A/N: So this isn't the end, but I felt like this had a perfect chapter end. So sorry for the brevity! The rest will be up in a day or two.

Fate Leads Us All

Alfred barely had time to scramble to his feet before the gods went on the offensive.

Daka appeared on the fallen tower next to Arthur and swung at him with her great sword. Arthur would have taken the full brunt of the blow if Francis hadn't appeared a second after Daka and dragged her off balance.

She turned towards Francis with a war cry. In that time, Alfred got between her and Arthur and picked up Arthur's spear where he'd dropped it. He could barely grip it with his maimed hand, but if he just used that hand to guide the spear he thought it would be manageable. He had no training in how to use the pole arm, but he figured that it was enough to try and keep it between him and his attacker.

After Francis lost his advantage of surprise, Daka's superior skill showed. Francis held a longsword, as his saber would be useless against a foe like Daka. Still, it was no match for Daka's greatsword. Francis tried to feint and get under Daka's guard. Daka was too quick and had the advantage of reach. Before Francis could get close, she locked her sword with his, and the sheer weight of hers set Francis' to the ground.

With a sound of contempt, she took her sword in a firm grip and stabbed Francis through the belly. Though it wouldn't kill the god, he was out of the battle for good.

With the pressure, off, she turned back to Arthur, and consequently, to Alfred.

"Get out of the way, boy," she hissed. "We tolerated your treachery once, but I will gladly cut you down if it means ridding the world of filth."

Alfred didn't reply, just shifted his footing for better balance. A little grin appeared on the war goddess' face.

"I've wanted to do this for a long time," she said, then lunged.

Arthur's spear felt clumsy in his hands, but the thick wood managed to catch Daka's attack. Steel bit deep into the hardwood, and for a moment Alfred feared it would cut all the way through. The wood held though, and Alfred managed to push Daka to the side.

With a snarl, Daka let go of her sword, sending Alfred off balance. With a quick step, she regained her footing and twisted, kicking Alfred right in the sternum. The goddess kicked like a horse, and the force of it lifted Alfred off his feet and send him sprawling back. He hit the solid stone of the broken tower heavily and struggled to regain his breath.

Daka didn't give him time. Within a heartbeat of colliding with the stone, she appeared over him and dropped, her knees pinning his shoulders down.

"I've always had a love of this sort of combat," she said, eyes dancing with delight. "It always feels so intimate." As she said the last word, she leaned down, close enough that Alfred could feel her breath on his mouth. He just had time think that her breath smelled like blood when she grabbed his hair in both hands and slammed his head against the tower's stone.

Alfred's vision went black and star-filled. He could vaguely hear Daka's warm, merry laugh far, far away. She dragged his head up again, making his stomach roll at the sudden vertigo. However, this time, there was no forceful collision, just a bump as the weight on his chest lifted.

When he came back to himself enough to see, he saw Arthur, latched onto Daka's back like an enormous, angry cat. He held onto her long hair with his hands while his blunt, fox claws dug into her armor for purchase. The contact with her armor sent up smoke and the stench of scorched flesh, but Arthur didn't even seem to notice.

A new figure appeared behind them, and waded into the fray. Pakram grabbed Arthur around the middle and pulled him off Daka, then threw the exhausted daemon to the ground.

Alfred tried to scramble over to the motionless daemon, but he was caught before he had even managed to get to his knees.

"Oh, my baby," Arlya said. Her fingers found the gash on the back of his head, and Alfred felt a cool numbness cover the area. It took a few moments of relishing the relief before his mind cleared again. He jerked away from Arlya and got shakily to his feet. She stood, one fluid motion. Her white clothing shed his blood like water on oilskin, leaving her glowing with a pure whiteness. She frowned at him, and Alfred felt the instinctual fear rise at her apparent disappointment.

Nevertheless, he pushed it down and returned her frown with his own.

"After everything the gods have done for you," Arlya said, her voice hardly above a whisper. "After all I've done for you. This is what you give me in return? Treachery? Betrayal?"

"Mother-" Alfred said, but Arlya interrupted him.

"I raised you. I defended you! If not for me, you'd be dead the day you were born!"

"I know," Alfred said.

"And yet you stand against me?"

"Yes."

Arlya gave a shout of frustrated rage. "Look behind you," she shouted. "Your daemon friends are doomed." Sure enough, as Alfred glanced over her shoulder, she saw the high daemons in a beaten heap, along with the motionless forms of Francis and Gilbert. Around them, the remaining gods looked on their fallen enemies with expressions that ranged from satisfied, to watchful, to gleeful.

"You have the chance to be the hero here," Arlya said. She stooped and handed Alfred his rifle and the oilskin bag that held his supplies.

Alfred stared at the weapon, then looked back at Arlya. He shook his head. It made him dizzy, but he was determined not to waver.

It was then that Alfred realized that he's always been sheltered from the true wrath of the goddess. She shrieked, a sound that sounded completely alien to Alfred and seemed to grow as she reached for him. Alfred had no chance to react. Arlya seemed to stretch, and then she hand her hands with too long fingers wrapped around Alfred's throat.

He dangled from her grasp, staring into her face, which leaked harsh white light from her eyes, nose and mouth. She screamed on, and Alfred wasn't heard if he was hearing words in her scream or not. She squeezed and Alfred thought his head would just pop off.

She let him go as suddenly as she had grabbed him, shrinking back into the tall, but not grotesque, form she usually wore. Despite her best efforts to contain her rage, Alfred noticed the white light leaking out of her in places.

"You've always been a willful boy," she said, as if he was a naughty boy who didn't want to go to bed. Alfred looked at her warily, waiting for the monster to reappear. Aside from the slow trickle of light from her, it didn't.

"I gave you a hero's destiny," she said patiently. "And you will take it."

Alfred narrowed his eyes, saying nothing. Arlya's little frown returned. "Because, if you don't, we'll kill those civilians you tried so hard to save."

"What?" Alfred asked. "They haven't done anything!"

"It would be such a pity," Arlya said, and Alfred thought that she meant it. "Alfred, we don't want to kill anyone! So much blood has been spilt in this silly war. And now you have a chance to save them!"

Alfred glanced through the morning light at the caravans. They were too far away to hear anything, but Alfred could see them in his mind's eye. People grieving together, comforting each other, making plans to rebuild what had been lost.

From where the daemons lay, Alfred heard a voice.

"Don't let them die for us," Arthur said. "I won't let you live with that blood on your hands."

"Arthur—" Alfred started.

Elizaveta interrupted him. "He's right," she said. "We weren't lying when we said we'd die for our people."

"I can't—"

"Listen, boy," Natalia said. "We'll die by your hand of theirs. Let's not doom innocents while we're at it."

Ivan nodded, though didn't seem able to speak.

Alfred looked to Francis for help. Francis always had advice. But the god wouldn't meet his eyes. Neither would Gilbert. After all they'd fought through to get here. It couldn't be over.

Arlya held out the rifle once more. "I will count to three. If you do not take it by then, our hand will be forced.

"One…"

"Don't count like I'm a child," Alfred spat. He took the rifle as Arlya watch on, beaming. The rifle was wet from Alfred's near drowning, and he wiped it down with an oiled cloth from his kit as the whole pantheon watched him. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, his powder had remained dry in its sack. He loaded the rifle automatically. His mind was far away, still scrambling for another solution as his body resigned itself to fate.

When it was loaded, Arlya took him by the arm to where the daemons lay on the broken tower. The ring of gods opened up, until only him and Arlya stood near the fallen and defeated creatures.

This couldn't be happening

He raised the rifle, and felt old pain wash through his bad hand. It pulsed and ached as he looked down the barrel.

It's not fair

He stood there, staring. Arthur, his best friend, stared back. Arthur gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

But there's no other way, because

Moments stretched. The barrel of the rifle sank. "This is the only way it can end," Arlya said.

Fate leads us all

…

…

…

Or does it?

"I can think of another way to end it," Alfred said. He turned, jerking the barrel into position, and blew Arlya's head clean from her shoulders.

A/N: Finally, the moment this whole stupid fic has been building for since it was a tiny lil plot bunny at the end of high school!

I can't tell you how satisfying it was to write.