Mordred understood the temptation to cry as a catharsis, a means to finish the job. An extra measure to flush out the gushing rage after Clarent Blood Arthur. But she didn't care. Knights don't cry.
They stride forward with their sword and horse toward the sun.
A sudden thought hit her—Berserker of Black's lightning disrupted something in her. After some time chewing the meat, the memory came to her easily after she stared at her burning hands.
"Again," Morgan hisses deep into her ear.
And again, Mordred hurls lightning toward the crimson sky toward the setting sun. Her hands are on fire and smells like a corpse burning. Charred flesh ebbs back into fresh skin when Morgan heals it.
She does not cry. Hasn't cried since the first few times she practiced. The first time she had screamed but then Morgan slapped her until she stopped. Now intangible tears of silent rage cascade.
Mordred is better than this. It is not enough and the both of them know it.
Morgan called it a lightning flower. A gift. A testament to her bravery. Proof of her achievements. But Mordred knew better than to fall for the sweet lies again.
In life fractal scars crisscrossed all over her hands to the point where she had to keep gloves on to perform daily tasks. Ever since she learned to control the crimson lightning, she lost sensation there. But it only made her more determined to grasp what little she had left. After becoming a Heroic Spirit, they faded into her skin but whenever her [Mana Burst] was utilized, they blossomed back into existence.
They stood pale against sweaty, flushed skin.
Berserker of Black's odd lightning felt so wrong, as if she was an animated corpse. And it was devoid, lifeless, and disgusting. Mordred wasn't that proud of her lightning being formed because of visceral hatred for that witch instead of hard work, but at least it roared in passion. No matter how marred it was.
So damn empty.
Some of the enemy Servant's lightning had mingled with hers as she appeared via command spell. Shortly after that, Mordred was introduced to her weapon and what blunt force did to armor.
Misshapen steel barely covered her torso anymore. Had more Black Servants showed up, she might actually lose; if she took more of those hits, her armor will eventually give way. No more Servants would come looking unless they wanted to start the final battle. But she didn't let her escape without returning the blow.
Mordred rammed Clarent into her arm right before Berserker of Black retreated. She might be forced to let her go, but she'll be damned if they think it weakened her fighting spirit.
"Damn you Archer!" She shouted once Berserker of Black retreated. "Next time I'll rip your head off with my hands!"
He probably didn't hear it but it made her feel better.
Breathing deeply, armor gave way to a leather jacket and jeans.
It was a miracle that she formed her armor after getting over the shocks of Clarent Blood Arthur. Every time she used it, it rendered her immobile for a few fatal seconds. But afterward...it was the calmest aftermath, something she hadn't felt since before she confessed her identity to Father.
Mordred hated it. She hated it so much that her teeth almost drew blood from the force exerted in her mouth.
That hate she clenched to gave her will to move forward one step at a time. Otherwise, she never would've put herself through the trials of a second life.
(Was I not good enough for you?)
My price to pay for having to use part of the reason for my moniker, she thought bitterly.
(Why didn't Father love me?)
"Why?" she groaned to herself and winced, finally reminded of the first injury in the Holy Grail War.
(Even at the very end, you were like a machine).
None of her ribs had been broken by Archer of Black's wrestling—Sagittarius or whatever, she realized after seeing the constellation move aside for his Noble Phantasm. Only her eye.
"Ow." She wiped the leaking blood from her cheek. "Fuck."
Kairi's mana worked at a punishing pace. Blood continued to drip from her socket and she hissed every time it throbbed, pulsing in time with the tides. It hadn't gone beyond the surface and her spiritual core was intact. Sight would be a problem, but she had two to three days to fix it.
After a moment, she muttered curses.
(A youthful face marred by perfection).
Mordred was going to have to take a quick breather before returning to Karna and Atalanta. Her hands still felt unresponsive and she didn't want any questions. At least until the eyeball comes back, she decided. Additionally, she needed to recover what mana lingered her for other purposes. She sat down on a ruined log with a troubled sigh and shifted to the civilian outfit. At least they definitely didn't have any problems with that lowlife Assassin of Black.
Still, Ruler...Jeanne d'Arc. Her hands clenched again; she felt just like Father. She had no idea how to feel about it. Initially Shirou's order pissed her off because no one told her what to do except for her Master at worst. Ruler was not to be messed with—even a rebel like her understood that much. Those extra command spells were reason enough. At the same time, perhaps the reason why Mordred lost any reservations about murdering this lookalike was due to revealing her True Name.
And hearing that come from a lookalike...it was like facing Father's judgement again. She couldn't comprehend Ruler's non-accusatory tone with the anger surging in her veins back then.
"I need to be the better man." She held her clenched fists in front of her. "And pissing off the priest in the process is a bonus."
Mordred sighed again, trying to clear her thoughts. They contradicted each other even after she declared it out loud.
She slumped forward on the log. If she got caught up in that anger again, she'd definitely murder Ruler. Mordred couldn't. She just couldn't have it happen again.
"She is not Father, she is not Father, she is not King Arthur."
Mordred couldn't allow anyone else to be dragged into the crossfire of the Knight of Treachery's inglorious legend. As king, she needed to take responsibility for her actions. Especially someone who isn't even in the way. Unlike Arthur, she'll face the consequences, good or bad. She'll confront the truth instead of running away.
"...She is Jeanne d'Arc. French, you idiot."
(If you draw that sword, you'll meet a terrible end).
—
[Mana Burst]: Flames activated for thirty-four seconds to leave no spot untouched. Though the denizens' screams were harsh in their sudden pain, they disappeared to find salvation in the afterlife. The world created by Jack the Ripper simmered and bent under the force of his divine flames before returning them to the deserted streets of Sighisoara.
"Urgh…"
Sinking onto his knees, he had to hold his side with a hand and the other for support from his spear. Only his will kept him from passing out and keeping Kundala and Kavacha active.
That [Mana Burst]: Flames left one-third of his reserves left; not even taking into account of his Master's. At first, he did use that mana but it dried up like water tends to do in the desert. Only for the initial push—concern for his Master's well-being needed to be considered even if Atalanta's sanity stayed at risk.
And his spiritual core itself: strained like a washcloth put to use in a stable.
"Hah…"
All he could do was breathe as daggers scraped his lungs. Each breath brought him back to his former condition, however slow and searing it was. His head dipped lower; it was selfish of him, but all he wanted was to lay down and rest for a month. But he forced his blurry eyes to check on his fellow Servant.
Blinking furiously, fallen sweat went past his eyes and fell in rivulets onto shattered cobblestone. Relief refreshed his recovering mind and he lowered his head again. Moving it had taken too much of what energy he had left.
Atalanta laid unconscious next to him as Agrius Metamorphosis melted off her body, becoming verdant. Small tears fell from her anguished face, as if she was walking in a nightmare even now. With [Mad Enhancement] and Assassin of Black gone, he believed that she could assess the situation with a clearer head. Though he had no idea if it was possible for her to move on; he recognized that for a Heroic Spirit dependent on a wish like hers and being forced to face the cause, well...it was close to irreversible damage.
And that decided it for him. In any case, I am the agitator and I should remove myself from her recovery. I will have to count on Achilles and Mordred to finish this for me. And yet, it is only my fault should they refuse and compel me into taking on their supposed roles.
Karna lifted his head. Something rustled.
Like a corpse reanimating, Atalanta stood up in an ungainly fashion, twitching. He winced—he couldn't move out of the way. His own body was weighed down by mind-crushing fatigue.
"Karna." Atalanta howled and tackled him.
He gasped as his stomach rolled from a torrent of nausea. They crashed into the nearest building. Debris fell on them in waves, obscuring his vision for a brief moment. Atalanta's bare hands bore down on his shoulders with a strength not unlike a certain Pandava he remembered.
Her thirst for a scapegoat hasn't been quenched. Karna felt no ill-will toward her; it was natural she should be like this.
Kavacha and Kundala kept him barely intact—enough mana to be active for a few more minutes—as she threw her weight against him, pinning him down. But instead of trying to remove his limbs one by one, Karna felt his face become layered with tears.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Atalanta sobbed as she buried her face in his shoulder, tears soaking his skin. "I...am a...failure…"
Instantly, Karna hugged her as close as he could. He felt it was the best he could do now, since Achilles or Mordred wasn't present. It is probably what they would do—he tried to imitate as best as he could. "You're wrong," he said, surprising himself with the fierceness in his voice. "What happened was merely a mental attack on your psyche. You needn't cry over these children. Even if they suffered at the end, it was only from my divine flames." Karna rested his chin on her head, suddenly exhausted from talking. Harsh fatigue crushed his spiritual core bur Atalanta took precedence. "I am sure that they have moved on from that hell."
Atalanta muttered something through her tears but he wasn't sure of her words. Her tears didn't stop but nor did they increase. Karna sighed from his exhaustion and sympathy for Atalanta. His arms tightened and they remained like that for some time until he sensed Mordred's signature approaching. She disengaged from what must be a warm haven and wiped the tears from her eyes. He actually felt comfortable like that as well—no one exactly ever doled out physical affection to him.
"...thank you." she said before Mordred entered the vicinity. "I won't forget this."
"This was merely something done for a friend; we are comrades, Atalanta. Instead, I would rather you not forget what I told you."
"...I will try." Atalanta didn't look wholly convinced but he had leave it aside for now. If he pushed, her opinion of him may lower, as he would appear trying to force his way of thinking onto hers.
Trying not to bite his lips in disbelief, Karna nodded but then they did a double-take at Mordred. Her lack of an eye startled him before he went ahead and assessed her condition. It was a clean cut—or hit. Precise like an archer hitting the bull's eye. Mana fibers threaded themselves around her socket in a soft blue aura.
"Yo." She waved with the hand that wasn't in her jacket. Was the other injured? The visible one shook and stiffened every few seconds.
"Mordred," he acknowledged, after she squinted at him, waiting for a response.
"Well...Archer ran away like the damn coward he is," she said, disgruntled. "Urgh...can't believe I'm admitting it but he's got finesse in wrestling. I'll give him that and my sword for decapitation."
Karna tried not to sigh at her unperturbed attitude toward her regenerating eye. Though Atalanta's concern was present by rubbing leaking blood off much to Mordred's discomfort as she tried to wriggle away, there was a sort of distilled consciousness to her.
When Mordred stopped wriggling, he could feel the question forming on her lips.
"Hey—didn't the priest say Assassin of Black was a rogue Servant or whatever?"
"Yes."
"...I don't understand why it was over this quick," she murmured as Atalanta stepped away, satisfied.
The blood was gone except for residual leakage.
"Indeed. It has been only half an hour, give or take," Atalanta remarked. "Perhaps it is because she erred."
"Erred? How?" Mordred asked.
"Assassin of Black might have assumed one of us to have been a Black Servant. Otherwise I doubt she would had allowed her Master to venture out with her tonight," Karna answered.
"Heh. There's no use in questioning the dead." Mordred shook her head and a smirk graced her lips. "Anyway, so, about Archer of Black—wrestled around in the forest before Ruler showed up—"
Karna had his own reservations about fighting the arbitrator but orders were orders, and he was still a soldier. However, if orders proved to be rescinded or if something else demanded his attention, then he would consider disobeying. In any case, he supposed the elimination of Ruler was to be in preparation of a future rule-breaking plan, hasty it may be.
Mordred's voice darkened. "—and the priest just gave me more of a reason to distrust him. Tried to use my Noble Phantasm to kill her but my eye was destroyed by that damn Archer. He must've used his before mine could activate."
"Do you have any idea what it was?" Atalanta queried, rubbing her arm.
"Nah. Just that it was like a shooting star." Mordred grimaced. "Like, directly from the sky."
"What about his appearance?"
"I think I saw something like a horse...tail." As she said it, it dawned on them.
Few Heroic Spirits had legends relating to becoming a horse, or equine traits—that Karna knew. There was also Atalanta's animalistic tendencies and her ears and tail. It would be easier to pinpoint her possible legend to Greek mythology, where divine punishment through metamorphosis was not uncommon.
When people thought of centaurs, their minds went to the great sage and teacher of many famous Greek heroes.
"Chiron." "Sagittarius!" Atalanta and Mordred said simultaneously. She sighed while Mordred whooped.
"He had a human appearance though," She added.
"I will inform Achilles about this later. But Archer bypassing Andreias Amarantos because he is the son of Kronos makes more sense than any other conjecture." Atalanta rubbed her arm again, wincing.
They both noted the black splotches embedded in her pale skin where the gauntlet couldn't cover it up.
"Uh..." Mordred glanced between the two.
Karna felt it prudent to bring up the subject of Shirou exorcising it. Atalanta eyed him warily. Mordred made a "huh?" and opened her mouth again but closed it at Atalanta's quiet reply.
"...are you sure?"
"He desires the Grail, so there is no use in letting any chances shrink by benching a Red Servant."
"Very well then."
Turning to Mordred, he gave her the rundown on what happened and Atalanta's reason for obtaining the Grail.
She remained silent for all of seven seconds as it hit her—and started boasting to Atalanta about how she was going to mow down the Black Faction so she didn't have to exert herself as much. Atalanta sighed in exasperation but the weariness left her eyes. A child like Jack the Ripper couldn't accept her wish, but a child like Mordred certainly did.
Karna smiled softly as he shifted to his civilian outfit, instantly feeling more comfortable as Kavacha and Kundala deactivated for now. The Knight of Treachery's disposition surprised him, having shown strong loyalty for her Master and concern for Atalanta's well-being. He believed that she would continue to do the opposite of her title, since otherwise, he would have intervened between them if she decided to torment Atalanta instead.
—
"I must admit," Shakespeare started. Semiramis pierced him with a disgruntled stare, daring him to say anything obnoxious of the sort. "To think Father Kotomine would go ahead and collect the command spells now...is concerning."
"In what way?" Semiramis felt like humoring him for the most part. "He informed me that after having a dream of Rider's rage, it forced him to go ahead and move up the plans. Who wouldn't after seeing a world-threatening tantrum?"
"Oh, yes, there is that—and I am not so certain it is merely a 'tantrum'. But to take it now before we take the Grail with the other Red Servants occupied, heightens the chance of failure."
"Hmph. They'll be too busy sticking together and never acting on their suspicions. Unless, they have a reason to act on it which you may inadvertently do so."
He placed a hand over his heart reflexively. She huffed and turned her head.
"Still, I am in awe of your ability to concoct such strong potions quickly." He paused, as if uncertain for once. "...though I didn't expect him to already...be...intoxicated."
She coughed. "Er...to think the great Achilles is actually a lightweight is something that happens in distant dreams, but the possibility never occurred to me. Not even taking in his C-Rank Magic Resistance, of course."
"Yes!" A gleaming light formed in his eyes, and she could already feel the migraine coming on. "For such a word-renowned hero as Achilles, any flaws must be of the manly sort. For example, he may be virile—but for the fairer sex exclusively. And, taking in those who view him as a pursuer of both, he must be be the erastes, never the eromenos. All in all, he must be dominant in bed and battle."
"And what is it that you wrote to strike discord in him?"
"In Troilus and Cressida, that rendition of Achilles pursued peace! Perhaps that is why he was so eager to engage in a fist fight with me."
"Or maybe, the not-so-subtle insinuations between him and that Trojan Prince."
Semiramis suspected he had unresolved tension with many males of his time of the sexual kind.
"Ah, yes. There is...that," Shakespeare said sheepishly. "'Tis a blessing from Father Kotomine's interference that I escaped with my face intact."
She wouldn't have minded it going the other way. Amakusa Shirou had to get between him and Shakespeare, using offers of fine wine to dissuade Achilles. But Shakespeare needed to have sense beaten into him.
Achilles lounged about at the table near the window sill bench where he had been reading that odd play earlier in laughter. Shakespeare continued to write down several notes on a laptop that Amakusa Shirou procured for him the other day, eyes never leaving Achilles's reddening face. The cause was clear: more and more alcohol went down his throat Semiramis brewed a few hours ago in preparation, tailored to his preferences.
Instead of joining them, she sat on a comfortable divan with decidedly books of the novel kind.
"—and then Aias ripped the guy's head off before claiming those kittens for himself—wasn't even there to see it…" Achilles's face flushed even more as he teetered over the precipice. "...I think Odysseus told me that it was to be a gift for someone...can't rememberrrrr," he groaned.
"Oh! I see, I see—please carry on!" Shakespeare doubled down on the keyboard. His coat shifted on the chair's back as he stretched his posture before hunching over to work to the bone.
It's almost pitiful how easily he sank for it. While Amakusa Shirou hasn't exactly done anything wrong yet, the suspicion was justly placed on him on fact of being the sole supporter. Atalanta, Karna, and Achilles would obey his orders but keep misgivings to themselves—where Mordred would just make her annoyance known, as the chances of rebellion spiked.
But Shakespeare's Noble Phantasm worked finely.
The Globe: The King's Men. One of Shakespeare's Noble Phantasms, one of the few attributes about him that Semiramis tolerated. Like many of his actors that he turned into the mischievous Puck or the iron lady Macbeth, he spun two simple wooden puppets into perfect copies of Amakusa Shirou and her. She didn't leave the library to attend to the rest of the Hanging Gardens, as she wanted to ensure Achilles remained inebriated as long as possible. It definitely wasn't out of concern for him and Shakespeare being alone. She was just covering her bases in case Shakespeare tried to do something debilitating to one of the Red Faction's trump cards.
An unscrupulous man like Caster is not to be left to his devices unless actively working on that weapon for our Master…
Out of all the Red Servants she distrusted him the most. The rest were simple heroes that she understood in a heartbeat. Karna was slightly more difficult but he was a paragon of honor and loyalty in the end. And that was all that mattered to her.
She refrained from heaving a sigh, observing from a couch near the entrance. Even she had her misgivings about how obsessive he was with figuring out every Heroic Spirit's flaws. It wasn't like he could compose plays with the Holy Grail War afoot.
As for his Noble Phantasm, it was ridiculously useful—perhaps too useful. When subordinates excel at their job, it is natural; when subordinates start gaining a head too high for their shoulders and decide to put their skills to use in a different direction...that is where Semiramis had to disagree with Amakusa Shirou. But she had faith in his lack of knowledge regarding her legend and her will eclipsed his petty tendencies at setting up needless drama. Of course, she never would've become the Assyrian Empress if she possessed even a slightly-less hardy will. Otherwise she would've given up after being taken from Onnes.
Her finger hovered over the page's corner, as she detected an odd instinct-like urge to listen. Semiramis's breathing slowed in anticipation. She angled her eyes upward, enough to seem like she's still engaged in her book.
"Eventually, I will carve your story into writing. Therefore, I ask a question of you for the genre. Shall it be a comedy or a tragedy?"
"It's my life. Any interpretation is fine—as long as it isn't like Troilus and Cressida. The idea of me supporting peace is too much—I was there to fight and become a hero!" Achilles suddenly moaned and let go of the beer pitcher, and slowly rested his forehead against the table. He mumbled, "But, well..." silence and confusion followed, as he lapsed into contemplation, against the silliness of his drunkenness.
Semiramis could feel the whiplash herself as he slammed his palms on the table, in some sort of epiphany and looked up hastily.
"Make it a comedy—so ridiculous it makes people cry from laughter. In fact, dying because only my heel is human and it was shot with by an arrow is already far beyond ridiculous!" With that Achilles burst into hearty laughter. He might as well be laughing off the possible regrets he had in The Iliad.
Shakespeare's smile vanished, his face startlingly blank and thinking hard. Many of her thoughts took a turn for the worse—her fingers dug into the pages, almost tearing it in her distaste. Should I intervene on Rider's behalf—he wouldn't appreciate such a thing...and he would realize that the alcohol I brewed is purposely intoxicating. What to do, indeed.
But Semiramis was taken from the scene as a dove landed on a lamp near her. Holding out a hand, it hopped onto her offered perch, tweeting its information.
Having been nursed by these doves since she was abandoned by her mother, they remained friends long after she grew up. Like remote decoys, her divinity—the only gift from her mother—allowed her to direct them with her thoughts. Tracking magical energy, especially Servants, was child's play.
"What has that dove said to you to make your beautiful face become so creased and annoyed?"
"You may stop posturing for it is of little interest to me." Semiramis smoothed down a stray feather before it left through the window. "Ruler has apparently decided to depart from the church she took up residence in."
"Does that mean she is wandering about, now? That is reckless, but it can only mean she has absolute confidence."
She twisted her lips into a sneer.
"How opportunistic. I am not opposed to sending Rider out to finish Lancer's job." Semiramis had been in a foul mood for some time after he returned. He didn't even have the courtesy to kill Saber of Black while he was at it—not that it mattered now, but it was the principle itself.
But a sudden slump discarded that option for her. Achilles melted off his chair, having fallen asleep after Shakespeare paused, and onto the floor. His face was surprisingly youthful without his liveliness present. He was only twenty-five when he died if I recall correctly; common for fateful heroes. Sprawled on his back, he probably wouldn't wake up for an hour or so. Semiramis placed enough tranquilizer to lure him from safety without alerting him.
Another dove replaced the one who flew off, dropping off unpleasant news.
"What?!" Astonished, she couldn't help but exclaim from the news. And for a good reason too. She gritted her teeth as Shakespeare stopped.
This is far from a Pyrrhic victory but this leaves us less wiggle room than I'd prefer.
"Lancer and Assassin has killed Assassin of Black but evidently, it appears Archer had gone berserk after a mist covered Sighisoara. Something led to Lancer burning through his mana while the cause of Archer's sudden craze was a Noble Phantasm. They fought briefly after the mist lifted and yet they are not retreating already." The dove was replaced by another but waited. "I do hope it is to confirm the enemy Servant's death."
Shakespeare muttered possible circumstances under his breath, approaching it like many of his plays. His enthusiasm infringed on her nerves.
Disgusting. Semiramis stared at him for a brief moment, speculating the odds of how much trouble they'd be in if she eliminated him.
Sighing, she continued. "And Saber engaged with Archer of Black. Though neither were defeated, they dealt severe wounds to each other." Semiramis paused at the dove's report for Mordred's status. "...Saber's eye was destroyed by a beam of light originating from the sky."
"How amazing! Like out of that new genre; science-fiction I learned the other day." Shakespeare's energy surged as he left the table in a whirl of sudden energy and joined her on the couch, looking at her expectantly.
Semiramis strained herself trying not to hurt him. Concentrating on her breathing worked wonders.
"It seems that Archer of Black didn't have to say his Noble Phantasm's True Name to activate it," Semiramis said after trying to get over his enthusiasm. "My doves say the light came from the sky, like a shooting star of a sorts."
"He might be a Heroic Spirit related to a constellation." Shakespeare jotted down notes on a pad he manifested after sitting next to her. "You can inquire more information from Sir Mordred when they return."
"Heaping all of that responsibility onto me, speaks volumes of your wish to retire from this gathering so soon."
"...but I do have other work to complete," Shakespeare muttered petulantly. She twitched. "After all, he wants to take part in the War at least once? And who am I to deny him?" His voice became sharper, like a sword that lost its rust after time and effort.
"..." Semiramis glanced at him with a slightly open mouth. "I don't agree with Shirou's decision...but it is what he wants. Very well, as a monarch, I graciously accept this task you pushed onto me. Be warned Caster, that I will tolerate no less than the highest for this weapon you are constructing for him, in return."
"Oh! I would never disappoint you!"
She allowed herself a quick facepalm before mulling over the Black Faction. Archer, Rider, Lancer, Caster, and Berserker were the only Servants left. But she wanted to sow more discord...and there, a small idea took root.
"Caster of Black. He used golems when he subjugated Spartacus, did he not?" Semiramis's mind ripped apart the Black Faction like a serving of fruit, searching for the one with the most potential.
It remained a small hunch, but he was a man who distrusted humanity. Speaking in a dispassionate voice, Semiramis noted that through her doves, it unnerved Rider and Archer of Black as he and Lancer of Black conversed about Spartacus. A golemancer who remained an enigmatic figure. He might be of use then, a tool to be discarded after appropriately sowing discord within the enemy ranks.
"Correct—may I ask why?"
"You may. Are you familiar with the saying 'scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours?' A problem child for a problem child may be favorable for the both of us."
Shakespeare blinked, gears in his eyes running overtime to figure her out. He can learn a thing or two about humility. It is royalty alone, that has the privilege to be above such unnecessary things.
"Wouldn't the idiom 'an eye for an eye' be more suitable?" He said, sly smirk forming.
She returned her own sweet smile, properly poisonous.
"If you understand my proposal then there is no idea to suggest a replacement."
"That is true. [Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt]."
"And here I thought you could actually manage to finish a conversation without self-quoting. Well, it is no matter. Complaining about it is like saying the sun is too bright. But I believe humanity has created some form of protection...I should like to procure some for myself. Since you need no further help, I shall thankfully, leave your presence, to inform Shirou." Semiramis stood up.
"—and perhaps, you may find a solution now!"
She stopped mid-walk and glanced over her shoulder to witness one of his devious smirks.
"Caster, this had better not be one of your tricks." Semiramis raised an arm as means of emphasis.
"This time I don't mean to pull your leg! Though I'd like to…" the last part was muttered.
"I'll forgive you for that remark if you explain before I puncture you with something more tangible." Her gaze went back to the door pointedly.
"Right. Ahem—I ask a favor of you: will you concoct some more of that alcohol you used earlier on Rider?"
She refused to look back over her shoulder. Twisting her mouth, Semiramis examined the door-frame's design in consideration. Similar to vines, protruding white branches crawled over each other in a bid for the knob.
Had this been a normal Grail War, then undoubtedly, Achilles and Semiramis would have been the first to battle. There was a fatal lack of understanding—and cooperation—between them. Broadminded Achilles and regal Semiramis, they were the antithesis of each other. And if he ever attempted to assassinate her in the Hanging Gardens, he would die. She had an equal rank in [Divinity]. That was why she had no qualms about using it when Amakusa Shirou decided to take the command spells now.
But, an odd hesitation refused to budge in her mind. Shakespeare lived for drama, the imbecile, so for a man like Achilles whose life belongs to him and him only, the playwright would take offense from that. Using all of his mastery of his language, he could probably even expose the holes in Achilles's scorching life. Perhaps another aim rested—to make everyone who doesn't regret anything, suffer and understand.
That would be one of the greatest accomplishments for him. To move Heroic Spirits leaps and bounds above him and bring them down—no, even lower than him. Nevertheless, Shakespeare has risen to the top of her list.
Semiramis was thankful that as a Heroic Spirit, she possessed no weakness in her psyche—aside from her Master, of course. She would not deny that she was fond of him and his wish to the point of wanting to see both outcomes of failure or success. Against Shakespeare's new motives, she would protect him even against his choices if necessary.
She chose her words, careful not to let her hesitancy show. "If there is some leisure time before we advance to Yggdmillennia's fields, then I will concoct some more."
"Truly you are most magnanimous—" and he launched into another spiel.
She left quickly.
Semiramis noted to herself that the potions she'll stir up for Shakespeare is more so diluted. If he intended its use for something along the lines of subterfuge, then she'll increase it. But she dared not inquire what he would do with it.
Amakusa Shirou would like to know this as well—two heads are better than one against Shakespeare's machinations.
But for now, ruminating on that wasn't necessary. As she crossed the Hanging Gardens on foot, she took the time to assess the Knight of Treachery for herself. The revelation of her identity intrigued her greatly, even though her punky attitude left much to be desired. It was an odd choice to cover up that inadequacy she sported underneath. Both women of royal blood and treachery engraved into their legends, Semiramis finding Mordred interesting was a natural progression.
All monarchs require knights. All knights require monarchs. She'd like to think that she would've reacted better to Mordred's revelation than King Arthur. Even if that acknowledgment was nothing more than an assassination.
An assassination was proof that she recognized the person as a contender for the throne. That they had merit. Surely a loveless child like Mordred would understand?
If there was a chance that presented itself, then Semiramis would take it. But should Mordred prove herself to be more of a nuisance like Shakespeare, then she would find a beheading.
—
Jeanne d'Arc wandered the halls with Astolfo, Darnic and Fiore in tow as they unsubtly interrogated her. Astolfo's penchant for being obliviously chaotic good worked for them in this situation, so he ordered him to be released on parole. They seemed to get on well for now but Vlad made it clear that further failures would be met by his stakes.
"My king, Saber of Red is Mordred, the illegitimate child of King Arthur," Chiron said once they were alone.
He couldn't quite hide his surprise at the revelation. Chiron nodded as if in agreement.
Vlad had asked Chiron to take a walk with him and they ended up on the fortress's ramparts, overlooking the cleared field. Standing with a hand clasped behind his back, he felt as if he were alive again, defending Wallachia from the Turks. The wine was a bonus.
"I feel as if I should say that I am surprised that a Heroic Spirit like her existed. But if Jack the Ripper was summoned, then there is no point." He sipped from a glass.
"Indeed." Chiron's eyes fixed onto the constellations above them.
They observed the blackening sky in silence for a while. Vlad's troubled thoughts kept him company instead.
Lancer Karna, the peerless villain of ancient India; Archer Atalanta, the great huntress of the Greek myths; Saber Mordred, the bastard child of King Arthur turned kingslayer; Rider Achilles, a hero whose name was carved into history. Though Assassin and Caster haven't made an appearance yet, the line up already caused Vlad to consider their next move carefully. Undoubtedly, they must be of strong renown if the Red Faction's confidence is anything to go by.
Chiron's conjecture about Archer being Atalanta was around being ninety percent correct. She remained one of the strongest mortal archers in Classical mythology but afflicted with animal-like appendages—Frankenstein reacted to her like a dog defending its territory.
Still, he decided to take it with a grain of salt—though he couldn't help some tenseness. With Siegfried and Jack the Ripper gone, it was left to him and Chiron to keep the Black Faction afloat, as the only Heroic Spirits suited for fighting with these legendary figures. Frankenstein was a relatively young Heroic Spirit and Astolfo was a third-rate Servant.
However, the actuality of having no qualms fighting them was true. Aside from Mordred—and a stretch at that—they were pagans, so he had no issue, if there had been when they are the intruders, at killing them. Power was not an issue. Everyone here knew that as long as he was in Romania and given the greatest fame boost, he was surely a match for King Arthur in Britain or Heracles in Greece.
The battle in Sighisoara proved Mordred to be a brash and rebellious spirit who relied on her [Instinct] more than anything else. Karna's divine spear and armor and holy flames was a matter of how long he could afford severe mana consumption. Atalanta's physical constitution was like glass. And Vlad trusted Chiron to take out Achilles, Rider of Red, without having to force a mutual kill.
They counted on him, just as he counted on them to preside as the powerful captains he was denied in life. If he had any soldiers worthy of their prestige and command, then he never would've been falsely imprisoned.
After some deliberation, he started. "I spoke to Darnic after you were summoned, about how I have such powerful allies at my side."
"That is quite the praise from you. Thank you."
"However, I know nothing of the wishes you strive for. I do not mean to pry, but I ask only because I'd like to."
That made Chiron look nervous; he almost wrung his hands together, but stopped last-minute. Vlad understood it in a second: as the lynch pin of this faction, his wish possessed the highest priority.
Chiron seemed faintly embarrassed as he answered after some hesitation. "It is rather selfish...but I would ask of the Gods to return my immortality to me."
Vlad had no issues with Chiron—in fact, he held the Heroic Spirit in high regards. His presence was like a massive forest, engulfing the faction with his calm appearance and easy smile. He would go so far as to call him a friend, a comrade. The Lord knew he had been deprived of such indulgences in life—forced to rely only on himself for defending Wallachia.
"I assume you regretted relinquishing it." Vlad was thankful that Chiron saw through the icy gaze and tremendous presence he possessed. He asked not out of malicious intent, but genuine curiosity—something other people would've taken as the former.
"I do not miss it—rather, to relinquish it is like denying myself. It is a gift from my mother and father."
"I was blessed with loving parents—even if my sibling was not. To Wallachia, he is the greatest traitor to have come out from her lands and should have suffered a fitting end."
Chiron winced. He didn't blame him but his measures deterred many crimes. "If I recall correctly, your justice system was made so, that there was an example of a high taxer drinking his melted fortune. I almost shudder to think of what you might've done if he had lost. But traitors must be prepared to face a cruel fate if they decide to betray their homelands."
"Indeed. I find it comforting that you agree with me on that subject." Vlad swished his cup before holding it up in the moonlight. "Despite myself, I still remember my childhood with him fondly—before we left for Wallachia after our father paid the homage." He refrained from tightening his grip on the glass; some time afterward, Radu's rotten plumage showed through and dispelled the illusion of safety.
What would I give to get my hands on that filthy neck…
"My own parents haven't loved me at all but an irrational part of me desires it—though it will change nothing in the end."
Vlad grunted in acknowledgment.
Lancer, Ruler wishes to convey the terms of this stay with you and Archer present. Darnic's voice came easily through their link. Vlad detected no unnatural tones; he couldn't be too careful. His Master's respect for him as the lord of this land was expected, but the rest appeared to be more like niceties. Darnic was an excellent Master rank-wise and they had little problems when talking—Vlad couldn't quite place a finger on it.
Very well. Archer and I will join you momentarily.
"Chiron."
Something flashed in his eyes and seemed startled from Vlad addressing him by his True Name. He did not blame him.
"I wish to speak with you afterward about the matter of my Master and Caster."
He murmured his assent but a troubled look flowed through his eyes.
Vlad looked to the near future with trepidation as well. There was a storm headed for the weakened Black Faction.