropolos and break apart the advance, leaving the remnants for you to pick off?" He walked over to them, from where he had been leaning against the wall. Shimmering sapphires glinted brighter in the rising dawn. "It is not all about stealing the glory to yourself, when Atalanta, and Saber, and I are also present."
"Oh? Are you worked up after seeing us race?" Achilles grinned. But he refrained from manifesting his spear. Racing Atalanta took more energy than he would've guessed.
Had there been no need to ally, Achilles's answer to Karna's bluntness was a spear to the face.
The reason was simple. All three had a mutual agreement on an opinion concerning the mystery of Kotomine Shirou.
And Caster and Assassin of Red.
Sly. Secretive. Strange.
Sticking together worked since their personalities meshed well. Atalanta made Karna's cape her nest when she could while Achilles and Karna fought hand-to-hand combat because anything more would destroy everything they touched, was just one of the many arrangements they had.
They were completely comfortable with each other, even sleeping in physical form together despite Atalanta and Achilles being terrible bedmates.
"Perhaps," Karna's tiny smile returned.
"Oh, that reminds me. What shall we do about Saber?" Atalanta's voice made the cape seem animated and alive, with her body shifting inside.
"Talk to her of course." Achilles responded instantly. "See what her beliefs are."
Karna nodded. "I feel that Saber need not witness anymore of Kotomine Shirou's secrecy to join our alliance."
"And why is that?"
"She has already made an enemy of Semiramis."
"You're kidding me." Atalanta's eyes sharpened.
"I assure you that I am not." He sat down next to Achilles with a pensive face. "But that does not always mean an ally. I am prepared to strike her down with my spear if needed."
Achilles didn't really care that the Lancer could be a stick in the mud sometimes, but he remained cool-headed in situations that had Atalanta seething. Being impartial was important when you had people driven by emotions foremost.
"For shame! I wish I could have arrived a minute sooner. Witnessing two of the Red Faction's Servants' speed on display is indeed worth leaving my workshop when my little project is not yet completed!" A booming voice echoed down the halls as Shakespeare approached them.
Atalanta poked her head out and her face soured.
"Caster," Karna greeted without reproach, raising his head to meet the gaze. And that was the difference between him and Achilles and Atalanta.
He observed the playwright calmly.
Damn his excellence at poker faces.
"Even a writer has limits to what they can do in a day!" Shakespeare professed in that melodramatic tone of his. "[To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.] That, and I wished to greet the lovely and glorious sunrise." He added coyly. His eyes fluttered like that of a maiden. But since said maiden was a man with clear facial hair and masculine build, Achilles wasn't hard-pressed, or inclined, to believe it. "So, good morning to you, radiant Lancer."
Karna didn't budge. "Then be on your way, Caster. Or else you will miss it."
"Ah! Do not be so hasty my friend! I have also decided to take on a little project for when I won't be toiling on something for Father Shirou." He brandished a paper and a pen at Atalanta and Achilles.
Shakespeare smirked at Atalanta's straight expression. She dragged in an exhausted sigh.
He'd better stop him before she decided to claw off unimportant limbs.
"What, is that supposed to poke our eyes out?" Achilles smirked back, feeling petty in the moment for the both of them.
"It does has perfectly sharp edges," Karna mused. "Perhaps if he were to run at us while we are distracted then his chances at success increase tenfold. If his aim is to cause a scratch anywhere, of course."
His bland delivery had Achilles snorting and Atalanta cracking a small smile.
Shakespeare smiled but cleared his throat so they focused on him again.
"[These violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder. Which, as they kiss, consume]."
"What." Atalanta blinked.
"Seconded." Achilles raised a hand, like a child about to ask a question after being guided through a problem only to understand nothing.
"...," the playwright slapped a hand to face. "Again, it is a shame that my works do not count as 'necessary information' by the Holy Grail." He shuffled closer to Atalanta and Achilles. "Verdant Archer and lionhearted Rider, I have approached you here, to ask your thoughts about me composing a love poem for the two of you."
"Are you serious?" Atalanta was the first to speak.
"Completely." Shakespeare nodded his head solemnly.
It was the wrong answer. Her eyes flared a violent shade of bright green as she declared her opinion.
"Whether it be a joke made in earnest or it a mere jest don't assume you can get away with it." Atalanta stalked off with Karna's solar flare cape.
"Ah...there she goes," Achilles drawled. He mourned briefly for the cape generated warmth. He sat up straight, not ready to leave yet.
Said owner followed her without complaint, only shooting an inscrutable look at Achilles. Achilles blinked in confusion and raised his hands up in a silent, "What?". Karna shook his head. His confusion swelled.
It wasn't like Shakespeare had hurt Atalanta—and she could murder him before he could do anything.
Shakespeare made a distressed noise. It was eerily reminiscent of a dying cat. Achilles blamed his time in the Achaean army for creating an example or two.
"Truly, I did not mean to offend you, verdant Archer!" He called out.
A leonine growl answered his apology and Achilles believed it wasn't completely sincere. The apology, that is. The playwright was still a part of Shirou's little council of evil.
Shakespeare moaned in despair. Even though the Grail hadn't given him knowledge of the plays, he didn't think for a second that Shakespeare didn't participate in at least one of them.
"[All that glitters is not gold]," he lamented. "I thought she would have appreciated an offering to the beautiful love that lies between the Chaste Huntress and one of the ten most famous heroes in the world—"
Achilles grimaced. Talk about a mood whiplash: Shakespeare's eyes lit up when he realized he was still present.
"—my apologies, I have not yet queried about your opinion on the matter. How about it?"
Achilles exhaled.
"If Atalanta wasn't my compeer, then I'd give you all of my blessings." he shrugged. "Sis isn't interested in the kind of relationships that you're thinking about." Seeing Shakespeare's flabbergasted face was an excellent look for him. "And I don't mind."
Seeing Shakespeare's mind whirl away at mental gymnastics was not an excellent look. He hummed before continuing: "'tis a shame as well. But since you've not retreated from my presence, I would like to bestow a gift on you."
"That depends on the gift." Achilles felt a yawn coming on. He made sure to make a show out of it as Shakespeare formed a book in his hand.
"Since Archer has rejected my offer so harshly, I shall focus on a different couple. I believe you'll find yourself wanting to finish it even if it means staying up till the beginnings of dawn filters in."
Achilles didn't really care who else Shakespeare was referring to.
"You really are a strange Caster; Servants don't need sleep unless we have to replenish our mana storages." Achilles plucked it from Shakespeare's offering hand without looking at the title.
"And it is merely used for punctuation. Book pitches require total enthusiasm. How else will I get the mighty Achilles to dive into the literary world?"
He stared, not amused.
"I don't think I want to read this anymore." Achilles decided to crack open the book later, after seeing Saber of Red—no, Shirou said she was Mordred, for himself.
Kingslayer was the first thing he thought. Like to Shakespeare, he was weirdly ambivalent about Mordred. He could admire all he liked about how she defied King Arthur but the outcome...not so much.
Say what you will about what happened with Agamemnon during the Trojan War but Achilles only had issues with the egomaniacal king. It was a shame that many others died because of both their pride yet wartime thundered on during their spat. There's bound to be some necessary sacrifices sometimes.
"Truly, you do yourself a disservice by not starting it this instance!"
He waited a moment for Shakespeare to stop gripping his shoulders. He didn't.
Sighing, he flipped the book over and had to blink a few times when he saw the title.
Troilus and Cressida.
"You see, my dear Rider—"
"—how did you get Cressida from Chryseis?" Achilles muttered. He looked up.
In that moment, he swore, not to let Atalanta or Karna be swayed by this man. The barest hint of dissatisfaction made itself plain as day in his eyes after, as if that wasn't what Shakespeare wanted Achilles to focus on.
His eyes slid back to the title. The letters were of a bright gold complete with a gaudy image.
Under the unassuming cover, was one of Achilles's contentious aspects from the Iliad lurking inside? As long as it wasn't Penthesilea or Hector, then he was fine. Still, he felt discomforted at how brazen Caster's actions were.
He chuckled.
"Always the angst from you," Achilles commented, trying to shake it off. "Maybe you should try your hand at a different theme. You know, shake it up a little. Can't always do the same ol' thing. Gets boring."
Shakespeare's eyes gleamed and launched into a spiel of which he knew not was about.
Achilles was not a patient man. Aside from an extremely select circle, he wasn't going to wait for slugs when he's busy sprinting through his whole life. He allowed him to continue chatting with him about pertinent matters. Not those reserved to a Servant's legends.
Shakespeare leaned in closer than what Achilles was comfortable with.
"But would you apply this concept to your actions in the Trojan War? [The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great revenue!]. Did you and other heroes of renowned fame not chip away at Troy's white walls for a decade?" Caster shrugged, far too calm for a man who seemed to be aware of Achilles's shrinking tolerance. "A decade teeming with the blood of the fallen?"
"You really don't listen to people at all, do you?!"
Shakespeare removed his hands finally and turned around. A cough cleared the man's throat. Then he gesticulated to an invisible audience as he launched into an, admittedly, impressive speech about the dangers of complacency and humanity in wartime.
Achilles stood up and rubbed his suddenly pounding forehead. ...this headache couldn't be from hearing this idiot ramble, couldn't it?
Then he recalled Shakespeare's words.
What the hell happened to watching the sun?!
This Caster was such a lying bastard. At least Odysseus had the decency to explain his motives afterward. Shakespeare remained an enigma and he wanted nothing more than to never know.
Tucking the book under an arm—for downtime, he told himself—Achilles left the Caster to his verbal brainstorm.
—
If she came to despise everything in this round of the Grail War, she'd be fine with it, including the other Red Servants. Judging them based on their reactions to Kotomine Shirou remained the highest priority. Even should one of them err by calling her a girl or anything similar. But if for whatever reason, approving—not accepting—of the priest's plans, Mordred had Clarent to guide her.
So be it. They burned the bridge first anyway, with that priest's shady demeanor. Assassin's indulgent smiles and Caster's unsightly theatrics added fire to oil.
To Mordred, she knew the situation for what it was in truth.
To start with: Shishigou Kairi locked away in the beast's lair remained the objective, and her the gallant knight on a quest, blocked by the wizards Semiramis and Shakespeare.
Which made Atalanta, Achilles, and Karna the mercenaries for hire. Add in a strong moral code, and they'll fight with her for the correct path instead of for gold.
And Kotomine Shirou was the "final boss".
All the knowledge provided wasn't completely useless. Mordred rather liked these terms a great deal more. Much simpler to use. And more apt.
She nodded to herself, satisfied at the hastily-made plans. This is one of the few courses of action possible. Mordred had no reason yet to defect to the Black Faction. Not unless Shirou had a disastrous plot that makes it impossible to realize her wish.
Standing up from the bench she had been perched on, she headed north, where she sensed the rest of the Red Servants after pinging for them.
Hungry, the horizon swallowed the sun behind its grassy hills. She continued on foot in spirit form in the darkness. Though her mind still remained restless over the state of her Master, it was better to put it aside for now.
It didn't take that long to hike to the Red Faction's base and Mordred had to take a second to pause at the entrance.
Mesopotamian architecture provided humble houses all around the central stronghold: Semiramis's throne room circle. Several water gardens planted themselves in strategic areas for phantom residents to use at their will. As a whole the fortress possessed a beauty despite the purpose it held in the Grail War.
Grudgingly, stingily, she admitted that maybe the Hanging Gardens of Babylon deserved her praise. Of course, Semiramis would be forced to acknowledge Mordred as a visiting king making a worthy appraisal of her kingdom. On the other hand then she'd be forced onto her best behavior. Eh, she wasn't exactly jumping with joy to heap lavish praise onto the Empress.
To her, a king who doesn't represent his populace at all is better than a king who acts like a tyrant inside, and outside, of his dominion.
It's an embarrassment to everyone and himself.
The king takes and the king gives. It is an exchange of security for resources.
During Father's reign, everyone followed the king.
Because he saved them.
He was a dragon taken human form and he led Britain out of the wars that followed the Roman Empire's fall on victory's wings.
Mordred laughed. And she laughed at the thought of it. She always found absurdity in everything about the Round Table, about Britain, about the fundamental ideals of chivalry.
They were all a bunch of weaklings that waited on a savior to fight for them every time until Mordred was born and stole King Arthur's protection from them.
My way of the king will show Father that his kingship was a failure. The way I do it doesn't matter as long as I remain the strongest.
As the heir to King Arthur, she'll surpass his failures and come out on top. After all, Morgan le Fay was the only reason she was denied the throne. That was one of the few things that Mordred couldn't blame Father for.
But—it was absolutely unforgivable that Father didn't recognize her as a member of the Pendragons. She ground her teeth involuntarily. Rage overcame her everytime she remembered it and this time was not an exception.
"I'll surpass Father," she said again. "and I will force him to acknowledge me."
If you want something, then take a hold of it for yourself.
