PRELIMINARIES: None of this belongs to me. Fate/stay night, and all characters, settings, etc. associated with it, are the property of Type-Moon. Type-Moon is not affiliated in any way, shape, or form with the creation of this story (a fact for which, I suspect, they would be profoundly grateful). I have made liberal usage of their characters and settings in this story; this was done without their knowledge or permission, and is technically an infringement of Type-Moon's copyright. As this story is, at the most pragmatic level, free promotion of the Fate franchise, it is hoped that they will regard this story (if at all) with a benign ignorance.
If you paid a wooden nickel for this story, not only have you been drastically overcharged, but whoever charged you has done so illegally, and I disavow any association with said individual(s).
It should be noted once again that as far as terminology goes, I am relying primarily on mirror moon's translation of the game (e.g, majutsu/mahou as magic/sorcery) with the official release of the anime as a secondary source.
My site, the Codex Scribanus, remains without a home as of this writing. I am still searching for a new host, and I still welcome any suggestions readers might have along those lines.
When the Codex is back up, I will make an announcement on my author profile page, as well as my LiveJournal (see profile for address).
All feedback is welcome, up to and including line-by-line critiques (provided they fit in my mailbox).
Heartfelt thanks, as always, go to my pre-readers, Kami, Shack, and Elf.
Now, sit back and either enjoy the ride, or (more likely) enjoy thinking of what you'll do to me at the end of it...
She was in hell.
It was hot, and the entire world was red. Her skin hurt. Her throat hurt when she breathed. Her eyes hurt; even though they had been closed the whole time, they still hurt, and the world was still red - the sheer redness of it bled through her eyelids and seared itself into her pupils.
She needed to go back. She had to go back to the house. His father had told him to wait - that was impossible; her father had abandoned her - but still, she had to go back to the house and wait.
But she didn't know where her house was anymore.
She had no choice. At last, she opened her eyes...and then, she understood.
It wasn't that the world was red.
The world was on fire.
It was like the remains of a battlefield from a movie. Was he near the house? How far had she wandered? She couldn't tell.
She stood in a burning field, with towering walls of flame to every side, and the sheer heat weighing down on every inch of the landscape. Most of the buildings had already fallen; she was the only thing in that entire place that still had his original form.
The light of the flames scorched her eyes. The smoke choked her lungs. Her skin creaked by staying alive.
She moved her feet, wanting to escape, but something heavy was entangled around her legs, like shackles. She understood - it was the presence of death, seeking to take her.
But it had not taken her yet. And since she had survived, she felt she should live on. It was dangerous for him to stay here, so she began to walk.
She had no direction or purpose; she walked for the sake of walking. She passed many bodies, shriveled in the flames; some were dead, but others yet lived, by some perverse miracle, and their misshapen husks flailed wildly at her as she walked by.
Some called out to him for help. Others called out for her to join them. Still others called out for her to simply acknowledge them.
She ignored them all, and left them to die so that she might survive a little longer.
The heat was unbearable. She tore at her own throat with discolored nails, and breathed in scalding air that stung her burned esophagus. Her brains steamed in her skull. His eyes abandoned their function; they lacked even the strength to blink away the smoke, let alone to tear up.
There was not enough water left in her body for that.
Her flesh was scorched, and blistered in the heat. Her clothes were charred, and stuck to her wounds; they tore away from his legs and groin with each step, rending her flesh still further.
It was hot. It was too hot, and yet it was cold. Everything was inverted; he'd passed the boiling point to reach the freezing point, and she hated that - she hated the cold, always had.
Everything was hot; that was why it was cold.
Still, it was ridiculously hot.
She had no hope. It was already a wonder that she was still alive; she couldn't expect to be saved. She would not survive; whatever happened, the boy - wait, she was a boy? - would not be able to escape from this burning red world. It was such an absolute hell that even a small child could understand.
And then, it got worse.
The sun was black. That was not strange; everything was inverted, so it was only to be expected that the sun would be black, or that it would be up in the dead of night. It should have been normal.
And yet, when she saw the sun, the boy - yes, that was right, she was a boy - ran away.
She was scared.
He was not afraid of the raging fires; compared to that black shadow, burning up and dying seemed like a human death. She knew she would be taken someplace even worse if that thing caught him.
And so she ran. And no matter how far she ran, it was always hot, and the scenery was always red.
And the black shadow was always behind him.
At last, she collapsed. Was it because there was no air? Was it because no function was left in his body? Whatever the case, she collapsed on the rubble, body twisted from falling mid-stride, and stared at the burning fields.
Shriveled people were strewn across the landscape. The fires still burned, even though there was nothing left to consume. Everything in that place had already been burnt up.
The boy was no exception.
He had left behind many people. Because of that, she survived a few minutes longer than everyone else.
But that was only his body. His soul had burned up in the flames.
His eyes had lost hatred.
His hands had lost anger.
His legs had lost hope.
His self had lost self.
In order for her body to live, his heart had died.
But now, that too was at an end. Death was at hand; his will for survival had run out at last.
One only died when the will faded. When that happened, everything else disappeared, as well. Parents, home, friends, past - all had melted away.
The boy had nothing. All that remained for him was to die.
Somehow, he rolled onto his back, and stared up at the clouded sky. It would rain soon, and he absently thought that this was good; the rain would put out the fire.
He stretched out his hand, and reached for the sky. He reached for the rain.
He knew it would not come. It was too late, and he understood that. But even so, her body reached for it. It mechanically made one last futile attempt to live.
Thinking had gotten difficult. He closed his eyes, and felt the last of his strength draining away. His arm began to drop, and everything turned black.
And then, someone grabbed his outstretched hand.
It was almost an annoyance. There was nothing left but to drop her arm and die - and yet, someone was still holding his hand in the air.
It took time, but he somehow found the energy to open his eyes and look up.
He slowly blinked, as the blurry shapes came into focus. His hearing returned, and he heard a soft pitter-patter; the rain had begun. None struck her, though; he was covered by the man looking down at him, holding his hand almost desperately, with a relieved, beautiful smile.
A man he did not know - no, she knew him, but that was impossible - that couldn't be him, he was -
He was her -
"AAAAAAH!"
She sat bolt upright, eyes wide. She was covered in blankets, yet she was cold and shivering; her heart beat madly, and her body was drenched in sweat.
She looked around in a panic. She had to get away. Where was the fire? Where was the rain? Where was the black sun -
Black sun?
Her breathing slowed, and her sight returned. She was in her bed. In her room. She was safe.
There was no black sun. No fire. No rain.
No father.
"..."
Ilyasviel von Einzbern closed her eyes, and took a final deep, calming breath.
Then she let herself fall back onto her pillow, and opened her eyes to look up at the canopy over her bed.
"What was that?"
THE WORLD WITHOUT
A Fate/stay night Fanfic
by
Lunaludus Scribex
CHAPTER X
2/5: MR. SANDMAN
'Kariya-kun, wait - '
The Servant Archer returned to consciousness with a small groan.
Servants had no need for sleep, as a matter of course. However, that did not mean that they were incapable of it. It offered any number of benefits, if a Servant dared to indulge in the luxury; most importantly, for a wounded Servant, it could further speed the healing process.
This was particularly important for Archer, as he was almost certain to see combat tomorrow.
He checked his condition, and frowned. He was almost completely healed.
Almost...but not quite.
If the wound had been dealt by anyone other than Saber, he would have been long since healed by now. But it was Saber - more to the point, it was Excalibur - and as a consequence, his most useful recuperative advantage had been denied to him. He'd been forced to heal on his own.
And because of that, he'd been forced to sleep.
Archer frowned again, and left the summoning circle.
Rin was asleep in her room. In his disembodied state, making the transition from here to there was a matter of seconds; all too soon, Archer hovered over her bed, looking down at her tormented form.
Yes, his Master slept...but her rest was anything but peaceful. Her face was pinched, and she thrashed from side to side as her eyelids fluttered in the midst of a dream.
Considering what she was probably dreaming about, that was not hard to understand.
This was hardly a surprise to Archer. It was simply a fact of life in the Holy Grail War: As the bond solidified, a Master would begin to see the past of her Servant as she slept.
Just as the Servant could see the past of his Master.
He wondered if Rin had realized that the bond went both ways. She probably had - there were very few things she could not figure out, given the opportunity - but he knew that even if that were the case, she would not say anything.
His Master was a proud mage. It would be easier for her to pretend that the bond did not exist than it would be to deal with the fact that her Servant had seen her embarrassing childhood memories.
And the harrowing ones, as well.
Archer sighed as he recalled the dream from which he had just awoken. It was hard to believe that Rin, barely a schoolgirl, had tried to stick her nose into the last Holy Grail War...but then again, this was Rin. It was all too easy to believe that the little genius had not only done so, but had actually managed to find something, using nothing more than a magic compass.
Not to mention that the little idiot had gone in armed with nothing more than a couple of half-charged jewels.
It was a minor miracle his Master had survived to summon him.
Archer frowned again at the thought. Rin had been attacked by something she couldn't see and lost consciousness, but the memory had not ended there. Even asleep, she had half-registered voices in the darkness of her slumber; with a little effort, Archer could make sense of their words.
'One day, we'll come here to play like before. Rin-chan and Sakura-chan will return to being a pair of good sisters...'
"'Sakura-chan,' huh?"
Rin's sleep settled as Archer spoke, and his frown deepened.
There was no way that was a coincidence.
It had been a long time since Archer had thought of the girl who had once nursed Emiya Shirou. In life, he had lost track of her once he graduated from high school, and left Fuyuki City to pursue his ideal.
He'd returned after the city was destroyed by an earthquake two decades later, trying as always to save who he could...but although he had seen others he'd once known - and even saved a few of them - of her, he had not found even a trace. He'd been forced to conclude that she had either long since left the city, or lost her life in the disaster, swallowed up by the earth like so many others.
Archer sighed again.
On the surface, nothing had changed. Nothing should have changed. Rider's Master was Shinji; the Holy Grail War had nothing to do with Matou Sakura.
But still...
Archer looked down at his Master once more, then turned away to return to his circle. If he slept again, he should be able to finish healing by morning.
Rin...I hope you know what you're doing.
The Servant Caster did not sleep.
She had no need for it. Magical energy, she had in abundance; more importantly, there was so much to be done.
Time spent sleeping was time not spent planning. It was time wasted - and that was the one thing above all else that Caster could not afford.
"Assassin?"
Much less could she afford others wasting her time.
"Assassin, where are you?"
She looked up in annoyance at the empty gate to Ryudou Temple - empty, even to her perception as a Servant. The one who should have been standing guard was nowhere to be seen.
"I am here."
Caster raised an eyebrow at the sight of her Servant ambling up the long stone stairway, blade in hand...and something skewered on the end of it.
"What is that?"
"There was an intruder." The Servant Assassin nodded at his sword. "A large number of these worms were gathered at the foot of the stairs; I felt they were suspicious, so I cleared them out."
"Worms...?"
Caster peered more closely at the black thing impaled on the tip of Assassin's sword. Was that some kind of familiar, or -
Her eyes widened, and she jumped away from Assassin.
"Caster?"
And then, Assassin's body exploded.
It was a curse that Caster had placed in him at his summoning. Assassin was flung away into the forest, his chest pierced from within by his own ribs.
"What - " He coughed weakly. "Caster, why did you - "
Caster ignored his complaints. Her eyes swept the area, all her senses stretched to their limits, searching for the one behind the worms -
"Hm?"
Nothing.
"What...?"
It made no sense. These worms were meant to attack and to consume. They overwhelmed their prey in clews, ambushing from the cover of darkness. Assassin had gotten close enough to stab this one; if he wasn't taken right there, the others should have hidden on his person, waiting for a better opportunity.
And yet, none were here. Not on the ground, not hidden under the temple rocks, not nearby at all. Why did they show themselves, if not to attack?
"What was the purpose of this?"
"That should be my question, should it not?"
Assassin emerged from the forest. Caster's curse had rendered his form a gruesome spectacle, yet he ignored his wounds as if they did not exist.
That was only to be expected. Assassin was a Servant who would never lose his elegance, no matter what happened to him - whether he suffer a fatal sword wound, or have his skin blistered with flames...or even if his ribs were protruding from his chest, and his body covered in his own blood.
"I understand that you are under a great deal of stress, but was that really necessary?"
Caster, too, ignored his wounds. "Of course. A tool that cannot perform its task is good only for the trash heap."
She muttered under her breath, and Assassin blinked in surprise as powerful winds washed over his body, scouring him clean and healing his wounds.
"My. Such unexpected charity...it would seem that my Master is in an extravagant mood."
"Don't flatter yourself," Caster spat. "It was necessary - I had to ensure that you weren't carrying any more of those worms."
Assassin's face grew serious. "These worms are such a threat, then?"
"If their master had willed it, you would be dead right now." Caster scowled. "I do not know who was behind this, but it is fortunate for you that he had no such intentions, tonight."
Assassin frowned. "What do you mean?"
It was only through force of will that Caster did not scream out loud.
This is what I get for summoning a farmer instead of a Heroic Spirit.
"What I mean," she said slowly, "is that when you came close enough to touch them with your sword, you also came close enough for them to touch you."
Assassin's eyes widened.
"You are not a Heroic Spirit yet, Assassin. In great enough numbers, they could overwhelm you." Caster's voice turned to ice. "And after you...Souichirou-sama."
"Well, now." Assassin smiled. "That would be problematic."
"Do not tempt me, Assassin. Bad enough that you let Archer escape without a fight; for you to fall into the trap of an enemy that isn't even a Servant - !"
Assassin didn't respond - just continued to stare at her with that mocking smile - and Caster's thinly-frayed temper snapped.
"Are you that eager to die?" she demanded. "Does the opportunity for a low-class like you, without a Noble Phantasm, to become real - to become a true Heroic Spirit - mean so little that you would - "
"A Heroic Spirit, huh?" Assassin chuckled, and shook his head. "Well. You have claimed that with the Holy Grail, you can do this. But you are Caster; you should know better than any how impossible it is to tamper with the Throne of Heroes."
Caster glared. "Are you saying that I am not powerful enough, Assassin?"
"I am saying that you are a liar."
Caster felt her rage boil further. "Assassin, you - "
"Now, do not glare at me so." He sketched a mocking bow in her direction. "It does not matter to me that you taunt me with impossible promises, or that the Master you have now is not the one who summoned you. I am not loyal to you, but I will act out my role, all the same."
Caster bit her lip in frustration.
She had not lied to Assassin. With the Holy Grail, she really could make him a Heroic Spirit. It went without saying that no artifact, however powerful, could steal from or diminish the Throne of Heroes...but adding to the Throne was another story altogether. That was well within the Grail's power.
It was vexing to have Assassin assume that she had deceived him with fairy tales. Even if she had no intention of following through on her promise, that promise still had to be one she was capable of carrying out.
Only in that fashion could this male she had summoned suffer the most.
Such was the purpose of the tool called Assassin.
And it infuriated her that he thwarted her purpose with such ease.
"If you say that you will act out your role, then do so properly!" Caster swept out her arm, gesturing down the stairs. "The one who sent these worms did not take advantage of your lapse this time. If you repeat this failure, though, you had best pray that the worms kill you before I do!"
"As you say, Caster." Assassin turned, and looked down the stairs. "It appears that your Master has returned. Shall I take my leave of you now?"
"Assassin." Caster smiled sweetly. "If you let Souichirou-sama see you, I will feed you to the worms myself."
He chuckled. "Such a temperamental woman. I pity your Master."
"Assassin - !"
He dematerialized and withdrew before she could finish, leaving Caster to fume impotently before the gate.
With an effort, she put the impudent samurai out of her mind. She took a deep breath, then turned to await the arrival of her Master.
He appeared a moment later, climbing the steps with an even, unhurried gait.
"Welcome home, Souichirou-sama." Caster bowed deeply. "You are quite late this night; I was beginning to worry that something had happened."
"Something has happened. Summon your guardian, Caster."
"...eh?"
"You appointed a sentinel for this gate." Kuzuki Souichirou stood as he always did, and spoke in the same tone he always used. "Call him forth."
Caster's head snapped up, and she stared at her Master in shock.
How did he -
Assassin was not the true Servant Assassin. He did not possess the genuine ability of Presence Concealment. But even so - what he did possess was more than suitable for spying; he should have been undetectable to virtually all humans, even when materialized.
So how had her Master known?
And - she felt a sudden chill - if he knew that...what else did he know?
"Master, what - "
"I have left the Holy Grail War to you to conduct as you see fit. But cooperation is now necessary. Summon your guardian."
Caster did not sleep. And because she did not sleep, she knew nothing of her Master. Neither his past nor his capabilities had been imparted to her; now, as she found herself caught off-guard by him yet again, she rued her lack of foresight.
"I...I understand."
There was a metallic shimmer behind her, and Caster grit her teeth. Assassin had materialized before she gave the order.
"Well, now. I suppose this means there are worms in my future."
Caster spun around in a rage, mouth open - but before she could even begin, her Master spoke, cutting her off.
"There has been a death at the school. Tell me what you know of the Servants."
A death at the school?
Servants?
"The first Servant I fought was Rider..."
The Servant Caster did not understand her Master. She had begun to doubt that she ever would.
Still, as Assassin continued to speak, a smile began to form on her face.
Matou Shinji slept like the dead.
It was a pity, Rider reflected as she slipped out of his grasp and reached for her black shift, that this was only a simile.
She needed Shinji alive. His continued survival was essential to her Master, both emotionally and as a Master; moreover, Shinji was her best protection against Saber. When - not if, when - Sakura was the only Master remaining, and the Holy Grail War came down to the two of them, Sakura's prohibition on attacking Shinji might just be the edge that she needed.
Yes, Rider needed Shinji alive...however much she wished it were otherwise.
Still, should the worst come to pass, his fate would at least provide her with some small compensation.
Rider sighed quietly as she finished dressing. It was not right that Shinji should be at peace. Tormented and twisted as he was awake, in sleep he found a repose that he did not deserve, while his sister - who did deserve that repose - found no peace, even in the little sleep that she got.
Though now that she thought about it, Sakura's sleep did not feel as turbulent as it normally did.
Her energy was more stable; it was almost like it was after Shinji -
Rider shook off the thought.
"Saber..."
Her fellow Servant had said that she'd thought of an alternative. Had she actually found another way to sustain Sakura? Rider had not truly expected it, but if she had...
Rider frowned. The Book of False Attendant interfered with her connection, and made it difficult to sense much. Still, if she made an effort, she could manage to get something.
Rider probed deeper.
And then her eyes widened behind her mask, and she staggered as she felt a heavy tug from the bond.
"What - "
She doubled over as she felt a second tug, and then a third, each stronger than the last. She struggled to break away, but in vain - her consciousness was being strained through the bond, pulled through Sakura, to -
"Saber?"
Rider barely realized that she was speaking out loud.
"What did you - "
There was no answer. Even if there had been a response, she was in no condition to understand; she could feel herself blacking out, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Rider just managed to dematerialize before she hit the floor.
And the knight slept.
She slept in the room that her Master had claimed, alongside her Master in bed.
No outside worries troubled the knight. She did not know what she had done; even had she known, it would have mattered little to her. There were no enemies to fight, no threats to protect from. In this brief window of time, she had found rest.
Thus, the knight slept.
And as she slept, she dreamed.
In the dream, she had a sister.
"Matou...Sakura?"
"Yes...Matou Sakura."
It was not her father who told her this. That man had never been a father to the girl. She did not understand why this was, but such was the truth of the matter.
Theirs was a special family, and she was not the heir. Thus, it was only natural that he should have nothing to do with her. She was not special to him.
Her family was her mother and her sister. She loved her mother, and relied on her sister in all things, and this was enough for her.
So it was only fitting that when her life was to be ripped apart, it would be her sister who told her of her fate.
They went together to the gate of their house, where a car waited to take her to her new family. A large man in a dark suit took her by the hand and led her to the car. An old man awaited within, and as she approached, his face split in a sinister grin.
The girl became frightened. She was young, but not unknowing or unable to sense danger. She tried to pull away, but the man in the dark suit was an adult, and held her fast. The more she pulled, the tighter his grip, and the greater her panic grew.
Finally, in desperation, she turned back to the house, and screamed for her sister, as she had done so many times before. She screamed until her throat felt raw.
Always before, it had worked. Always before, her sister had come and comforted her.
But her sister was not there.
No one stood before the gate of her former house. The doors were shut, and the curtains were drawn.
Her sister had abandoned her.
The girl would think on this scene often in the days that followed. She remembered it as she was thrown into the cold basement, and the worms violated her, filling her from head to toe. She remembered it as her new family, such as it was, turned their backs on her suffering. She remembered it as she screamed in pain, screamed for mercy, screamed for an end, screamed for help...screamed for her sister.
Her sister didn't help her then, either.
After a while, she began to wonder if her sister had ever helped her at all.
In the dream, she was a priestess.
She was not human; she and her two sisters had been born of the sea gods Phorcys and Ceto, born from the wishes of mankind for ideal goddesses.
They were born in contrast to the gods of Olympus. This was hardly a surprise; one would only think to wish for an ideal when the reality was deficient. For this reason, their very existence was an insult to the Olympians, and all they stood for.
But even so, the three sisters served the gods.
This was the decision they had reached. If mortals would worship them, then they would turn that worship to the Olympians. In this way, they would make peace with those they threatened, and be integrated into the pantheon.
The goddess Athena had taken a particular interest in the three. It was the goddess who first offered them her patronage, and placed them under her protection.
She and her sisters owed Athena a great debt.
It was only fitting, therefore, that she repay the goddess by serving in her temples.
All that was bestowed upon her was in turn given to the gods. All the devotion and faith and trust the mortals offered to her were reflected to Athena.
And thus, the arrangement was solidified. She and her sisters gained the protection of the gods. The gods, in turn, gained those worshippers the sisters drew. Both parties gained; both parties benefited. Both parties were satisfied.
Yes, in those days, the priestess truly believed that the gods had come to terms with her and her sisters. She trusted them.
Trusted Athena.
In retrospect, that was her first mistake.
In the dream, she wished to protect.
She had been born in a time of chaos, in a country verging on ruin.
Once, her land had been part of a vast empire. But the empire, too, had met its demise. Decay had eaten away from within, while barbarian hordes threatened from without.
To prepare for war against the barbarians, the empire stripped her land of all its military forces. Her island home was left without any protection whatsoever, and in short order it disintegrated into a plethora of smaller, independent countries.
She learned of these things from the knight who raised her. The knight was not her father; she had been entrusted to him at birth, though she knew not whose blood ran through her veins.
In truth, such things did not matter. The knight raised her as a knight in turn, but he did not even have to press her to follow this course.
Every day, the girl trained. She sought to become stronger than anyone, for she understood only too well the peril in which her home rested.
She was not told of the prophecy surrounding her birth until she had already attained the throne. When she heard it, though, she only shook her head.
No one had needed to tell her anything; she had seen a need, and acted to meet it.
Only a king could save a ruined country, headed for death.
She swore to bear a sword for that reason alone.
And the Gorgon slept.
She slept in the room claimed by her false Master, on the floor by his bed.
She could not be seen; she had taken spirit form, and none could so much as touch her.
This was fortunate - for her slumber was not voluntary.
She had been struck down without warning. She had never even considered her vulnerability through the Master-Servant bond; it had not been intended as an attack, but that had been the effect, all the same.
She would know better next time.
But for now, though, the Gorgon slept.
And as she slept, she dreamed.
In the dream, she protected her land.
"Whosoe'er pulleth out this sword of this stone is rightwise King, born of England."
That was the inscription, edged in gold, written upon the hilt of the sword. Knights and lords from around the country had gathered, anticipating that the throne would be awarded through a joust; but when they came to the appointed place, only Caliburn - the Golden Sword of Owed Victory - awaited them.
Many knights sought to pull the sword from the stone. But none could so much as budge it; in the end, all gave up on the sword, and they withdrew to select a king of their own expectations by jousting, as they had originally intended.
It was hardly a surprise. Those who sought the crown had no interest in the country. They desired the throne for their own benefit; each was resolved in his own heart to wage war, should another be chosen over him. How much less, then, would they acknowledge a method of choosing that rejected them all?
And so, the sword in the stone was abandoned.
And only then, in that deserted place, did she approach.
She had not joined with those who sought to pull the sword. It would not have been permitted, even if she had tried. She was only a squire; she was not qualified to joust, much less to aspire to the throne in the sight of all the lords of this land.
Still, she came. Without hesitation, she approached the stone, and laid her hand on the blade's hilt.
"No, no. You should think things through before you take that."
A mage stood beside her. She did not recognize his face, but she knew him, nonetheless; he was the most feared mage in the land. He had come to offer her a warning.
"You will not be human once you take hold of the sword."
But she already knew this. A king was someone who killed everyone to protect everyone; such an existence could not be called human under any circumstances.
All the more so in her own circumstances - both because of her youth, and because of her gender.
If such an unsuitable one were to attain the throne by a method her subjects had scorned, not even the slightest imperfection could be permitted.
This, she already knew. She had long meditated on these things, and she was prepared.
The sword was pulled out as if it were only natural to do so, and the place was filled with light.
And thus, her reign began.
She had become something unrecognizable. When the lords of the country, drawn by the light, found her in the clearing, they did not know her. They did not recognize in her the girl that she was, or the squire that she had been. She was simply the king, one who had appeared as if descending from the heavens.
Only her father and the mage knew the truth of things; she covered herself in steel, and sealed that truth away for all her life.
She appeared to her people as an ideal king. But even so, she was not accepted.
It was just as she had foreseen.
Because the new king was not of their number, the lords were forced to accept it, and to obey her at least in form. But they did so unwillingly; they accepted her rule as a disgrace that they believed would soon pass.
Even if she drew the sword, she was only a child. Even with Merlin's help, she would falter soon enough. When that happened, they would rise up against her, take away the holy sword, and reselect the king.
This was acceptable to her, as well. The king was not human; it had to function as the "king" to protect the country. A king who failed was not a king at all, and it would be only right to replace such a one with a more fitting ruler.
This was her task - and she did not fail.
For ten years and twelve battles, she knew only victory. She never turned back, and was never disgraced. She was raised as the king and fulfilled her obligations as the king, and suppressed the knights who murmured against her with results.
She was fair and selfless, and always stood in front of the army, defeating her enemies on the battlefield. The king's choices were always correct; she balanced the country without any deviations and punished people without a single mistake.
"King Arthur does not understand human feelings."
But what of it? Such a thing did not matter to her.
A king was not human. One could not protect the people with human emotions, and she had abandoned such things the moment she pulled out the sword.
It was her normal practice to prepare her army for each battle by sucking everything out of a local village. No matter what kind of a war it was, a battle would have victims; but by this method, she could minimize the numbers of those victimized, and defeat the enemy efficiently.
She would exhaust one village to prepare the army, destroy the invaders before they could damage the land, and save ten villages. This was the solution she came up with as the king, and in truth, it was the best policy.
But the murmurs against the king continued to grow. She had done too well; she defeated her enemies so thoroughly that her subjects thought the sacrifices made beforehand were meaningless.
But this, too, was only natural. It did not matter to the king.
"A miracle has a price. In exchange, you will lose the thing most important to you."
She wanted to protect everyone.
But in order to do so, she had to abandon the emotion of "wanting to protect people."
She threw away her heart - and in exchange, she saved her country.
The final battle at Badon Hill ended in a complete victory. The savages sought a reconciliation, and the country that would have just awaited destruction earned a brief period of peace.
The chaos that demanded an absolute hero had ended.
And the downfall of the king had begun.
In the dream, she had an uncle.
He had been her uncle, even before; now, with her family changed completely, he was still her uncle. She didn't understand how that was possible, but she accepted it.
He was an adult, but even so, he was like her. He was a fellow sufferer, one who endured the tortures of her grandfather just as she did.
"Just a little more, then I might be defeated by the 'worms' within me. Uncle is not as enduring as Sakura-chan."
He laughed as he said this. Such was his way; he laughed at his weakness, and boasted of his failures. But in truth, he was not the same as the uncle she had once known. His smiles never reached his eyes, and his body grew more deformed and twisted with each new day.
She couldn't understand him. He'd been free of all this; he'd fled this house, and won his freedom - and yet, for some reason, he had returned. He had voluntarily submitted himself to the same excruciating violations that she suffered.
Why?
Why would he do this?
She did not understand. It did not make sense to her; even if she was young and inexperienced, she knew she was not wrong to be confused by him.
She could only conclude that her uncle was a fool.
But she was happy to have him, nonetheless.
She couldn't understand why she felt this way. Why was she glad to see another suffer as she had to?
Was it because he was family?
Was it because he was weaker than her, even though he was grown?
She did not know. But even though her uncle was not her sister - rather, the person she could no longer call her sister - the fact remained: When she was with him, she was safe. When she was with him, she could relax.
It was not until the day he left her that she finally understood.
"Uncle's going to be busy with important business for a while, so I won't have much time to talk to Sakura-chan like this."
Too late.
It was not until he, too, abandoned her that she realized the truth.
It wasn't that he was family.
It wasn't that he was lower than her, or anything stupid like that.
It was that he was someone who wasn't her new father or grandfather.
It was simply that when he was there, she wasn't alone.
And now, he was gone.
And she was alone again.
She had already learned to close her heart in the midst of torment. It was a simple thing; she knew nothing of life or desire or hope, so giving up those things was no challenge. It was how she'd survived up to this point.
And now, her uncle was gone. There was no one left for her to open her heart for.
So she sealed it away completely.
She was alone.
She would always be alone.
She saw her uncle again some time later, and he died not long after that. But she felt nothing.
There was no longer anything to feel.
In the dream, she was an object of ridicule.
The priestess was different from her sisters. All had been born as goddesses - but she, the youngest of the three, was mortal. She continued to grow, older and taller; with each day, she grew further from the ideal form into which she and her sisters had been born.
Worse yet, she had been cursed with Mystic Eyes of Petrification, and was forced to wear a blindfold, lest she turn those in her sight to stone. Far from drawing worshippers to the gods, her very presence repelled them.
Her sisters treated her with contempt. The gods treated her with disdain. The mortals treated her with fear and confusion. She was shunned by all, and every effort of hers to draw near to the divine society was violently repulsed.
Faith did not yield results.
Kindness did not yield results.
Devotion did not yield results.
Everything that she attempted failed, and her failures were mocked by all around her.
But she did not give up. She couldn't; it was for this purpose that she had been born, and she did not have the freedom to choose another path. If all looked upon her with scorn, she could only work all the harder, and draw in more worshippers to compensate.
But this, too, was meaningless. The harder she worked, the greater the mockery. She was never rewarded for her struggles - on the contrary, she became an outright pariah.
Even Poseidon, who should have been her natural patron, was turned against her. Through her sisters' scheming, she was prevented from attending a banquet to which he had invited her; he never forgave the insult, and became her fiercest detractor from that day forth.
Only Athena offered her any favor at all, and even that was a pittance compared to the fruits of her labors. But in spite of that - maybe even because of it - she clung to those small favors all the more fiercely.
For she who knew only words of spite, words without emotion were a treasure. In a routine marked by harsh punishments, a day with no acknowledgment was an incomparable blessing.
She adored the goddess in thanksgiving for the trifles she received, and spent more and more time Athena's temples.
And thus, she was ripe for the betrayal.
Poseidon sprang upon her without warning that fateful day. The shock of seeing another god in Athena's temple froze her; by the time she had recovered, it was too late - Poseidon had seized her bodily.
She fought back as best she could, but she already knew her efforts were futile; it was impossible for one such as her to overpower the Lord of the Sea. At last, in desperation, she turned her attacks on his eyes; this distracted him enough for her to break loose and flee for the temple sanctuary.
She reached Athena's altar a heartbeat before Poseidon, and threw herself at the goddess's feet. Here, under Athena's statue, lay safety; even another god would not dare to profane the heart of Wisdom's temple.
And yet, Poseidon dared.
He pulled her away from Athena's statue, and hurled her to the floor. His eyes were like those of a shark, and she realized with a surge of panicked disbelief that he meant to take her there, in the heart of the temple - on the grounds Athena held most sacred.
Athena was there. She saw the goddess watching as Poseidon ripped at her clothing, and she cried out for rescue.
But Athena abandoned her.
The goddess averted her eyes from the scene, and cursed the priestess, even as she pleaded for aid. Athena turned away, leaving the priestess to Poseidon's lusts - and as she did, the priestess understood at last.
It was no coincidence that Poseidon was here. He had not broken in like a thief; he lurked in Athena's temple at the goddess's own invitation. He had come here with her blessing, for one purpose and one purpose only.
And as the sea god took her, defiling Athena's temple, the priestess knew despair, for she understood that this was Athena's plan.
This had been Athena's plan all along.
And the girl slept.
She slept in a bed that was not her own, in a home that belonged to another, with a partner whose rightful Master had discarded her.
Her rest was peaceful; she was warm and sated, and filled by those loyal to her.
She did not notice the difficulties inherent in that state. Empty and abandoned as she was, her two Servants nonetheless filled her, and flowed freely through her.
In a normal Master, this would have been disastrous. Even for the one like her - the true vessel of whom her grandfather had spoken - such a state would tax her past her limits. The Einzberns' vessel was made only to contain; she was designed to release only when she had reached her capacity, and then all at once in a burst of energy that would rip a hole in the very fabric of reality. Her grasp was too strong - a Servant could not flow through her without tearing her own mind in the process.
But the girl was empty. She was not as well-made as the true vessel. For all that she grasped at those who flowed through her, she did so only with a human's power. She could not take hold of a Servant that still retained its living form; they slipped away from her as if she had never held them to begin with. Because of this, her own Servants passed through her and mingled freely, and shared with her and with one another all that they were.
Thus, the girl slept.
And as she slept, she dreamed.
In the dream, she was an exile.
Athena's plan was swift and merciless. Scarcely had the one who had once been a priestess gathered herself after Poseidon's rape when the attacks began.
It did not matter that Poseidon had taken her unwilling, or that he had done so at Athena's explicit direction. All that mattered was that Athena's temple had been desecrated - and that Athena held the former priestess responsible.
And all of Olympus demanded vengeance - not only on her, but on her sisters, as well.
The sins of one were the sins of all.
The very worshippers the three had gathered for the gods were now turned against them. Alone or together, the sisters were attacked everywhere they went; there was no place of safety, and they never had so much as an hour of peace.
At last, they were forced to flee the mainland of Greece. They took refuge on the Shapeless Isle, a place the gods had set aside to imprison the monsters of the sea.
They were alone.
All that they had worked for was lost. No one worshipped them any longer; the gods of Olympus had prevailed, destroying through subterfuge the ones who should have superseded them.
Three had suffered this fate through the victimization of one. Her two elder sisters blamed her for their disgrace; cut off from all their former activities, they now devoted the whole of their time to tormenting the youngest in punishment.
And yet, even now, condemned to a living hell of three, the gods did not leave them in peace.
Even disgraced and in eternal exile, her sisters were still immortal, still possessed of the unchanging, inhuman beauty with which they had been born. The gods made this known to their followers, and with their blessing and encouragement, many men invaded the Shapeless Isles, lusting after the fallen goddesses and seeking to take possession of them.
And here, the one who had once been a priestess found a new purpose.
Mortals. She had drawn them once, and gathered them for the gods. Now, the gods sent them to her.
If the gods were beyond her reach, these fools who came in their name were not. If she could not be a goddess - could not be a priestess - she would be an avenger.
Not a single man escaped.
And yet, the flow of those who challenged the island did not slacken. If anything, it grew - for not only did lustful men still come in quest of the elders' bodies, but now would-be heroes came as well, in quest of the youngest's life.
And so, the youngest killed. She killed, and killed, and killed, and devoured the flesh of those she slaughtered; her legend grew, and so too did the ranks of those she consumed. Indeed, in time she grew to enjoy the experience.
And the final part of Athena's plan came to fruition.
Unlike her sisters, the youngest was mortal. She continued to grow, continued to change...and the shape of those changes was determined by the same forces that had given her birth to begin with.
She had come to think like a monster. The people had come to fear her as a monster.
And thus, she became a monster in truth.
Her appearance had changed. She did not retain a form that was even remotely human; nothing of her former beauty remained. She lost the gift of speech, and much of her intelligence as well. She had become a ravenous beast that would attack, petrify, and devour any who came near, without distinction or restraint.
She continued to kill for a time, but the ranks of those who came to die finally began to thin, and eventually to die out. The gods had ceased to goad the adventurous. There was no need to squander further mortals on the project; they had what they wanted.
The Shapeless Isle was now a place of death. Even the other monsters had fallen prey, and been consumed; nothing remained alive, save for the one who had once been a priestess.
And her two elder sisters.
What did they think of what their younger sister had become? She did not know. Even in better times, she had never understood them; now, she barely recognized them at all.
They were Other - and in her diminished, monstrous state, there was only one way to deal with Others.
And yet, it was strange. They came to her willingly; when she attacked, they did not strike back. Perhaps they spoke; she could no longer realize if they did, much less understand their words.
But they did not fight her. And when she consumed them, they did not resist.
And then it was done.
She had attacked and devoured her own kin. Even if she did not understand it, on some level, she felt it; she knew that she had done something irreparable.
Where once there were three, now there was one. The ideals had given way to a nightmare. And her family was gone - destroyed by her own hand.
In this place of death, she was truly alone.
In the dream, she failed to protect.
For ten years and twelve battles, the king had led her country without a misstep. But now, a decade of war had given birth to a decade of peace, in turn.
The age of chaos had demanded an absolute hero. But an age of peace had no need for a savior; indeed, such a hero was only a nuisance to those not in need of salvation. While her land was in peril, the king had suppressed the knights with results. But now, with the barbarians driven away...
"King Arthur does not understand human feelings."
There was one constant to the reign of the king.
Even on the throne.
Even in a hallway.
Even on a battlefield.
No one talked to her.
Even the loud round table, filled with the knights' tales of bravado, fell silent when the king stepped in.
She tried to be an ideal king.
Being an ideal king was the condition of their support.
But the more perfect she was, the more people kept away from her. The longer she stayed that way, the more isolated she became.
In war, such things did not matter. All that was required was that the king function as the "king" - that she be strong for the people living in fear of savage invasions, and an excellent commander to lead the knights on the battlefield.
But in peace...
This was not to say that there was no conflict. It was "peace" in the sense that army did not fight army. But the knights were, above all else, knights; they were bred and trained for combat, and could no more trade their swords for plowshares than they could cause the sun to rise in the west and set in the east.
They jousted. They quested. They engaged in all manner of squabbles, and drew one another's blood.
And above all, they revolted against the king.
"King Arthur does not understand human feelings."
One knight said these words, then left the castle.
He was not alone in doing so. Several reputable knights left Camelot; others fought them, and many on both sides lost their lives.
The king, as always, took these as natural events, and accepted them as part of the process of government. But this only caused the remaining knights' dissatisfaction with her to grow even greater; they pushed even more of their problems onto her, and cornered her.
Ruin was in sight.
Death, if she could not solve all the problems.
Even if she did solve them, the result would be the same.
And then - into this turbulent, violent peace - after twelve years, war came to her country once more.
The enemy this time was the empire.
That great, yawning, dying behemoth that had abandoned them in a vain effort to save itself had indeed collapsed. But a small remnant had taken control of its capital. Taking the mantle of the fallen empire for his own, the new emperor pressed afresh the claim that his predecessors had relinquished, and demanded their surrender.
The king rode forth to meet him. Across the sea, in the land of Gaul, she dealt the new emperor a devastating defeat - and then, understanding that if she stopped there the threat would return in time, she prepared to march on the capital itself.
But that was not to be...for in her absence, the knights had risen against her once more. One knight had usurped her throne, and split her country in two.
And so she returned. She and those loyal to her waged a civil war, and knights and chivalry were utterly destroyed.
She slashed away the knights that had once followed her. She attacked the lands she had once protected.
The people, for whose sake she abandoned her heart, died at her own hands.
The usurper died. The knights who followed the usurper died. The knights loyal to the king died, as well.
In the end, all that was left was the king.
The solitary girl who was always betrayed and never understood knelt alone on a red hill of corpses.
That was normal. Nothing had changed.
She knew she was dying, but such a thing did not matter. She had been shown her future by the mage, on the day she drew the sword; she had always known that she would be resented by humanity and die a miserable death.
What mattered was that the country was in ruin.
She had destroyed her own kingdom. She had failed to protect those she had vowed to protect.
She had sworn to bear a sword for the sake of a land in need of a strong king.
But in the end, she had not been strong enough.
She knelt alone, atop the hill of her final battle.
And the heart she had thrown away was filled with nothing but bitter regret.
In the dream, she was alone.
She was treated as an object by all around her. She never led a human life, and no one ever showed her even the slightest kindness.
Every day brought a fresh torture. Her sense of smell would be burned away, then forcibly returned to her. Her sense of hearing would be amplified, so that even the slightest noise was like a spike piercing her brain. Her sight would be ripped away from her, so that she could see only her own blood.
Whenever she was thrown to the worms, she would have to ask for her grandfather's permission even to breathe.
She almost died every day, but no one cared. Those who were supposed to be her family had no interest in her well-being.
They didn't train her. They didn't expect anything from her intelligence; they only taught her body. They made her not a mage, but merely a tool that used magic.
And nobody cared.
Rather, they laughed. The more pain they gave her, the better a tool she would become.
Even outside of training, they abused her. They poisoned her food, so that even eating became a terrifying agony. They weakened her skin, so that bathing even in cold water seemed to sear away her flesh, laying bare the bones beneath. They strained her muscles, so that even the simple act of lying down wracked her body with pain.
The more she begged them to stop, the more delighted they became, and the more they tampered with her body.
And always, she endured her torments alone.
Her sister was gone.
Her uncle was dead.
She had been sold to a father and grandfather who violated her, and a brother who acknowledged her only to look down at her.
Her body was no longer her own. All she could do was seal away her heart, so that it could not be broken as well; but that was only a small thing, hardly worth even the consideration of the act.
Days gave way to weeks.
Weeks gave way to months.
Months gave way to years.
And still, nothing had changed.
She was a living doll. Her only purpose was to be contorted in whatever agonizing fashion her owners saw fit. She was empty; she had no dreams, no hopes, no ambitions.
She was alone.
And she knew that she always would be.
And so, she dreamed.
She was Sakura. She was Medusa. She was Arturia.
She was a goddess, and a schoolgirl, and a king; she was British, and Greek, and Japanese. She had been sold by her family; she had been betrayed by the gods; she had chosen her ruin of her own free will.
She was three, and she was one.
Her own self was lost in the tumult of her lives. Servant and Master did not matter; human and Heroic Spirit were irrelevant. The only thing that was important now was surviving the vortex of three lifetimes' worth of memories.
Separation would come later. By the time she woke, each one of her would regain her own identity.
But the time of waking was not now. Now, she slept, and she dreamed, and she desperately sought out an anchor - something, anything to which she might cling in this storm of the past.
And she found her anchor.
She was three different women. She had led three different lives, in three different lands, and three different eras. And yet, however different her three lives might have been, three things remained constant:
She never had a friend.
She never asked for help.
And she never smiled - not once.
INVENTA AUTEM UNA PRETIOSA MARGARITA
ABIIT ET VENDIDIT OMNIA QUAE HABUIT ET EMIT EAM