Hey, guys! Been a long time!
Alright, I have to admit I didn't announce anything before the sudden hiatus, and I sincerely apologize. A lot of IRL things meant I just couldn't get to writing at all, so this story takes the hit. Sorry, and thank you for you guys who kept wanting me to update the story. You give me so much motivation to come back, and here I am! But first, some mailbag replies:
Nerf Irelia: Thanks for your feedback. I'll try to implement the things you suggest, but I need to make one thing clear: to be honest, I never thought of Third Fang's From Fake Dreams when I assigned the number 'Ten' to Shirou. Like I said in one of the author notes, I was just looking for some random number, and one of Detective Conan's case gave me an inspiration: to use part of his name as a number. Because the kanji 'Shi' in 'Shirou' has (partly) an element of the number 'Ten', so I decided on it. Thanks for the heads up, but certainly not my intention to rip Third Fang off.
In any case, enjoy the story! I hope this story can return to its regular updates schedule.
Disclaimer: Even with the long hiatus, there's still no new series from Nasu... what low productivity...
The place is nicer than I thought.
Well, I'm sure it's only my personal opinion, because Filvis can't stop shivering beside me. She manages to put up a calm face, despite her past and the current situation, but her magic energy output is all over the place. Her body isn't 'shivering' physically, but her Od is wavering and vibrating so erratically it's like a swarm of flies swirling over rotten meat, instead of her usual elegant flow. There's also a certain tension in her joints when she walks, but that's understandable.
Her image overlaps with a criminal walking into a court room, which is fitting enough.
I'm glad she saved Cecilia when she was a baby. That girl is instrumental to Mordred's mental growth, and I was happy for the both of them when they explained how they forged their relationship. However, as was always the case, saving a person often meant abandoning someone else, as Filvis could attest to.
A mindset I hate the most. It's not just the influence from EMIYA, but his memories, along with my other selves, keep mentioning that theme. My entire existence is devoted to denying that claim... Heck, I gave up on my afterlife just to give it the middle finger. I respect Kiritsugu Emiya as a professional and a foster father, but I loath his original mentality.
Even if I has recently failed to uphold my ideal against Galehaut, it doesn't mean I should give up on it. It doesn't mean it's a flawed ideal, and it doesn't mean it's not worth chasing after. The smile of Kiritsugu Emiya, etched inside the original body of Shirou Emiya, was too beautiful, too pure to give up on. It's the ideal I keep inside my soul, even if it's destroyed, reformed, and repeated over and over again to form my current self.
I said Filvis was like a criminal waiting to be judged for her crimes.
I... am a simple sword waiting to be evaluated for my worth. My words and actions will serve as my weapon, trying to display my ideal in a way acceptable to the Elven Council. Not everyone agrees with it, and Mordred certainly doesn't, because she fears I'll go and kill myself when she isn't looking, but the elves have a notably different mindset and morality than humans.
Filvis's existence proves to me they can be persuaded to align their thoughts with a humane one. The Akashic Records have provided me with ample information, so my chances are actually much better than I expected. I just hope I don't... 'mess it up', as Filvis has said.
Like I said before, the elves' territory is much less hostile than I thought. Many times I've walked across many battlefields, both urban and non-urban, and most of the times I could get a 'feel' of the area before commencing my operations. Generally, my 'Eye of the Mind' was accumulated through experience, so the readings were mostly accurate.
The masses are curious and suspecting, but that's all there's to it. There's no hostile glances or accusatory shouts, and best of all, there's no one who suddenly jumps out of the crowd and attack us, which is a surprisingly common occurrence in the Present World. I guess they're quite isolated from the Present World, and even if my actions has caused a disturbance in this area, they'll shrug and move on, as long as no one is hurt.
This is my griping with politics. The higher-ups will decide whatever they want to, at their leisure, and never according to the opinion of the general people. The only times they do is when they're pretending to, for example during public forums or elections. From Filvis's story, the elves have a monarchy system, though the gap between royalty and the common folk isn't as wide as it used to. The number of humans or other creatures is surprisingly abundant, about 5% from my observation just walking around.
If Ellis's husband is a human, then I suppose the elves are now quite open-minded about relationships with other races, which should help my chances. It wasn't always like this, but the past few centuries has brought about many changes to the system, most of it resembling what I'm used to.
Granted, those of my kind rarely exists in the same reality. Currently, the three of us are always busy with assignments, and the only times we congregate is the debrief back in the room where we were born.
To put it in a simple way, if it happens when Alaya decides to deploy more than one of us, then things has really gone FUBAR.
Recently, I begin to think of some recruitment strategies. Alaya's algorithm is accurate, but much too slow for our needs. But the experiences I've been through in... well, becoming myself deter me from putting someone else through it. This reality doesn't have a suitable candidate, and I'll never put Mordred under the same curse I have simply by associating herself with me.
'Hmm... what to do, what to do...'
Before I know it, we've arrived at our destination.
Indeed, it's a place suitable for a court room.
The outer fences aren't that high or imposing, merely slightly higher than me and made of irrationally straight tree trunks. Vines brimming with mana entwine themselves between them, creating a high-intensity barrier for any trespassers. Stepping into its territory, I can feel my body becoming heavier, as if I'm walking through water. The sensation only lasts for an instant, as my innate Magic Resistance neutralizes its effect. Filvis is another matter, though, so I grab her hand to ease her burden by channeling a small amount of magic energy.
Her fair skin blushes heavily at the contact, but I smile to ease her worry. She seems to accept the situation, however, because she was even struggling to breathe earlier. Her identity is of course known to all the guards and staffs stationed inside the area, and their not-so-subtle glares are piercing through her body.
The building in front of us are much simpler than the modern courts I remembered. There's nothing holding these elves in terms of technology, so I assume it's due to their taste of design. Like the fence earlier, the building is made mainly of vegetation, forming a single-story large hut with a low ceiling. The main shape is remarkably blended in with the surrounding, and what a surrounding it is.
We're situated near a creek, and the slope of the shore is actually made out of several stone slabs jutting out from the outcrop. There are several trees and shrubberies growing between them, and the building is nestled nicely in a natural-looking indentation of the earth around it. The construction material and the color of the building is of the same shade of green-yellow as the surrounding floating leaves and fresh tree trunks, creating a false sense of discretion.
Sadly, my admiration for the architect must now end, because the main door has just been opened for both of us.
Once more, the interior is a far cry from the modern day, crime show-like judge-jury-executioner type. It's magnificently simple, with various figures sitting behind a low table, on the floor, circling an empty space for me and Filvis to sit down. Ah, that 'sit down' is a long shot, since the guards escorting us from the door apply pressure on both of our shoulders, forcing us to take a seiza position.
The figures surrounding us are plenty strong, at least a level above Filvis's maximum potential, although there's several outstanding figures. Ellis is there slightly to my right, her magic energy still reeking of that disgustingly sweet odor of blood. A man is sitting beside her, slightly to the back, without the elves' long ears, so I assume this is the aforementioned 'husband'. Apart from his... interesting sword, his ability isn't worth noting, though he's leaps and bounds above the current generation of the Knights of the Round Table, bar Mordred, Lancelot, and Tristan.
That said, I think the 'big boss' is sitting there in the middle, because as far as my senses can reach, there's no one with greater magical power than this woman.
Rather than describing her features, what strikes me about her appearance the most is her similarities to one Ilyasviel von Einzbern, apart from her elongated ears. Her Od is oozing in droves from every pore of her skin, barely contained from flooding the room. The thick layer coats her body in an alluring shine, making her features sparkle similar to those love manga scenes. However, instead of being mesmerized, I feel a small amount of caution from her.
Certainly, maybe she's the only one who can give me a good fight in my unreleased state. I imagine if she even bothered to jump in between myself and Galehaut, he wouldn't last 10 seconds under her full-blown assault. It's unfortunate I'm too preoccupied in analyzing the situation to consult Akasha, or I can have several countermeasures ready.
Her child-like face grins at me, like a predator sizing up its prey.
"Well, shall we start?"
The trotting of horseshoes creates a lull rhythm which causes Mordred's head to drop slightly. Fortunately, she's behind Cecilia, so her head simply nests nicely into the nook of her student's neck. A small 'eep' from the front fails to rejuvenate her, and a deep breath brings the familiar bodily scent of her own student into Mordred's nostrils.
Indeed, if she's not in the front, it's easy to fall asleep like this.
A voice comes from beside her.
"Lady Modred, should we make camp?"
Gawain's face looks concerned, and maybe it's his sincere emotion, but Mordred couldn't care less. For appearances sake, however, she replies in the negative.
"No, just a bit bored, that's all," she smiles lightly. "And please don't address me so formally, Gawain."
He shakes his head.
"Unfortunately, I do not have such luxury," he stiffly answers. "Whether you like it or not, you are our princess. Please take a bit more care for your body."
Cecilia chuckles. "See, Master? I'm not the only one who keeps saying that."
"Uuhhh..." she groans into Cecilia's hair. "I hate this stuff..."
Both Cecilia and Gawain sigh in sync, though with wry smiles on their faces.
Cecilia looks back. "Master, is your arm still bothering you?"
Gawain rises his eyebrows in surprise.
"You are... injured?"
She waves a hand lazily.
"Don't worry too much, jeez... It's similar to a pulled muscle, nothing more."
"But didn't you say you lost feeling in your right arm?" Cecilia argues. "Even now, I kept pinching you and didn't get a response, Master."
Mordred shoots her student a betrayed look.
Gawain roars, "We're stopping right now!"
There's still some time before sundown, but their camp is already completed. The journey is designed around minimal crews to maximize the canvassing for Lancelot and Nimue, so the accommodations they carry are all simple to carry and to build. Mordred grumbles about the taste of food for the umpteenth time, but the other two ignore her in order to marginalize any effort spent arguing.
Altria has sent Gawain along with them under the pretense of 'extra pair of hands', although Mordred saw clean through that and reluctantly accepted the bodyguard assigned to her. The person himself is of no concern to her, because Cecilia trusted him during their earlier battle with the Picts, and he seems to have a soft spot for her student. The only negative she can think of is the restrain of freedom, one of the things she hates the most. However, as Altria was pleading with a sincere expression, she relented.
Really, for all her antagonistic talk in their earliest moments, she couldn't seriously go against her father. She assumed her rebellious tendencies has softened under Shirou's care, and even if she wanted to act more distant, her father's honest efforts and awkward conversations endeared to her somewhat, leading her to soften her stance on Altria.
It's an odd feeling, being coddled so thoroughly, even if her other self's memory was still vivid in her mind. The feeling of abandonment, of betrayal, of hatred, all of it still swirls under the deepest pits in her stomach, waiting to pounce. She might've accepted her own flaws and anger, but it's still an uncomfortable feeling, for sometimes she suspected Altria only acted this way in order to avoid the ending she has warned her father, and not out of genuine love.
Within those negative emotions, the need to be acknowledged and loved by Altria still existed. She thought she was satisfied with Shirou and Cecilia's affections for her, but the hunger for the former desire caused her to feel ashamed of herself. She wanted to see herself as the perfect hero Shirou and she envisioned together, not a selfish and attention-seeking childish woman.
That's why she's feeling rather miffed right now. Receiving all kinds of luxuries just because her station, not who she is, feels just... wrong with her. Will Gawain treat her the same if she's a complete stranger to him? Will her father treat her the same if they aren't related? Right now, she feels her trust hard to come out from her heart for this man in front of her.
Speaking of which, Gawain is conversing happily with her student while she quietly tries to ignore the tortured sounds from her taste buds, regarding the field provisions.
"Miss Cecilia, what do you think of the next planned party?"
"Eh? A party?" Cecilia asks, clearly confused. "I didn't hear about it..."
He nods. "It's still being informally planned, but because winter solstice is coming soon, the nobility usually arranges a party to celebrate the festivities. Of course, with the current political climate, it isn't being announced around with fanfare, but it's a normal tradition in the castle."
"Ah, I see," Cecilia says. "So, what do you mean by your earlier question."
He sits up a little bit straighter, color in his cheeks. "Well, um... I wa- No, I merely wants to ensure your attendance, because of you and Lady Mordred's impact on the kingdom. Y-You are important, I think... No, because it's only my opinion, please don't take it too seriously."
His voice becomes smaller and smaller as he talks. Cecilia still looks confused, but even when she turns to her master for guidance, she only sees a subtle thumbs up from Mordred. Unbeknownst to her, Mordred wants to get them both talking, so they'll ignore her uncouth behavior.
"Well... sounds fun, I guess?" Cecilia hesitantly answers after her master abandoned her. "If we have time, then for sure we'll come."
Gawain beams. "That's great! I'm sure everyone will be happy to meet you!" However, his face darkens immediately. "But... I'm sure there's some of those scum who you'll hate, so please be careful."
Both women think Gawain's words are a warning not to shame the court of Camelot, which is partly true. A part of it is his own selfishness, especially regarding the taller blonde, because he knows best how those nobles will react to two beautiful, innocent ladies thrown into their mix. He promises in his heart he'll keep watch over the two of them, justifying it not as a fit of jealousy, but as a command from his King.
During his lifetime, he has seen plenty beautiful women, all vying for his attention. Perhaps some of their feelings were pure, others corrupted with desire, but looking at them, he couldn't stop the feeling of pity and a slight disgust at the way they presented themselves. There were several interesting individuals, those he considered smart and brave, but too preoccupied with pressure from their surroundings for them to bloom. He spent some time in a relationship with them, and because they had a good mutual understanding, none of them were particularly upset when it didn't work out.
This was the first time he met a female warrior, though. Petulantly, he had always dismissed the idea, his logical side thinking women weren't physically able enough to contend with their male peers, even if their mental abilities could be superior. The battlefield had no use of soldiers which couldn't fight, and women, injured men, along with children were always discounted out. When he heard of Mordred and Cecilia joined their ranks, he was skeptical, even if he didn't show it in the surface.
Yet, the moment they were deployed together in the same unit, Cecilia dazzled him with her prowess.
Her movements were still slightly stiff, inexperienced as she was, but far better than even the best of his men. Her golden hair danced behind her as she rushed alone at the enemy, leaving him to enviously gaze at her back. Her techniques were unconventional, at least to him, with a myriad of weapons she fluidly flung out. Strange, but certainly effective, with she alone taking out a section of the enemy's flank.
That said, what moved his heart the most was her uncompromising stance against someone who she shouldn't even stand a chance to, just so he could have the time to regroup and finish the job.
He saw what was left of her, as Lady Mordred frantically carried her towards treatment. The bloodied mess of... meat, because the shape was barely human anymore, was the person who had sacrificed her body so he and his unit might live. He had no illusion he could do a better job against the person he later found out as an immortal demigoddess, compared to Cecilia, making her achievement shone even brighter.
Even now, as she casually eats the prepared meal and gazes silently at her master, conversing without words, he couldn't help but found her figure to be extremely lovely.
The sight of her unconscious body had elicited a protective desire to well up from within him. A part of him felt the shame of being protected by a woman, yet he couldn't be more proud of her deeds. A relative newbie to warfare, having never run formation or tactics in a large scale, and indeed, her actions were mostly solitary in nature, but effective nevertheless. A woman, at that, running point amongst seasoned veterans and mercenaries, with only a human's body to use.
He has long admired His Majesty's inhuman pedigree, namely the draconic one. As a symbol, dragons were always associated with power, grandeur, and fierceness in battle. Naturally, Lady Mordred inherited this trait, perhaps even thicker than her father, but that same admiration turned into general acceptance and understatement of their abilities. Like how humans envied a bird flying in the air, they also accepted their inability to soar high in the sky.
To put it bluntly, in his opinion, what makes him so attracted to Cecilia is her normality.
Of course, her beauty can be said to be on par with the highest in the lands. Among female martial artist, those without any abilities of sorcery or inhuman blood, he's sure she's also among the top tier. How much effort and pain did she put into her sword? What has she sacrificed in order for her to sit down right here, among two of the Knights of the Round Table?
His musings are cut short by the need to clean their meal, so he silently gets on with it and rest for another day.
The only unfortunate thing is that Gareth now knows of his feelings, which leads her to pressurize him to get hitched.
'What a pesky sister...' he grumbles in his mind.
"Haa... haa... ha..."
With her sticky platinum-blonde locks spread across the lawn, Gareth pants ehavily after another hellish training session from Bedivere.
'T-That monster... I know you're miffed because you're overlooked by His Majesty... but come on...!'
"That will do," Bedivere gruffly finishes his instructions. "After your chores, meet me here again in the afternoon for another round, understood?"
"Ye... Yeah... I-I mean, yes... Sir..."
Without even looking at the half-dead woman, the head royal guard quickly retreats within the confines of Camelot's castle walls.
Taking an opportunity to catch her breath, Gareth begins to mull over what causes her temporary teacher to be so upset.
It's not the fact that Her Highness Princess Mordred was chosen instead of him. It's not the fact that Gawain, Percival, Lamorak, and Bagdemagus were also chosen, each departing into different areas. it's simply because he's stuck here, having to do his job, instead of going out there and being useful for his king.
Inwardly, Gareth sighs in discontent as she, too, wasn't chosen. The only reason she doesn't voice her concerns out loud is because she's currently out of breath.
It was all so sudden.
She came from a royal upbringing, as did her two brothers, Gawain and Gaheris, a close relative to the throne. Like most females in such situation, people expected her to take on a passive role, a role more suited for women, such as household chores, child-rearing, and bedroom techniques. However, ever since she was small, she was enthralled by the stories told to her brothers instead: of knights and heroes, of magic and swordsmanship. She sneaked in her brothers' sword lessons, posing as their brother, until her body grew to the point further disguise was impossible.
At that time, her tutelage was taken by Sir Lancelot.
He, the top knight among the Knights of the Round Table, took notice of her, the youngest girl of a noble family, a girl who shouldn't have any value at all beside being a political bargaining chip, and generously trained her. No matter how hard those nobles pressured him to replace her with one of their sons, no matter the seething glares of the squires who got looked over, he educated her earnestly, in a manner befitting her imagination of a 'perfect knight'.
It would be an understatement to claim that she idolized him.
Then, it all came crashing down in just one night.
She was stationed under Bagdemagus's command in order to learn the thin knight's administrative ways. In short, it was proper schooling, of books and lectures and notes, with her private teacher being one of the Knights of the Round Table. It was boring, as she preferred to stay outside and move her body, but as Lancelot deemed it necessary, she'd do anything to earn his praise.
It only made the news of his betrayal hurt even more.
Amidst the confusion and panic, her apprenticeship ended up being shuffled into Bedivere's hand. He was hard, but fair, and she respected him greatly, but he's not Lancelot, and never would be.
She rolled around in the grass, letting some green blades get stuck between her armor plates. It'll enrage Bedivere, who's a stickler for discipline, but she can't care less right now. All she wanted is an escape from this reality, back to the peaceful past where she could spend her days happily practicing swordsmanship and horse riding, then return home to both her brothers and have a wonderful dinner.
In a way, she envied those who got chosen to search for Lancelot and Guinevere, and didn't envy them for the same time. She wanted to see her master at least one final time, to hear his reasons straight from his mouth. If, after that, he was still the rebel everyone pictured him as, then her heart would no longer had any hesitation in opposing him. If he was wrongly accused, she'd fight for his justice in order to restore his reputation and innocence.
But then, could she actually do it? If, it turned out, he was a traitor to the crown and nation, could she aim her blade at his throat with the intent to kill? Could she deny her own master's reason and strike him down?
Just thinking about it nearly makes her head smoke.
All in all, it's both a good and bad thing she wasn't chosen in the end.
"Ho? It is rare for you to come, Queen of Shadows."
"What? Am I forbidden to?" Scáthach smiles playfully, lightly stepping on top of the water's surface.
Nyneve's side of the Lake has no real definition or boundary between the land and the sky, and since she's currently standing on top of what seems like a water surface, Scáthach guesses it has no real connection to laws of reality either. Granted, her domain is much of the same caliber, a place where the impossible and the absurd happens almost daily, constantly evolving to keep up with the flow of time.
The person she's talking to still hasn't shown her face, so the demigoddess assumes Nyneve is currently occupied. The Ladies of the Lake are comparably amicable to other dwellers of the Reverse Side of the World, though their territory is still deadly for any outsiders not recognized by either of them. Lately, there's been some shift between the twins, causing their domain to stretch out and separate. Scáthach is here not to investigate, but to simply observe and relax from her earlier battle.
A little bird has told her Nyneve is the benefactor of the homunculus who managed to wound her so heavily, so naturally she's intrigued. Despite their age, and the other Insiders, each of them rarely interacts with the other outside their domain, though there's not an explicit no-entry rule between them. Some are quite human-like in their relationship, in a sense they acknowledge and visit each other several times in a century, but most are aloof to each other.
Scáthach and Nyneve, and Nimue, for that matter, aren't antagonistic to each other in nature. She rules over the dead, while the twins often meddles among the living. Ever since her students passed away as heroes, she has longed to face another bright talent from the following generations, and it seems the Ladies of the Lake has delivered on their creations.
She hasn't fought the black knight, but watching his battle with the radiant homunculus turned her off. His sword and body were mighty, but his spirit has left his swings, and as such, weak. What she's looking for is the real hunger for battle and victory, a determination which won't back down, no matter what, to achieve one's goals. What goals they have, she could care less, but what's important is the size of the flame behind that gaze.
'And she's cute too, so it's a bonus...'
"I grow apprehensive if you arrive with such impure desires, my friend."
Scáthach chuckles. "No, no, don't get the wrong idea. She... I haven't met anyone of her quality since my students died in battle, so please cut me some slack."
"Wasn't one of your students also your lover?"
"That kid?" Scáthach snorts. "I love him as my child, but it's not my fault he was captivated by my charms. I taught him better than that, and he still fell for it." Grumbling, she says in a low voice, "That damn mutt..."
"Of course, whatever you say..."
"...I think I'm going to get angry."
She plops down rudely on the liquid surface, eyes boring down to a place somewhere underneath the waters. As she predicted, a pair of warm gaze starts to surface from right in front of her lap, the surface bulging outwards as if something is pushing it fro below. Slowly, the surface tension finally breaks, revealing the beautiful fairy encased in obsidian marble.
'Oh, wait... That's her flesh? I forgot...'
Glaring at Nyneve, she says, "No, honestly, I wasn't here to do what you think. It's just plain curiosity, this game you and your sister are playing."
The black eyes narrow in irritation. "It's not a game, my dear friend."
The pressure emanating from the Lady of the Lake is suffocating.
There's always many speculations regarding the true strength of these dwellers from the Inside, either by humans or their own kind. How will I fare against the others? Am I stronger than them? Can I kill them? All these questions circulates deep inside their mind, rarely showing themselves, but present nonetheless.
Right here, right now, in Nyneve's territory, Scáthach is sure she's in trouble.
Thus, she backs off.
"I understand," she nods. "What I don't get is how did you get that doomed homunculus to do your bidding? If it was me, picking someone with better fate would be a no-brainer."
Scáthach receives an unusual answer to her inquiry: laughter.
Well, Nyneve isn't the type to bellow to her belly in happiness, nor is she someone who rolls on the floor with glee. Her laughter, like everything she does, is charmingly beautiful to hear, possessing the grace and power to bring down mortals to their knees. Combined with the effect of her territory, Scáthach finds herself weakening under the bell-like voice.
"Fufufu..." she smiles lightly. "Do you think that someone's fate cannot be changed, Scáthach?"
"Oh, are you one of those types?" Scáthach replies in a mocking tone. "Well, to your question, no, I don't think so."
She closes her eyes momentarily, replaying her students' final moments. As she saw the two of them killing each other, the sound of blades piercing flesh almost torn her apart. The cursed weapons and skills she gifted and taught them to achieve greatness only brought ruin in the end. In the surface, and in her head, she knew their shortcomings came only from their own shortsightedness, being in possession of mortal blood.
Why can't humans see beyond their lifetime? Surely, with the increase in scholars and artists, their culture should've been advanced enough to plan centuries ahead? Instead, their desires cloud their judgement, their impulse forcing their bodies to act on it with haste. Indeed, she has seen this happen many times, so was she the foolish one when she decided to neglect the possibility of it happening to her students?
In the end, none of them escaped their tragic fate, all of it created from the culmination of their deeds and their parents' sins. Having seen it all, how can she hope otherwise now? That's the main reason she lost interest in the mortal world. If everything runs to a script, why bother sticking around when she possesses the ability to view the spoilers all this time? Her efforts mean nothing before the weight of fate...
Nyneve's bewitching figure shakes her head, the impossibly thin strands of solid black flutters along her movement.
"You answered in the negative, yet it is still the thing you desired most of all," she says, her face looking disappointed. "Why can you not be honest with yourself? There is naught any existences here bar us."
"It's because I'm a realist, unlike you, Nyneve," Scáthach spits out. "What I desire... is already impossible precisely because I was the one who blocked it off myself through my achievements. I don't think the World will be too gracious to change its mind for a 'small existence' like myself."
Chuckling, Nyneve kindly speaks, "You see too little of yourself, unchanged from your younger days. Have you not consider your 'curse' to be a 'gift' instead? Many teachers would love to have your immortality, simply to guide more and more students down their perceived correct path."
"And to see them die? To outlive those I think my own offspring, my own flesh and blood? No, thank you," the demigoddess replies quickly, her temper rising.
"Of course. We already had this conversation before once, thus I would not expect you to change your mind. We are immortals, after all, and stubborn ones at that," Nyneve says, lightly laughing. "That said, have you not felt it? How we have been graced with the presence of a Heroic Vessel?"
"What."
The news shatter her opinion as easily as herself breaking glass.
"Heroic... Vessel..."
The words roll of her tongue weakly.
Of course, the phrase isn't unfamiliar to her. Alaya is clearly up to something the past several millennia, and there's several blips in the flow of time and space large enough to serve as evidence these... things existed. During her lifetime, though, not once has she witnessed one in direct action, as has her peers, so that particular program has been put on the back shelf of their thoughts.
The legends are clear.
From what she can gather, these Vessels serve one, and only one purpose: to save humanity from its eventual destruction. She's seen it with her own Mystic Eyes, how no matter what Alaya does, eventually, human beings will continue being whittled down, down, down, onto the last man, and even he, with all his powers, is no match for the oncoming force of natures, courtesy of the Ultimate Ones.
Alaya has created these beings to achieve one goal: prevent it, and ensure her survival for eternity.
In her own opinion, what Alaya does isn't sinister in any way. Alaya is the creation of humanity's hopes and dreams, and rules over them caringly. Of course, its methods may be considered ruthless by a human's standards, but its intentions are sincere. Such honesty warrants her respect, even if it means Alaya has created individuals which can harm herself, and other non-human beings.
The Heroic Vessels serve to sever that thread of fate binding Alaya and humanity.
With that realization, most of the Insiders have decided a hands-off approach regarding human beings. After the fall of the Age of Heroes, supernatural involvement in the Present World plummets to an all-time low, distancing humanity from their previous benefactors. This gap continues to grow wider across the ages, even when humans realize they need to return back to their former glory and start working to reduce it.
Only these Heroic Vessels, being permanently connected to Alaya, can draw humanity's full strength, focused on several individuals.
If one such existence is here, now, in this plane of time and space, then things will really get interesting.
'It may be worth it leaving my domain, after all...'
"Say..."
"Yes?"
"Any chance you know where this Heroic Vessel is located?"
"Unfortunately, I have not the slightest inclination to tell you, so no."
"Guess so."
It's clear Nyneve favors this Heroic Vessel, and he or she is an important piece to the fairy. Being always connected to her own twin, this method of secrecy is somewhat lacking, but she understands her opponent's stance clearly. The effort she'll put into tracking him or her down will only make it more fun to her, and hopefully, the homunculus and Alaya's servant is connected...
...so she can fight them both and die.
Without asking for permission, she disassembles her physical body and escapes Nyneve's territory.
"Oh, dear..." she sighs, turning to inform her champion what trouble is seeking him now.
"Gwen... Gwen..."
Lancelot's hoarse voice repeats like a broken record, but his monotonous tone doesn't match his satisfied expression. His beloved is currently stroking his head on her lap tenderly, like how they always did, so how could he be unhappy? Sure, Guinevere's facial features are a bit strange, but it's a small matter compared to the bliss he feels.
He closes his eyes in happiness, unaware of Guinevere's trembling other hand.
She repeatedly plays with her fingers in anger and frustration, mostly directed at her kidnapper.
It was pitch black back then, her last memory of Camelot. She remembered dismissing Vivian to sleep, after they had a personal talk, and after that she knew no more. She realized something was wrong when she couldn't wake up, the sudden transition between dreams and reality suddenly disappeared from her ability to stay conscious. Instead, she floats in a lucid space, powerless in a limbo, until she was allowed to open her eyes and function normally.
The occasion she woke up to disgusted her.
Not only she found herself being rudely restrained to a table, admittedly a far more comfortable one than the ones she'd seen inside some torture chambers, she saw her lover standing beside a familiar face.
Vivian... and Lancelot, standing together beside her with seemingly no intentions to release her. One look in their eyes and she understood that much.
For an instant, she thought of yelling and screaming and struggling and calling them ugly names, but she calmed herself down. If Lancelot was here, then wasn't it because he longed for her, and couldn't help his desires to keep her to himself? She was flattered, but also confused, since she never pegged Vivian to like any of the Knights of the Round Table.
Merlin's students, in general, tended to look down on the Knights, simply for being in the same political standing as them, yet unable to wield any Magecraft. Of course, in a real battle, they were right in underestimating the Knights, because the depth of Magecraft was unfathomable to Guinevere and the Knights, being from a normal, magi-less background. Obviously, all of the magi had enough pride to stop them from acting like arrogant fools in front of the court, but the politeness stopped there.
So, as she pondered the possible reasons for Vivian to willingly help Lancelot in her own idealized scenario, a monstrous smile appeared on the female magus's face.
It was... inhuman.
The Queen used the term 'monstrous', yet she herself wasn't sure whether the term was appropriate. Rather, the smile possessed sinister qualities far enough from the human realm it gave her chills down to the bone. She started trembling in her shackles, but as soon as it appeared, it vanished like mist in the afternoon.
After seeing that, she realized something.
The person in front of her... wasn't Vivian.
Her violet hair swayed momentarily in a display of power, before her lips parted to exhale a soft ineligible tone.
From the corners of her eyes, Guinevere saw Lancelot moving to attention, so rigidly it's as if she's watching a crudely-made golem, before stiffly walking outside.
She couldn't hold her shock anymore.
"What have you done to him?! You... witch! Unhand me!"
Her former compatriot simply smiled, before the Queen's consciousness went black, despite her best attempt to resist it.
The next time she woke up, she was already free of her bindings, simply resting on a well-made, sparsely-furnished bed.
She sat up immediately, performing checks on her body and mind. She knew of Vivian's original capabilities, and if this... entity could take over Merlin's best student, how powerful could it be in reality? This fear caused her to check with even more scrutiny, but before she could finish, the door to the room she was in opened.
"Lancelot!"
The person called smiled to her in response, but as he opened his lips to form a response, a weird expression formed on his face. She saw his handsome features contort in confusion, as if trying to exert a force against something invisible, before giving up and settling on a goofy grin.
"Hu... hungry?"
At the inquiry, Guinevere could only cover her mouth with her hands.
'Oh, God...'
"...put here," he said, stumbling over his voice. He gently laid down a platter of food, which looked good, but her appetite was long gone.
Before he could say another word, she leapt into his bosom.
"Lancelot..." she whispered. Caressing his face with her hand, she could only muster pained continuations.
"My God... she's too cruel..."
Again, he tried to form words, but failed to do so.
"...fine."
His calm voice stabbed into her heart, making her swallow a bitter lump down her throat.
- Clap. Clap.
"You...!" Guinevere spat out the words.
The person who inhibited Vivian's body sneered, before waving her hand. In her arms, she felt Lancelot's muscles go stiff, and with extreme reluctance, let him proceed with his duties. He awkwardly walked out of the room, leaving the two women together.
"Do you enjoy my work?"
The blood rushed to Guinevere's head.
She's barehanded, but her temper had snapped long ago. Without care, she leapt at the woman, eager to cause her some pain. Deep down, she knew this was a waste of time and energy, since there's no way she, an untrained woman, could take on this... inhuman thing, but the pain in her heart caused her to explode.
Her charge stopped after crashing into an invisible barrier, sending her reeling back. A wave of Vivian's fingers summoned several thin vines, which entangled themselves onto Guinevere's four limbs, lifting her in the air.
"You bitch!" She roared, her manners already forgotten, "What have you done to him?! Speak!"
"Now, now," the magus coyly spoke, gingerly stepping forward like a child hopping over some stones happily. She tapped Guinevere's cheeks, seemingly as a gesture of affection, but Guinevere spat out a glob of saliva to her face instead. The liquid instantly evaporated mere milimeters from Vivian's skin, her expression unchanged.
"Ara, how rude..." she spoke in that hatefully playful tone. "My Queen, please do not be alarmed. Haven't I accompli-"
"I'm not your queen, monster!" Guinevere shouted back. "That body... Where is Vivian?! You won't fool me, bastard!"
Her next words choked as she stared into the woman's eyes.
- Static.
"U-Ugh..." she groaned in pain.
Those eyes... like the smile she witnessed earlier, weren't a human's eyes. It wasn't laced with killing intent or malice, but what's the most frightening was how far away from a human's comprehension that gaze was. Guinevere's mortal brain started to break down from the strain, as she delved deeper and deeper into those voided eyes...
- Static. Static. Static.
Her mind was splitting in half. Her mind was being drilled of holes. Her mind was being electrocuted. Her mind was melting as if drenched in acid. Her mind was bruised by the hammer pounding inside. Her mind was screaming as those eyes showed her things... many, many things, things not from this world...
"Ugh... argh...!"
[Be grateful, wench.]
Her voice was speaking directly inside her head. No, it was grafting itself into her skull and her very soul, binding her with thorned ropes and tearing up her spiritual defense. Her voice, spoken with a calm tone, without any effort, had ripped her apart.
- Static! Static! Static!
[Do not worry. I will not harm you, because my new servant will self-destruct if I did. Truly, love is a wonderful thing, no?]
Her tone was genial and smooth, completely devoid of any malice or threats. Yet, Guinevere felt as if her ears are bleeding out from hearing it.
[Now, be a good girl and act like the usual you. I am sure you will succeed, because pretending to be the quiet, impactless woman should be second-nature to you, no? Please watch here as I slaughter your official family.]
"Hngghhh! Ugh... You... I-I won't...!" Guinevere squeezed out whatever words she can, but only managed to let out several unintelligible phrase.
[Ah, I cannot wait to see your happy face as I set the scene...!] Lifting Guinevere's face by her chin, Nimue said gleefully, [Is this not what you wished? For you to live happily forever after with your lover, just like the ending of those fairy tales? I am ridding you of the obstacles in your way, so smile!]
The powerful thumb of the Lady of the Lake pinched Guinevere's cheeks, forcing her lips to spread and form a perversion of a smile. The immaculate teeth were shut tight, giving the impression of a full-blown grin, but the sound of molars grinding with each other ruined the image.
[Ah, you must be confused of your lovers actions. Well, do not blame me, because it is he who requested that power, and so I generously bestowed it upon him. He understood the risks, and power that great will always come with a price. So, please treat him well for me.]
Nimue deliberately left out the part of Lancelot's lack of verbal agreement to their deal. During his exile, he dreamed of the strength to resist his relationship with Guinevere, even though he never voiced out his thoughts due to his lingering loyalty. She took a sliver of his desires and contorted it to fit her image, giving birth to the crazed black knight.
Sadly, it seemed the armor needed a few more improvements. The way Mordred defeated him was too easy, and even if it allowed Lancelot, a human, to compete with a dragon-born homunculus, the performance was still not enough. She wanted to see the petite blonde bathed with her own blood, and witness the rage emanating from the Heroic Vessel.
The prospect of chaos sent a pleasurable shiver to her imaginary spine.
She tapped Guinevere's cheeks lovingly.
[Now, I have somewhere to attend to, so have fun!]
Those words still linger in Guinevere's mind even now, as she relaxes with the man she loves on her lap.
She barely holds herself back from showing any tenseness to Lancelot. The feeling of shame and helplessness back then frustrates her to no end. Why couldn't she break free? Why couldn't she endure? If only she was trained in military arts or Magecraft, perhaps she could do something to Nimue back then. Instead, her body, as well-kept as it was, was a feeble human's in the end.
She cursed herself for her weakness, which caused Lancelot to take extreme measures to take her. She hates herself for her weakness, which no doubt creates chaos in Camelot now. She loathes herself for her indecision and her betrayal, which would scar Altria's heart.
Because of her, everyone she loves is now irreparably hurt and damaged.
However, no matter how hard she tries, a lone tear still makes it way to drop onto Lancelot's cheek.