It's been barely a few hours since sunset and he felt restless, like he needed to do something.
I'm happy Servants can't have hangovers. But unwinding is something else. Damn it all. I've got a persistent feeling telling me that "something" dangerous happened when I was drinking my ass off.
He snorted; the rationalization came quick and easy. If anything, the dangerous sensation is because Caster decided to give me that play in the first place. And anyway, drinking top-notch alcohol and telling anyone about my war stories is a good way to spend the evening. Correcting that Caster's impressions of me before he does anything else with The Iliad is crucial. I won't stand for that peace-seeking fool of an incarnation of me. It's an insult to all the effort I put into honing myself into a warrior and the sacrifices made to get where I am now.
Achilles yawned and stretched, purposely knocking into Mordred as she washed her face, using the water garden. She immediately grabbed his closest arm and tried to break it in half. He shoved her back and they started tousling in the water.
He didn't wrestle seriously, out of consideration for her mana consumption. But bruises were fair game.
As Achilles tried to get her into a headlock, he saw Atalanta hold out her infected arm for inspection and Shirou gingerly placed his hands over it. He didn't like the guy, but he hadn't done anything bad yet, and he seemed genuinely eager to help her. Achilles scowled briefly before turning to Mordred who stared back, challenging.
Achilles grinned. Midget. She was more than just a head shorter. Maybe up to his chest.
He paused, taking in the wound again, and released her torso. One of his arms had almost jabbed her in the eye while she flailed like a cat getting a belly rub.
She stepped away to give them breathing room, chest somewhat rising higher than advised.
They sized each other up.
"You giving up?"
"No. And that's gross—unsanitary as hell." Achilles flicked water at her socket—well, it wasn't empty anymore. A white slob filled it.
"We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers…" Shirou's voice faded to the background as Mordred retorted. Achilles allowed himself to exhale in relief as [Jack's Ghosts] were slowly being exorcised.
"You're gross." Mordred rolled her eyes and grinned fearlessly. That proved to be the decisive maneuver.
He had a faint idea of why. She dived and yanked him down with her. He yelped and they continued to smack each other at a slower pace—but Achilles didn't like waiting for Mordred's slow ass to strike empty spaces so he swam away in a burst downward then kicking against the marble floor. It launched him up against her, ramming force diluted by the unfortunate physics of water.
Mordred braced herself long before he kicked off. Impressive. She caught him by the arms and they were locked in hand clenching hand.
How about now? She mouthed, bubbles escaping in excess quantities. The liquid oozed out from her eye—and into the water.
He shook his head in a firm no.
Loser, she mouthed again and stuck out her tongue, as if he didn't get it the first time.
An arrow breaking the concrete wall next to him stopped them from continuing to duke it out.
"What if you hit me?" he accused half-heartedly as they crawled out of the pool.
Shirou must've left with Karna and Shakespeare, while they tried to rip each others' face off. Mordred flopped onto the ground like a dying fish face-down.
"I don't want to do anything now," She said, concrete muffling her.
Achilles mimicked her when Atalanta didn't change her expression.
"I have faith in your instinct as you have in my senses." Atalanta hefted an arrow in her hands. Tauropolos was nowhere to be seen, so he assumed she threw it as stress-relief.
"Thanks. I guess." Achilles rolled over to his back, almost crushing Mordred with his weight. Her leg kicked him lightly in the stomach. At least, he assumed—he just felt a force.
"Cut that shit out."
"Make me."
"Children." Atalanta came closer and stood over them; her arrow never looked so menacing until now. The silver head glinted a solid white under the moon. Torches illuminated her stern expression.
"Next time, I'm throwing you in myself." Mordred worked her jaw around, rubbing her injured eye.
"We'll see about that." Achilles sat up, running a hand through his damp hair. The familiar feeling of having his drenched clothes cling to his frame would start to irritate him soon but he needed to sit through the next hour for Atalanta.
"Carrot-head," Mordred jeered.
Atalanta angled the arrowhead to shine the light at her and she recoiled in an over-the-top way, shielding her good eye. "Enough."
"Fine." Mordred spit up water onto Achilles's face before clambering to her feet.
He slowly wiped the spittle from his face and almost reached out to trip her but thought better of it, after seeing Atalanta's glare fixed on the both of them. She reached out and rapped Mordred on the forehead, triggering a muffled complaint.
"Is there something wrong?" He asked first.
"No, not exactly," Atalanta answered while twirling the arrow in her hand. "But I'd prefer it if we conserve our mana since I believe Assassin wishes to make her move soon."
"Finally! I'm looking forward to getting some action. And then maybe we can finally get that Greater Grail and have a real tournament," Achilles crowed.
"The Grail huh?" Mordred said to herself, sounding unsure and lost. "That tournament sounds like a blast though."
"Oh, that reminds me." Achilles stretched and stood up. "Why do you fight for the Grail?"
Jade eyes narrowed and she discarded the hesitation. "The chance to draw the sword from the stone. I'll pull it out and prove to Arthur that anyone can become a king—even if they were born from the lowest of the hierarchy." Mordred declared proudly without any hint of falsity.
"Normally I'd disagree, but I'd rather see your kingship than another pop up," Achilles remarked. "Just don't order me to do anything I don't like and we'll have less problems to deal with."
"Didn't ask for your thoughts." Mordred snorted. He rolled his eyes but she was already turning to Atalanta and said, "What about you?"
She was silent for a little bit as a contemplative look came on. "My wish is for a world where all children will be loved."
Achilles was stunned for a second. One of the purest wishes that I've ever heard...and that really said a lot about the Throne of Heroes. "Why didn't you say anything about it earlier?!" He covered his heart with a hand—it's been a week since they were summoned. There was a small noise to his left. "What? Oi—something eating at you?"
"I didn't say this earlier since I was…worried...about your mental health," she exhaled sharply. "But...I'd really like to see that wish come true. Then maybe, Father would've have—" Mordred's face scrunched from an unknown conflict.
Achilles understood. "Oh, that's right. That king didn't recognize you as his heir?"
He was almost disappointed that she didn't growl her answer out but Atalanta was touched so he reluctantly let it go.
Instead her voice was tired and not boastful or anything similar. "Yeah. That damn king didn't give a shit about me as his faithful shadow or his bastard kid. ...just any acknowledgement would've been great."
"They say Arthur was a mechanical king who brought his kingdom peace, and yet he could not do anything for the restlessness that presented itself in his people." Atalanta shook her head in cold resignation. "I may consider myself a citizen of the woodlands, but the kings I've seen, when an Argonaut, at least possessed hot-blooded charisma. Arthur did not leave any room for dissent or happiness—that is what I believe."
Mordred huffed and shuffled, playing with her leather jacket. "Basically." She huffed again.
She's like a kid, even more so than a bratty teenager—like Diomedes without that hot temper except she—
That punky attitude was too similar to when he reacted upon hearing his destiny. I became swallowed up by the potential, the track for me to sprint all I want. Odysseus and Chiron reigned me in so—
"Mordred, how old are you?" Achilles asked, having an awful premonition. "Going off by your looks...you're a homunculus or something similar, aren't you? That's the only explanation."
Like she didn't have time to mature. Those nine years with Chiron gave me all the time in the world to prepare for my fate and I had friends at my side.
"Is that a problem with you?" She growled briefly but he silenced her with his own. "...six or seven—" Mordred was cut off by Atalanta whirling around and grabbing her by the shoulders. "...uh, is there something wrong?"
"Yes," She hissed. "This changes everything about what our plans against the enemies will be."
Achilles had to hand it to Mordred—the full responsibility of his respect. Like him, she sprinted through her life, even if it wasn't of her own choosing. But she reached out and grabbed it for herself, even if the results were not what she expected. If he recalled correctly, homunculi didn't live for very long—and she already looked like a teenager.
"But we're all Heroic Spirits here—I don't get it. And in the end I do what I want so the responsibility is mine alone."
"I don't believe that you understand what I mean." Atalanta closed her eyes, sighing, and her voice became warm as she examined Mordred for a second time. "To me, you are a child—and it's not an insult."
Mordred's blankness disturbed Achilles.
"...so you include me...in your wish?" Her voice almost wavered at the end.
"Of course." Atalanta smoothed down a stray hair in Mordred's ponytail. "You may as well be family at this point."
He held back a smirk. Atalanta fussed over her injured eye, muttering to her about how she was going to be Mordred's older sister. She reacted with faintly annoyed remarks but a light dust of red flush coated her face. Someone she could rely on—and Achilles undoubtedly knew it was the first declaration of being her family...actually, on second thought, that was a disturbing implication.
Of course he knew about King Arthur's involvement—or lack thereof—but he assumed that the king at least gave his acknowledgement and praise to all of his knights of the round table.
Apparently he did not.
"Want me to be your brother?" he sidled up to her, slinging an arm around her shoulder.
She side-eyed him before grinning broadly.
"Okay. But I get to be the older brother—"
If he commented on that, it'd put her in a bad mood again and Atalanta would hurt him for it. And it wasn't his place to thrust his opinion on her. "—absolutely not. Sis here is the oldest without Karna here, but I still came a few thousand years before you. Remember, you admitted you were our junior so you'll yield the right for first letter of our team."
"—like I care about that now—"
"—You can both be the trouble-making twins." Atalanta smiled softly but her voice retained its authoritative edge.
"Yes, mom," he simpered, pleased that Mordred didn't object. "So as our first order of business, I want to talk about our older sister's wish in detail."
Atalanta had an exasperated expression now.
"Sorry sis, but I'm concerned, thanks to Assassin of Black's interference." Achilles held his ground. And it was true. He let his voice go lower. "I care about you."
It's a hero's duty to punish the evil.
Karna pulled him off to the side and informed him of what happened in the fog. His heart ached even now—the tussle with Mordred hadn't helped one bit to relieve it. If that didn't speak damming volumes about his blood knight tendencies, then he didn't know what did.
It was a postponement. Sis...please don't use Agrius Metamorphosis ever again.
"Alright, alright. Fine." Atalanta grumbled curses under her breath.
"And there's my cue." Mordred snorted and shoved him off her shoulder. There was nothing about physics and weight in Andreias Amarantos, and Achilles was fine with being pushed back from her strength. "That's enough mushy, gross, heartfelt confessions for now—"
"— awww, are you embarrassed?"
"Achilles," Atalanta sighed.
Mordred gave him a deadly glare, jaw clenched for maximum intimidation purposes. Tch. You're a big softie like me. And Odysseus does it better.
"Whatever." She shook her head, face cooling to a neutral expression. "I'm gonna go talk to Karna while I can."
"Mordred, I would like to talk more as well. Preferably before we fight the Black Faction." Atalanta reminded her.
"Let's catch up later then." She waved a hand over her shoulder in acknowledgment, leaving via spirit form.
A few minutes taken to adjust their positions, they stood right in front of the pool next to each other.
"Karna went off with Shirou to replenish his mana. I believe Caster tagged along on account of Assassin's concern for her Master—she is working on completing the ritual for this Noble Phantasm."
"Like you said earlier. So we'll be squaring off tomorrow night if Assassin doesn't waste any time for today?"
Atalanta nodded and jumped topic to steer Achilles into the corner. "About that, are you prepared to fight Archer of Melas —Chiron?"
He didn't expect that. And didn't want to think about it at all. Because there were three people who he never wanted to fight again, or ever. My mentor, Chiron. My enemy, Hector. My vindicator, Penthesilea.
Achilles tried to swallow the lump in his throat discreetly. Her eyes zeroed in on him and he cursed his carelessness.
"Mordred can have him," he said, shoving his confidence back into his mouth, and smirked. "Karna said he was the one who destroyed her eye. So if he's still alive—I'll take him on."
Atalanta watched him for a minute for conceding.
"...Achilles. Do you believe that it's possible to save every child?"
And he was back into the frying pan. His mouth went dry. He stayed silent because he knew the answer would anger her and the fact that it had come to him instantly.
"No...I don't think so," he answered reluctantly. Atalanta stilled, so he hurried to say what's been growing in his heart ever since he's known her, from the fond memories Peleus had of her.
A striking female hunter, who is like a swift horse running through a prairies.
She held strength to treat any hardship headed her way as nothing.
One of the few female Argonauts.
Atalanta defeated Peleus in a wrestling match.
Atalanta struck the Calydonian Boar first.
"But sis! I—" his breath was knocked out of his torso when she gained the same blank look Mordred had a few minutes ago. "...can you tell me what you saw?"
"It was hell," Atalanta proclaimed in an uneasy tone. "All the children were dead inside, barely existing in that hell. And the acts they committed…"
Achilles listened completely as she rambled, sentences starting to string together into one until she went into depth of how she was brought back to her senses.
"...Karna said I wasn't wrong in my desire to save every child in this wretched world and I trusted him because he is a good man—you and your father, Peleus, are the only others. Perhaps that is the only explanation for why I could escape the madness of Agrius Metamorphosis finally."
"He said you became a calamity in pursuit of vengeance for those children—"
He didn't want to finish that thought. His mind crafted blurred images of Atalanta, ravening eyes and boasting that eldritch-like pelt after he understood what Agrius Metamorphosis did to her.
It led to a horrifyingly familiar situation. Though he had made his grave and laid in it since his decision, this wasn't the case for Atalanta and he couldn't let her suffer it unjustly.
I had been like that after Patroclus died—for days on end, all I saw was Trojan blood, Divine blood, and Hector's blood.
But still...feelings aren't always connected by linear objects. No one has the right to criticize what I desire or what others desire of me. If I don't regret the things I've done, then it doesn't mean they never happened.
"—Achilles." Atalanta said quietly, and then he realized he was crying.
Achilles didn't care that his tears soaked his face. She reached out a hand and caught them, a rueful smile appearing.
Sucking in the cold air, he tried to let his heart speak for himself. There was nothing in front of him that could take his attention from this. He wasn't sure if this was for her or his comfort—but it needed to be said.
Before another tragedy happens without any of her comrades to save her.
"...Atalanta. Your dream is beautiful. While knowing more than anyone else that your dream is unrewarding, you keep challenging that. However, you started down on the wrong path. That path didn't have anything in common with your dream." He laid a hand over hers, clutching it tight to his cheek.
"I didn't think I'd see you cry," Atalanta whispered. "...what was I supposed to do? Karna said it was wrong to protect those children so—if trying to protect them was wrong…"
Then the world must be really be a cursed place, but none of them wanted to say it.
"...even so. Even so, I'm glad Karna was there to save you—I think I would've ended up killing the both of us in the process."
"I'm glad too," Atalanta admitted, removing her hand when his tears stopped.
"Atalanta—let's win the Holy Grail."
—
If it came down to the wire on a split-second to act, Mordred would swing her sword against Shirou. And Semiramis, Karna, or Shakespeare wouldn't get in her way again. That's fine , she decided. She was sure that unlike the other Red Servants, she possessed the biggest reason to betray him. And it wasn't like Achilles or Atalanta had a reason to complain about it? They had their misgivings too, even if it was diluted by Shirou exorcising [Jack's Ghosts] from Atalanta's arm.
Kairi might be in the beast's belly...but she grudgingly admitted that he was at least safe from Yggdmillennia's range.
Her eye bothered her less and less as time crept by. If she focused, a vague sense of depth perception could be realized. But so did nausea. She judged it to be at least workable by tomorrow night.
This small village outside of Trifas was quiet even though it was barely after dusk, in a strange way that made her feel at ease. Sampling the local cuisine increased the comfort she took in this village and since she finally got to fight last night, she didn't feel cravings for pummeling fools.
Mordred had been sitting against a fence along the dusty road playing with a fluffy gray cat when Karna swung by.
"Were you waiting for a while?" Karna appeared in a cloud of blust dust, still in his civilian clothing.
"Not really. And I'm not that bored." She hefted the cat up and down by its shoulders. Karna stared, amused. "This cat has been stalking me since I came here—even walking into a café with me."
"It may be that Atalanta's scent rubbed off onto you," he noted, kneeling next to her and rubbed the cat's head after she lowered it.
He smiled as it meowed at him, batting its head against his hand.
"Heh. Yeah that's possible." Mordred grinned. "They didn't do anything weird, or out of the ordinary, during the mana transfer?"
"Kotomine Shirou seemed somewhat...overly concerned. But it was authentic and I shall treat it as merely a trait of a good Master."
"And Caster?"
At this, Karna sighed in complete exasperation. From what she's seen of the guy, she couldn't blame him. Even saints like Karna have their limits.
"...it had occurred to him that the best way to gain the advantage over me, when he has no such other alternatives, is best me in the matters of pleasure. Though, he preferred overall to intrude upon my personal space as I was given mana. Caster hovered like a mother concerned for the wrong reasons."
"Ew."
"I am sure that he only did out of curiosity for figuring out the limits of my boundaries."
"...that's still weird. Well, I'm glad I didn't have to replenish my mana with that irritating Assassin—she'd probably do the same to me. What about your spiritual core?"
"My spiritual core is sensitive but not strained anymore," he responded. "As long as I don't use my [Mana Burst]: Flames—but I believe Brahmastra is sufficient—then I will be fine for the battle we are to start tomorrow night."
"Nice." The cat scampered off into the grass—she heard mice scurrying about. "Can we talk?"
"I assume this is related to your remark about me being a therapist."
"Bingo."
Karna didn't sigh, but she felt like he was carefully choosing her words. "What would you like to start with?"
This question had been eating her for some time—Karna's authority on the matters of kingship needed to be clarified. Mordred propped a hand under her chin. "...what kind of a king was Duryodhana like?"
Surprise flickered across his face for the briefest of seconds. Am I that weird…?
"A king who judged others not on the caste system in ancient India but their merit. He crowned me king of Anga after a competition—my skill and eye surpassed everyone and so they returned the favor with humiliating me on grounds for being a charioteer's son. And then I gave him everything I had left." Karna looked up to the carpet of stars being rolled out across the black night. A wistful touch joined the nostalgia in his eyes. "I had given him everything," he repeated, and Mordred got a feeling it was more to himself. "Everything that all my valor and loyalty could ever accomplish."
He suddenly raked a hand through his unkempt hair. "He reminds me of you, I suppose. In the same way you both let your temper guide your actions when injustice materializes. Nor do the both of you make excuses for shortcomings."
She felt an instinctive need to see for herself if Duryodhana valued him as not the spear he claimed to be. Mordred almost gritted her teeth. But Karna didn't notice it, eyes drawn to where the sun would rise and bring dawn.
"Was he a good friend?"
"To me, he was."
Mordred pursed her lips in unreasonable irritation. That didn't seem like an acceptable explanation, no matter how unwavering he sounded. No matter how resolute his gaze was.
Karna folded his arms and continued in a knowing tone from her silence. "As for why I stayed with him, I owed Duryodhana a debt. For some reason, that impudent and timid man was so bright to me. It may be blasphemy against my lord father but, occasionally, I felt that his sweet light was the warmth of the sun."
"Oh," she murmured on instinct. Was that what it was like, to have an unbreakable friendship? It did sound like one. The kind of emotion that glued a person to another—out of genuine love. Or at least that's what she guessed.
And because she wasn't sure where to hit next, she talked about her wish.
"I remember that you said that 'if I'm the strongest knight then I already surpassed my father'." she wrung out her hands, feeling an urge to do something physical. "So before you came here, I thought a lot about what being a king means—my definition won't change...but what am I supposed to do afterward? I only ever thought about the journey there."
"Mordred, are you holding yourself up to King Arthur's standards?"
"Yeah...now that you say it...I guess I am," she said, reluctant to face it.
Her realization had the subtlety of a truck hit.
I had my own brand of chivalry and way of kingship to follow...and yet in the end I can't shake myself off Father's decrees. But he knew what to do. Everyone looked to him for guidance. He is the defender, the giver, the king. He does everything first. I remember wanting to protect King Arthur — not just as his shadow but…
Is it really what he wanted? Would he really approve of my wish?
...we're so different that there's an ocean between us…
Mordred inhaled.
...oh. So...that's what I wanted.
To draw Caliburn, is to abandon your humanity.
I didn't even give it a second thought.
He must have been lonely, at the top.
But I have Atalanta, Achilles—and Karna.
"For what it's worth, I would follow you if you were to be king."
She couldn't stop the "Holy shit" from slipping out. Karna didn't take offense because he was the purest man she's ever met. That declaration further shaved uncertainty from her mind and she had no idea how to feel about it since everything was a first in this Great Holy Grail War.
And she definitely didn't blush.
Mordred licked her lips and tried to form the words lining up but they were slow to verbalize. "I think...I think that though I can surpass him…" she stopped. "—I'm limiting myself by holding myself to his standard of what he believed is a good reign."
Clenching her fists, saying the next sentence hurt her as much as she felt relieved. "If I continue to pursue my wish, then I'll do it on my own terms."
"That is what you want?"
"Yes." her answer came clear and confident. Mordred believed it completely. "...egh, so it took me this long. And I can't believe it's been only two or three hours since we started." she looked up to the sky before turning to Karna.
"...thanks."
"You needn't thank me. I am always happy to help you." he dipped his head, soft smile appearing. "I see you as my friend and comrade."
There was no hesitation in her grin.
They meandered away from the fence afterward but she stopped on the road leading to the highway, suddenly remembering the family Atalanta spoke of. At this point she wanted to set the record straight and ignore the church incident.
He had already proved himself to be past that.
"Here's a heads up in case Achilles makes a dumb comment; apparently we're siblings now or something like that." Mordred told him about what Achilles and Atalanta said earlier. For some unfathomable reason her heart started thumping, like the drums of war. She saw but didn't feel her hands twitch in anticipation.
"Mordred—" Karna had an indecipherable expression. Strange, like when she refused Bedivere's offer of assistance with a quest once.
"Huh? You've got a issue with it or whatever? Then you'll have to take it up with Atalanta—"
"—I was blessed with many brothers but I had no such sisters," he interrupted, not unkindly. Soft sapphire irises didn't blink in anticipation. "And none of those brothers were particularly accepting; it mattered not that they hadn't learned of it till the end. For Achilles and Atalanta to designate me as their brother...well...it is something that is also unknown to me." he placed a hand over his heart, looking completely sincere to the point of Mordred almost blanching from this blatant display of emotion from Karna. And in general. "Mordred. I am far from opposed from this offer Atalanta created."
At first, she wanted to rage at Karna for seeing her as a woman but she forced herself to relax her spiked nerves with all her willpower. No matter how her blood sang in untouched emotions. He did not say it out of malice—Karna was the kind of guy to drop bombshells, she knew that.
So don't have a meltdown.
"...I really don't know," she answered after unclenching her jaw. Staring at her invisible fractal scarring, Mordred had no idea if she even wanted to care about Arthur, whether it be hate or love. She was tired. Tired from this Round Table, kingship, and family issues, when she ever thought about it in detail, but other matters quickly consumed her attention. "I really don't know if I could be your sister...brother is fine but…"
"It is only natural you would feel as such." Karna stated. "You were raised to be the king's son and heir. Nothing more, nothing less."
Mordred raised her head slowly. "You really don't know what tact is…" she groaned.
Karna murmured an apology and she accepted it, somewhat uncomfortable.
She huffed again and buried her head into her hands, rubbing her cheeks carefully. "For a spearman like you who's so gung-ho about loyalty, aren't you…" she trailed off, not sure if she wanted to continue.
Karna sounded firm as usual, but his smooth voice had a gentle essence. More so than usual.
"You are someone whose epithet and actions revolved around treachery in life...and it is undeniable that you were one of the principal forces that dropped the curtains on King Arthur's legend. But, since you revealed your reasons for doing so, I cannot completely blame you for it. I feel that is what might have happened to me in the Mahabharata if I did not have Duryodhana and Vrushali to anchor me. Furthermore, you are strangely devoted to your Master."
"And to wish for acceptance and acknowledgment as Mordred, not the Knight of Treachery, by denouncing any judgments based on your circumstances...well...it is not my place to condemn you for it. We were both born from low standings, and so we shall seek whatever we feel is the best way to surpass that."
For a long while, they were silent. Karna was content to let her have her ruminations boil and she made her gratitude known.
"...this might sound weird...but how about both? ...Achilles and Atalanta are just one of each—ugh, I don't—" Mordred elapsed into a series of awkward, on-the-fly gestures. Her gender issues were just as eloquent outside as they were inside.
"I do not mind," he answered instantly.
He did not deride her.
He did not complain.
He accepted her.
"Are you—" Mordred's throat became an insurmountable blockade as something thick lodged inside. After coughing many times, she choked out, "—serious?"
"If you find it acceptable, then yes."
She breathed and her chest lost all the nervous butterflies.
...Today, three people accepted me as part of their family...then there's only one course of action left! A pleasantly warm sensation settled into her stomach and she wanted more of it. So she would grab it and keep it close.
Mordred grinned wide and raised a fist for him to bump. "My Master taught me this—it's called a fistbump. A sign of friendship. And respect."
Karna stared at the offering like it was a plate of spiders that she wanted him to eat. Slowly, he reached out and returned it. A tiny smile grew into a full grin. It was like the sun had decided to smile at her in all of its infinite warmth.
"Good man," she barked and slapped him on the back lightly. This time, she thought it was more subdued and it'd better be.
Karna raised an eyebrow. "As long as you don't headbutt me like you did to Achilles then I'm satisfied. Contrary to your beliefs, that is not how affection is normally shown physically."
"Tch. That was only for showing him that I wasn't going to let him go for free. Fine, fine, I'll try to work on it."
There's a difference between being executed and killed. Mordred still didn't understand which of the two applied to her and she'll never know. But maybe I don't have to, she realized, as they walked back to the Hanging Gardens swapping stories from their legends.
—
"I will be honest with you," Jeanne said once they sat down on red velvet couches. "This is merely an offer for temporary residence once I can confirm the Red Faction's position. Though, if there are spiritual problems, you can ask me for assistance. In general, if you need my assistance with matters not related to the Holy Grail War then I'll help if I can."
"Of course." A triumphant gleam melted into Darnic's snake-like eyes. She vaguely recalled his title as the Eight-Forked Tongue Magus.
Jeanne blinked longer than what was advised to relax her muscles.
She was in her civilian outfit in order to dispel any lingering doubt about possible backstabbing. However, as the Ruler-Class Servant, why would she even commit such a thing? It was made impossible by the Grail for a Heroic Spirit with a wish to be incarnated as Ruler. Though Heroic Spirits who would fall for biased temptations shouldn't be fit for the Ruler class in the first place. It was as if the Black Faction refused to see past the title 'Ruler'.
Jeanne had her misgivings about using her privilege without further negotiation but Saber and Lancer of Red's attempts to murder her changed it all. I will have to do the best I can here.
She almost shuddered. Since she knew Lancer of Red, Karna, to possess a noble character, it was probably due to his Master's will.
Saber of Red, Mordred, had such wicked hate and for a moment it had been directed at her. And she had called her "Father". Jeanne hadn't met King Arthur...but to think two legendary figures from rival countries were similar in appearance created an odd irony. But she had thought it even stranger about Saber of Red.
Clarent Blood Arthur's hate certainly tried to mow her down—but with her exceptional resistance to curses and holy flag, she shrugged the worst of it off. At the same time she was merely a target for what issues burrowed into Mordred's mind.
What a horrible existence for a Heroic Spirit. She didn't judge them based on their legends. It would be like taking the English view of her legend into consideration only. Instead she found empathy with Saber of Red for her misfortunes. Jeanne believed it to be external circumstances like Karna, and she prayed for it be as she guessed.
Vlad III, Lancer of Black, sat opposite from her with a glass of red wine in his hand. His Master, Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia stood behind him, arms crossed behind his back. They awaited further words in silence. But she sensed exhilaration from Darnic and the faintest trail of wariness from Vlad.
"I do not intend on interfering with this War beyond being the arbitrator. Or, at least, I had intended." Jeanne didn't miss the way Vlad's eyes gleamed in interest. "The reason is simple. I suspect there has been tampering with the Greater Grail—but not in the wish-granting aspect." She raised her voice over Darnic's mutterings.
Vlad glanced at her and she elaborated. "In the sense that there is a missing step of a sorts. For that misstep, I am unable to use spirit form."
"So you are completely occupying a human body." He concluded.
"Yes. In the case that I should die, a backup copy of my host's body will be used. But let us return to our original topic. I believe Assassin of Red's familiars could direct Red Servants toward me and I cannot escape on foot without exercising my privilege."
Indeed, white doves flocked in by the dozen to the church's eaves. From thereon, suspicious mana activity ensued. Jeanne hadn't rested thereafter since due to possibly dragging in the woman who had been so kind to take her in. Which was why her suitcase and belongings was parked by the couch.
"Hmph. They must be so sure of their strength and refuge in audacity to attempt an obvious assassination again." Vlad snorted. "How foolhardy of them."
"I can't turn a blind eye to these Red machinations anymore. If I want to be able to perform my duties to the fullest, then I must investigate and act accordingly."
If she is recognized as a Servant, as Ruler, but unable to access certain functions normally given then there are extremely unorthodox happenings afoot. Jeanne still didn't want to—and preferred—step out of her jurisdiction.
But it was sort of like when she left home to save France. There was something to be done—if no one else was going to, who would? Therefore Jeanne allowed herself to take the first step and strike it hard.
She had heard the Lord's laments.
He shrieked. He lamented. He wept, and he felt sorrow. The world changed straight into hell, and no one could stop it. The Lord lamented in sorrow. People were not even allowed to live simply, and were compelled to become either beasts or food. Conflict never ended, and blood continued to rain incessantly and soak the land.
That was the result of the Hundred Years' War.
That's why the Lord lamented—I heard His voice. I caught His small, feeble murmurs that everyone else failed to hear. It was an obvious thing.
To lend my ears to His voice and respond to it meant that I would lose everything I had to my name.
I had to throw away my life as a simple villager and the joy of loving someone and being loved back—in return for nothing. I would surely be scorned by many people—both enemies and allies alike.
It was a very terrifying thing to contemplate. It was insane for a mere bumpkin girl from the countryside to join the battlefield where sin and hatred congregated.
—But the Lord cried. Yes, I surely… can't bear it. I can't turn my back on His cries. In order to stop the Lord's tears and soothe Him, I will oppose this world's hell. I will clad my body in armor, hang a sword on my waist, carry the flag—and devote my life to it.
Yes, the voice of revelation I received from the Lord contained no glory or victory, no obligation or sense of purpose. The Lord merely lamented and grieved.
—That's why. At the very least, having received that revelation, I thought I should stop the Lord's laments.
She pursed her lips, shaking off the memories and asked Darnic a question. "Let me confirm it. You are the Master who participated in the Third Holy Grail War?"
He nodded.
"Then that simplifies it. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary—especially the Servants?"
Darnic had a hesitant touch to his voice, as if he felt wary about their reactions. Yet Vlad just sat there, sipping from a cup of wine. "...I believe the Einzberns summoned an irregular Servant but I could not determine his True Name. But to me, he was a Heroic Spirit that seemed like an irregular existence."
"What of your own, and others, if you can recall it?"
"Lancer Hua Mulan—my Servant." Darnic grimaced as he continued, counting by hand. "Archer Artemis. Saber Ilya Muromets and Fionn mac Cumhail—as a result of the Edelfelt Sorcery Trait. Rider Ramses II. Berserker Sanna. And I hadn't been able to confirm the identity of Caster—as a female Heroic Spirit, that is all I know."
Jeanne sighed again. "Then the Assassin was swapped for whatever Servant the Einzberns summoned." She drummed her fingers along her leg.
If the Einzberns could manipulate the Greater Grail and if Yggdmillennia couldn't fix the system-like error, then it was not out of the question for it to be confusing her with perhaps another Servant—despite the astronomical odds involved. There was also the issue of the Edelfelts summoning two Sabers using their twin sisters as a single Master.
"I believe the most likely explanation is that there is another Servant summoned by the Grail—" She sighed and closed her eyes as Darnic excused himself hurriedly in unrestrained shock.
"I suppose he has went to confer with Caster on this matter," Vlad muttered in irritation as the door slammed shut.
"Oh…" she sighed again.
"But this Servant you speak of, do you truly suspect them to be colluding with the Red Faction? That must be why they would stand to gain from your defeat."
"I would put my confidence rate as around eighty percent. If Assassin did not participate in the Third War, then I believe the Grail deemed it necessary to summon a final Servant, to complete the interval. And the assassination plot—a safety measure to ensure they won't be found out."
Vlad grimaced, but satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. "Anyway, it is reassuring to know that the mediator for this Great Holy Grail War believes in the same God as I."
"Since I believe in God, I pray that I can convey to you that I aim to be fair and impartial."
The edges of Vlad's mouth slid into a smile at her adamant gaze. "Forgive this remark, but did you not reveal Mordred's name before you and Archer allied?"
Jeanne refused to let herself become embarrassed from his chiding. Even after all the battles, all the horrors, all the necessary evils, she never grew out of her oblivious farm girl-self at the worst times.
"...Yes. There is that," she conceded.
Vlad's grin was approving.
She would have to give it a longer time frame to see if it was truly favorable to have Vlad the Impaler approve of her—her fair share of war crimes involved tactics that the knights of the time never approved of. But he was something else.
In the year 1431, Jeanne d'Arc was burned at the stake and Vlad the Impaler was born. It felt as if when a hero dies, another takes their place—Jeanne believed this to be an auspicious coincidence.
