God Slaying Blade Works

by Marcus Galen Sands

The first Fate/Stay Night-Campione! crossover. A Heavens Feel Shirou finds that himself and Illya have been pulled into another world by a corrupted Grail. There his actions lead to him becoming the Eighth god killing Devil King. Now he has to deal with becoming someone who rules where he walks, even if he doesn't want to. That and trying to find a way back home.

36. Chapter 32: The Worth of Steel

Disclaimer: The works of Type-Moon and Jō Taketsuki are their own despite my most fervent wishes. This is a fan work and if anyone does pay me for it the only thing it will accomplish is to get me into trouble. This is being done purely for fun, constructive criticism is welcome, and flames will be ignored. Please be gentle though, this is the first fanfic I've put on the net.

Well, here's the next chapter, and let me tell you it was tricky to write. The irony is that it was one of the chapters that I'd planned out the most in advance, yet when it came to actually writing it, that proved a bit more difficult. As you know I ended up splitting it into the last chapter and this one, so in total I think it was something daft like 80,000 words.

Anyway, I'm so many people liked the last chapter, despite the cliff hanger ending. I got quite a few people saying that it was well timed, and that they were looking forwards to this chapter, I'd just like to say thanks for writing.

Now, onto something a bit different. I'd to thank all those who sent me suggestions on potential Servants and Masters. I've got about 70% of the Servants sorted out, but so far I'm a bit short on Masters. I've had a couple of suggestions, but so far I only have five set up, and that includes Rin, Sakura and the Einzbern representative. I've decided that rather than using just pre-existing characters there will be several original ones, so anyone that wants to invent a Master feel free to PM them to me. The only rules are that you must cover certain details. Styles of magecraft, if they are a magus, what wish they're aiming for, country of origin, and what kind of Servant they'd want, though not necessarily the one they'll get. As always I can't promise that I'll use every character sent to me, but I do promise to give them all due attention.

SPOILERS!

Well, once again there have been plenty of calls for Alex's death. I find it somewhat satisfying that I've been able to write him so well that he appears to be almost universally hated.

I was planning this fight between Shirou and Gascoigne for ages. Originally I had thought to have it being to the death, the Black Prince being too proud and stubborn to back down and eventually killing himself when he doesn't realize that his opponent isn't willing to back down. However as time passed I came to the realization that, though satisfying, the scenario I was depicting didn't sit right with me. Sure Gascoigne has some irritating character flaws a mile wide, but on no occasion is he ever depicted as being stupid. His defining aspect, to me at least, is his intellect, his scheming, so at the end of the day he struck me as the sort that would choose survival over pride. I didn't want to make it too easy for him though, I didn't think he'd bend under any pressure, but breaking did seem more likely, if he was pushed hard enough fast enough.

Guinevere's new status is something that I only came up with a few chapters back. I was always quite pleased with her end in the Light Novels, not pleased in that I enjoyed her suffering, but rather in that I thought it was well written. I wanted to go with something similar, but I wanted to keep her around afterwards since she's a fun character to write. Originally I was going to have Shirou transfer Avalon to her, but then I had Avalon become a part of the new Excalibur. I then got to wondering about what I could have her do after she was saved, given that she'd just lost her meaning to life, and I figured that she needed something new to keep her going.

That led to my idea of her transferring her loyalty to Shirou, but it felt a little shallow and unrealistic. The idea that, rather than just saving her life, Shirou would also inadvertently usurp her connection to the King of the End sort of popped out of nowhere, but it ties in nicely to my future plans for her.

The fight with Lancelot, on the other hand, was something I've been planning for as long as the fight with Gascoigne. Originally I'd planned for it to be to the death, with Shirou gaining another Authority out of it, but as I wrote more of Lancelot I found myself somewhat loath to simply kill her off. The interactions between her and Guinevere were always fun to write, and her meetings with Shirou seemed to be cordial, possibly even friendly. For him to kill her, even if she was literally asking for it, seemed out of character.

Recruiting her on the other hand . . . that seemed more likely. I wanted him to take a page out of Iskander's book, even if his version was less charismatic and a bit more on the bumbling side. Still, I was aiming for sincere and I think I managed to get something right. The idea of a Campione recruiting a god struck me as nicely epic and outrageous, definitely something I can have fun with in the future.

Oh, and just in case anyone is confused about what happened with Excalibur, let me be clear. Since Excalibur, Arondight and Avalon fused into a new Excalibur their 'blueprint' has disappeared from Unlimited Blade Works, so Shirou can no longer Trace them. Should he see the originals again then he will gain new copies of them, but until then those three Noble Phantasms are beyond his ability to Trace. The new Excalibur still exists within him, but it has not acknowledged him yet, and as such is hiding from him since it is more Authority than Noble Phantasm. More on that in future chapters, I promise.

Lastly, we have the Omake at the end. As I mentioned before it seemed rather cruel to totally deny the hordes of readers baying for Alex's blood, so I wrote a little something that I hope will prove somewhat satisfying. Basically every reviewer that wrote to kill him can rest assured that they each got a turn.

Once again, I would like to thank my Beta for all his hard work, especially given how much else he's had to deal with over the last few weeks. I know this chapter was a bit delayed, but I assure you that the quality is much the better for it.

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Chapter Thirty Two: The Worth of Steel

This was considerably less than ideal.

Alexander Gascoigne was not a man prone to overt displays of emotion; it just went against his nature. Oh, that wasn't to say that he wasn't expressive, he showed the more casual emotions such as annoyance, amusement, boredom and interest easily enough. However he was of the opinion that showing displays of serious emotion, such as rage, grief or joy, was something that should only be done in the company of those with whom one shared a strong bond. Blatant emotion was . . . undignified, and it exposed entirely too much weakness to potential enemies, so Alex always did his best to keep an even keel when others could see him.

Right now though, keeping to that was becoming increasingly difficult, especially as the urge to tear his hair out in frustration was growing.

HOW?! How had they both escaped? Alex hadn't laboured under the impression that either of his Authorities would be able to restrain either the powerful Heretic God or the eighth Campione for long, but even so they shouldn't be free so soon. And both of them together as well, that probably meant that one had freed themselves and then helped the other.

Well, whatever the case they were here now, and that meant he had to deal with them. How though, that was the question.

"I . . . I can't help her much longer!"

The tension in the air was broken as Tiamat spoke out, her voice ragged as though she had just run a marathon. In an instant the Knight of the Lake was off her steed and kneeling beside her wounded charge.

"Oh, precious child, one is shamed that you have come to this state due to one's failure. This knight should have been more wary, more prepared for tricks."

"Sir Knight is the greatest knight of all," Guinevere replied, "It is only a shame that Guinevere has proven to not be worthy of the one that swore to her. I . . . I'm so sorry I . . . I . . ."

Her voice trailed off as she seemed to run out of strength, her fingers were once more golden sand almost to her palms. Whatever force had been delaying her disintegration was running out of steam.

Lancelot must have noticed this as well, because she turned to the kneeling Tiamat, her face a fierce mask.

"What is happening? Why is the precious child fading?!"

"I . . . I don't have the strength! I was able to halt her death for a time, but in my reduced state I lack the strength to hold her!"

"Then use mine!" The female knight declared without a moment's hesitation, her slimly gauntleted hand closing over the fallen goddess's. "This knight's strength is useless unless it is able to save the life of the precious child."

Tiamat spoke no answer, instead her eyes closed into a mask of profoundest concentration and her hand began to visibly glow. Lancelot's face tightened in visible pain, but the Knight of the Lake refused to shift an inch.

Indeed, Alex realized that it was unlikely she could move even is she wanted to. He didn't know too much about the arcane secrets of how gods might share the power of divinity between them, but for mortal mages doing something similar could be very dangerous. So dangerous that breaking the channel of power violently could cause harm to both the donor and the receiver. Given how wounded Guinevere was any shock at all would most likely be the instant death of her. As for Lancelot . . . well, any damager dealt to him, HER, would only improve his odds.

That only left Emiya Shirou as a factor that could be of any danger. He was also the only other occupant of the island that he'd prefer not to kill.

That gave the Black Prince an idea. It could work, but despite the slight uncertainties involved it was a fairly safe bet. Yes, this would do.

"Emiya Shirou, summon your golden armour!" The words were not a request, nor were they a command. Instead they were a sort of insistent request.

"Why?"

The King of Steel's tone was as level and emotionless as a frozen wasteland, Alex was almost amused by the just how riled he was if he was suppressing it so thoroughly. Clearly the Divine Ancestor had meant more to him than the Black Prince had initially thought.

"Because if you don't then you will die."

There that was sufficient warning. He could now honestly say that he had given the eight Campione all the preparation knowledge he could need to survive. Should he fail to heed that advice and not take the steps needed to safeguard his life . . . well, that was hardly Alex's fault, now was it?

"Thunder of the blue sky, now sound thou the final battle cry of our age long enmity! Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life in recompense!"

As he spoke the spell words Alex could feel the power begin to surge up within him, a thrill that he didn't experience nearly as often as a small part of him would like to.

Black Thunder was the ultimate attack of his Black Lightning Authority, an attack mode that could only be achieved by sacrificing the use of his Authority for half a day. Still, in exchange for that he could summon up an offensive power strong enough to annihilate almost any foe, a power that surpassed even that of the Judging Furies.

The world around him slowed as he ceased to be flesh and blood and once more became living energy. This time though, the world that he 'saw', even though he had no eyes, was tinted with red as he felt the destructive nature of his new form. Emiya Shirou, Lancelot, Guinevere, Tiamat, all of them seemed to be moving as though through molasses.

It would seem that the King of Steel had decided not to heed his advice, because instead of his armour he was instead holding a sheathed sword in his left hand at his hip, while his right hand slowly came around to grasp the hilt. Did he really think that would be enough?

Alex had spent quite a lot of time and resources trying to learn all he could about the strange weapons that the King of Steel seemed able to pull out of empty air. The initial report delivered to the Witengamot had suggested that he used some form of magecraft based upon the creation of ectoplasmicly based weapon constructs. This was a logical assumption, but after gaining some more information the Black Prince had discounted it.

He'd been present for the Battle of the Four Kings, though he'd chosen not to get involved. He would have dearly liked to observe the battle between the eighth Campione and Mordred, but he hadn't been able to follow them without revealing himself. As a result he'd instead stayed to watch the battle between the three Campione and the Monkey King and his allies. Still, even though he'd been far away he'd been able to sense the sudden release of power that had slain the fourth Heretic God.

It had been a long way off, but he'd been able to recognize the 'flavour' of the power.

In his quest for the Holy Grail Alex had come across one or two artefacts related to the King who was so inextricably linked to it. Most of them had been little more than shards of decrepit old swords that had long ago broken or shattered. Nothing more than the remains of cast aside vessels from ages past. Still, despite their degraded state they continued to hold some sparks of their king's old power, enough that he had gained some knowledge of how it felt.

What he'd felt that day had compared to them the way a raging bonfire compared to the dying embers of a tiny fireplace.

Excalibur, there was no other explanation. For weeks he had dismissed the idea as impossible, even after learning about the gifts that he gave the other Campione at the Feast of Kings he'd refused to even contemplate it. Then had come the entire mess with Venus and the Battle of the Three Kings.

Though unoriginally named the fight had served to highlight just how strong the eighth Campione was. Luo Hao might be something of a martial arts nut, but there was no denying her combat excellence. When Alex had confronted her the most he'd been able to do had been to scuff up her robes, and he'd regarded that as something of an achievement given her ridiculous strength and skill. Then there had been Kusanagi Godou, though young he had earned himself something of a reputation in a very short time, enough that Alex had taken care to observe him as a factor in his plans.

And Emiya Shirou had been able to defeat them both at the same time?

There had been rumours of course, wild tales about the King of Steel using a mortal magic that defied all reason by being able to overcome the power of an Authority. He'd ignored them, and instead focused on what he knew to be true. In some way the eighth Devil King had acquired the power of Excalibur, he was also capable of manifesting potent weapons out of nowhere and use them with sufficient skill to defeat a pair of his fellow Campione. On top of that he'd ended up become allies, if not friends, with Guinevere, the handmaiden of Excalibur's true owner.

To Alex all this suggested something; some unified . . . something, something to do with Excalibur. His best guess, and one that had been backed up by his own research, had been that Emiya Shirou had somehow stumbled across a former vessel sword of the King of the End that had still possessed considerable power. Somehow he'd been able to rekindle that power, feed it and nurture it until it was strong again, and then somehow merge it with some sort of mortal magic. He'd heard of such things happening in the past, angel remains or dragon bones being used to create mortal magics of incredible power. If something like the remnant of Excalibur had been used then the results would have been that much greater.

Excalibur was the King of all weapons, a sword that could use any other weapon as a Servant. Alex knew that his information was incomplete, so he didn't know the entirety of what it could do, but it seemed logical that such an immensely powerful weapon of Steel might be able to create subordinate surrogates.

If that was the case then it went a long way to explaining the nature of Emiya Shirou's supposedly impossible achievement. Rather than create a mortal magic that was on par with a divine power, he was instead disguising a divine power as a mortal magic. It was actually quite brilliant in its simplicity, and it was a tactic that Alex wouldn't have minded coming up with himself, after all the results spoke for themselves.

Not only was he gaining a reputation in the mystic world as a true miracle maker, he had also sent Luo Hao down a blind alley as far as her current development was concerned as she tried to duplicate a feat that had never existed in the first place. That in itself was actually something of a master stroke when you thought about it.

The three 'elder' Campione were in many ways the most troublesome. It wasn't simply because of how old they might be or how many Authorities they might have acquired. He himself had the same number of Authorities as Madame Aisha, but then again given the way she wandered around through both time and space trying to understand her true age was largely an exercise in futility and a recipe for a headache. This wasn't helped by the fact that she continued to insist that she was still seventeen despite her accumulated recorded experiences making her at least twenty three at the youngest. Regardless, it wasn't age and power that made Campione troublesome, rather they had age and power because they were troublesome.

The life of a Campione could be centuries long, but in actuality it tended to be more like fifteen years on average. Having gained the power of a god it was entirely too easy for a new King to become drunk on power. Such individuals invariably caused all kinds of upheaval and were either put down by their fellow Kings or drew the attention of a god that slew them. Those that made it past a century were the truly exceptional, the truly dangerous.

Voban had made it that long by the simple expedient of being a bigger monster than anything he'd ever gone up against. Though he retained the veneer of civilization underneath it he was a hungry wolf through and through, one with gods as his prey. Aisha was a bit harder to pin down due to the nature of her powers, but Luo Cuilian was another matter altogether.

The self titled Marquis was a dangerous being, but the only power he sought were new Authorities, and even those were more as spoils of victory than they were attempts to augment his dominance. The Ruler of the Martial Realm, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. She had gained her rank as a Campione through her martial arts brilliance and through the decades since she had never stopped improving. She'd taken her martial arts to unheard of levels, integrated Authorities into them and then gone on to learn magic simply so that she could integrate that as well. Quite simply she'd never stopped getting stronger.

Well, she had now. Strength and power weren't absolute advantages when it came to Campione, if it were then they would never have become Campione in the first place, but they were important factors. By sending the Chinese God Slayer down a pointless road Emiya Shirou had essentially curtailed that growth, at least for the time being anyway. Time that the King of Steel could use to improve his own advantages.

All in all it was a brilliant deception.

All of this flashed through his mind as he 'saw' the Eighth Campione grasp the hilt of the katana he held. Honestly, he didn't know why Emiya Shirou was bothering with such a weapon. As far as Alex knew the only Authorities he had that would allow him to survive an impact from Black Thunder would be either his golden armour or that huge metal giant form, and even if he did use them he doubted the Japanese Campione would be able to escape unharmed. Going for a weapon was only a valid tactic if the weapon used could counter the attack.

Had the sword created been a broadsword or a longsword then he might have been concerned. Either of those forms might mean that his enemy was trying to fully manifest Excalibur. Of course, Alex didn't think it would be possible for the eighth Devil King to fully manifest such a powerful Authority, not from some reclaimed remnant, but he might be able to manage something like a temporary incarnation of the Sword of Divine Salvation.

But a katana . . . that couldn't be it. Excalibur was possibly the most famous sword in the entire world, and its image had been seared into countless minds for centuries. Excalibur was a straight blade, a double edged one, this was the popular image of it that the world had. Its design might change, its ornamentation might change, its colouration might change, but the basics of its design remained the same. A katana, a Japanese weapon, a blade of a design native to the Far East, that could never be Excalibur, and so he needn't fear it.

Oh, he wasn't so foolish as to dismiss it or ignore it. If it was the weapon that the King of Steel was drawing then it had to be a weapon worthy of respect. However the power he was using was the strongest form of the lightning he had usurped from Ramiel, the Watcher fallen from Heaven.

The lightning that he had become narrowed down, its power focusing itself into a single line as thick as a battering ram. He would strike through Emiya Shirou's weapon, then hit the ground and detonate. The released power would raze the island and all upon it, leaving Alex the only one alive. From there he could use some magic to make his way back to the shore where he could begin to deal with the repercussions of his actions.

Simple enough.

Then it all went to hell.

The sword was suddenly coming out of its sheath. All about them the world was still moving with painful slowness, yet the sword was moving so fast that even as lightning he couldn't dodge it, not after compressing as he had. The blade came at him . . .

Then there was just pain!

---

-()-

---

Shirou felt an odd calm settle across him as he heard Alex begin his chant. There was no more need for politicking or trying to mentally map out the consequences of his actions. In the face of a concerted killing attempt by his fellow Devil King everything took on a rather refreshing simplicity.

If he failed then Tiamat, Guinevere and Lancelot would die. He would as well, thus leaving Illya alone in this world, without the resurrected souls like Yusuke to help her. Oh, she would still have the former members of the Circle to serve her, but despite how useful they could be Shirou privately harboured doubts as to their competence without a steady hand like Yusuke's to guide them.

Simply put; an absolutely unacceptable outcome.

If he succeeded then . . . actually, it didn't matter what happened. Failure was unacceptable; therefore success was the only outcome he would allow.

"Trace on."

The words weren't shouted or declared, they were simply spoken in a quiet voice as prana surged through his magic circuits. He didn't even need to think of which Noble Phantasm he needed, in the face of the oncoming threat it was as though the sword he needed leapt out to meet him.

The katana that materialized in his left hand was unusual in only one regard, and that was that it was sheathed. For the most part every sword that he'd ever Traced had been bare steel. This time though the weapon he recreated came in a traditional lacquered sheath, one polished to an almost mirror finish and adorned only with a small crest near the sheathed sword's hilt. The sword itself was largely unadorned as well, the hilt and guard being devoid of all ornamentation. This was a sword without finery or decoration, it was the sword of a fighting man, a tool created for a purpose and meant to be wielded not by a simple warrior, but by a samurai.

Above him Alexander Gascoigne disappeared from view as he was replaced with a flash of light as bright as the sun. The world slowed down as Shirou pushed his reinforcement to the limit, a tear of blood flowing from his left eye as his optic nerves struggled to keep up. He'd already wordlessly activated Dragon Slaying Hero, but he knew that if he wanted any chance to actually see this then he needed to push his senses to the absolute limit. The Black Prince had been replaced by a thunderbolt, but the lightning he had become was completely different from that which he'd turned into before. Previously it had been thin forks of electricity, cords of energy that reached for a location and then flowed to it with the speed of a god to become the fourth Campione once more.

This time the lighting he had become was huge, massive like the outline of a godly tree of light reaching up to the heavens. The majority of the thunderbolt was golden white; bright almost to the point of incandescence, but along its edges was tinged with electric blue and blood red. For a tiny instant, one extended as Shirou's enhanced senses let him take in the world, the massive fork of lightning just stood there an impossibility of motionless energy.

Then it struck!

Even with the Authority of a god enhancing his senses he didn't see the change. Even with his own reinforcement added to the divine power he didn't see the change. One instant the thunderbolt that Gascoigne had become was reaching for the heavens, the next it was a spear of blinding radiance striking out at him like serpent made of light.

Too fast! It was just too fast!

Shirou couldn't move to stop it, even with his own Authority racing through him his speed just wasn't the equal of the divine lightning that the Black Prince had become.

However it wasn't him that needed to move fast enough to strike.

The Noble Phantasm that he'd chosen was a choice well made, Shirou wasn't fast enough to retaliate, but the legend that had granted the katana its power spoke of how it had performed in the face of the wrath of the storm before. The King of Steel's hand didn't move, instead it held onto the hilt as the sword drew itself and struck out against its natural foe. As the power of the Noble Phantasm was invoked a single word, a name, forced itself from Shirou's throat in a shout as he felt its power clash with that of a God Slaying Devil King.

"RAIKIRI!"

---

-()-

---

It was daylight, a nice day with little clouds in the sky and a bright sun overhead, yet for an instant the illumination of the natural world was overwhelmed as a second sun was born for a split instant on the shore of that small artificial island.

Then thunder sounded, a massive rumbling crack so huge that the sea shuddered and glass about the bay broke. In the wake of the thunderclap came a rolling shockwave. Had a godlike observer been looking down upon the island from above they would have seen how the sand and dirt were sent flying in all directions, how it was only a protective spell that kept the wounded goddess, the dying Divine Ancestor and the Heretic God from being sent tumbling.

As it was they stayed near the epicentre of the blast, unmoved, though definitely ruffled and disoriented. Only a few feet from them were two figures, both lying prone in the dirt and gravel.

---

-()-

---

None of the blast had actually struck Shirou, that being said he had been hit by the sound of the explosion and the force of the shockwave that had radiated out as Raikiri had struck its target. Under normal circumstances, if he had been a regular human, he'd most likely be dead. The sheer kinetic force of the shockwave would have reduced his skeleton to splinters and his organs to tenderized meat. Even if he had somehow survived the shockwave then the sheer sound of the explosion would have left him deaf and crippled.

Fortunately the young Emiya wasn't normal; he was a God Slayer with an enhanced body who had been using an Authority that further boosted his endurance. Consequently rather than being a corpse he simple felt as though his body was one big bruise.

All of this ran through Shirou's mind as he staggered to his feet, his head still ringing and his eyes still swimming, but all of his limbs worked and all his blood still seemed to be inside him. Off hand he supposed that this was a pretty good outcome, all things considered.

The second thing he noticed was that his right hand was still holding the hilt of the Raikiri in a death grip. Well, that was hardly a surprise, holding onto your weapon was one of the most basic tenants of swordsmanship, he vaguely remembered Saber saying something about it to him. Or had it been to one of his alternate selves? That tended to get a bit confusing, even at the best of times, and right now his thoughts seemed to be wandering a bit more than they usually did.

Absently he noted that the scabbard he'd been holding in his left hand was gone, and the blade of the sword he held was scorched almost black and seemed to be smoking ever so slightly. The hilt in his hand felt almost uncomfortably warm and the wrapping of the handle nearest the blade seemed to be smouldering at the edges. However despite all of this he could tell the sword was still keen and sound, the blade undamaged and the metal still intact. It had met a worthy foe, clashed and endured, it had not emerged unscathed, but it had been victorious.

"U . . . uuuhh . . ."

At the soft moan of pain the eighth Campione took his eyes off the Noble Phantasm and looked to the area just before him.

There the sea was rushing in to fill a short channel that seemed to have been blasted out of the beach and out into the ocean. There wasn't actually that much of a scar upon the beach, most of the damage seemingly having been swallowed up by the ocean, but if the amount of mist in the air was anything to go by then a few seconds ago a large part of the bay must have made a credible impression of the Red Sea being parted.

"W . . . what . . . ?"

Shirou could have answered the barely formed question. He could have told his fellow Campione how his lightning had been defeated. Instead he allowed his focus to briefly drift to the sword he held.

Noble Phantasms weren't alive, not in any meaningful way. Contrary to what popular fiction might suggest, weapons with any sort of consciousness at all were incredibly rare. Such things as cursed weapons or swords that were bloodthirsty weren't sentient in any meaningful way; rather they were vessels or reflections of the emotions that had been experienced by those holding them. Such powerful feelings and experiences left a mark.

This sword, Raikiri, wasn't alive, but at the same time there was a sense of distant satisfaction from it. The Raikiri was the blade of Tachibana Dōsetsu, a samurai so skilled that he was able to cut the god in a bolt of lightning when it tried to strike him. This sword, once called the Chidori, was a weapon that opposed lightning, that was its legend and that was its power. Now, as it cooled even as smoke still rose from it, there was a sense of accomplishment from it. A small thing, but oddly significant in its own way.

He could have said all of this, could have boasted of the power of the weapon and of his own uniqueness in being able to use it, but he didn't. Bravado had its place, generally as a tool to raise the morale of allies and attack that of foes, but now wasn't the time to use it. Instead he looked past his enemy's fallen form to where Lancelot and Tiamat knelt cradling the form of Guinevere.

"Can you heal her?"

His voice wasn't raised, but in the strange quiet that had followed the eruption of power his words were easily heard.

"I . . . I do not know. The strength that Sir Lancelot has lent me has helped, but I don't know if I can heal her from such grave wounds." The Mother of Dragons admitted, her head still bowed in concentration as she clasped the fallen Divine Ancestor's hand.

"H-Heh . . ." the exhausted sounding snort came from the downed form of Alexander Gascoigne. He was trying to rise, but it was clear that despite his efforts his limbs simply lacked the strength to do anything meaningful. Still that single noise held derision and satisfaction.

He thought she was going to die. No, he KNEW she was going to die.

To hell with that!

"Keep her alive, if you can't save her I will. First, I need to deal with this one!"

This was it, he had no leeway left for hesitation or indecision, he had to do this, or else this would all repeat in the future. Two quick steps brought him right up alongside the sprawled form of the fourth Campione. Squatting down he seized a handful of Gascoigne's black hair and forcefully brought his head up so they could lock gazes. The action was uncharacteristically brutal for him, but Shirou knew that if this was to work then he had to present the right front.

"You . . . this is over!"

"W . . . Wha . . . ?" The Black Prince's response was confused as the sudden force of Shirou's actions seemed to take him by surprise.

"Your vendetta, it's over! You fought, and you won! Guinevere is beaten and dying, so that's it! From now on you leave her alone, you don't come near her, you don't fight her! You're going to go home, tell everyone how you finally won, and you're not coming back!"

"You . . . do you get what you're saying?!" incredulity and outrage seemed to have lent Gascoigne strength, because his voice firmed as he exclaimed his disbelief. "She's my enemy; I'm not going to just leave her! She's going to die, and I'm going to-"

Whatever else he might have been about to say was cut off as the red haired Campione seized him by the collar of his shirt and stood up, dragging the other Campione upright as he did so. The Black Prince dangled down, his legs still unable to support him, but his eyes remained clear and the defiance in them was easy to read.

"This is over! No more coming after her, no more trying to kill her! It's done, finished!"

"Never! I'll-"

It was strange to see the Black Prince speaking with such vitriol. Though their earlier conversation had been pretty brief he'd come across as a largely controlled person, someone that always kept their cool and placed an emphasis on their rationality. This . . . it was stupid. Defiance like this was the realm of the hot-blooded, the reckless. From someone like Gascoigne he would have expected a cleverly worded promise with a loophole in it, or just a flat out lie. Well, if he was losing his composure then this just made things easier.

Not even waiting for him to finish his sentence Shirou dragged him over towards the sea, the sudden movement cutting off any further words from the Black Prince.

This wasn't going to be pleasant, but it had to be done.

---

-()-

---

Alex . . . wasn't in what could be called the most composed of states.

This, all of it, was not what he'd planned. It was not how it was supposed to go! That thought repeated itself in his head again and again, even as he tried to clear his thoughts so that he could find a way out of his situation.

He'd won, Guinevere was dying, and with her death he was going to finally gain what he wanted, the Holy Grail. It would be his, the quest of his father would be complete and all the deaths and harm the Queen of the Divine Ancestors had left in her wake would be avenged. It was all right here, and then . . . what? It had been snatched away?

No! He couldn't let himself get lost like this. What had happened? He'd used Black Thunder and then . . . what had happened? That sword . . . it had done something, broken? Cut? Severed? Arrrgghh, his head was a mess, random thoughts careening about, not able to properly connect. Someone was asking about Guinevere. Why were they doing that, she was dead after all? Oh, she wasn't finished just yet, but he'd slain her dragon, all her life was gone now, all that was left was a tiny shard that those two were keeping going with their own power. It wouldn't last though, all they could provide was power. That could only extend her life, not fix it.

The world suddenly jerked as his head was lifted by his hair. Alex's eyes blinked as he tried to make the swimming mass of blurs drift into some sort of focus. Yes, that was it, the red and pink blur before him took on a shape, a recognizable one. Emiya, and he was asking something. No, not asking, telling, a demand rather than a request. The Black Prince's swimming mind tried to focus. It was easier now he could make sense of what he was hearing.

". . . you finally won, and you're not coming back!"

Leave Guinevere alone? NO! Not that, he'd been fighting her for years now, this was going to end! He was going to kill her, he was going to-

Had he said something out loud? Emiya was replying, saying something back. Done? No, this wasn't done, it would never be done. Not while the two of them lived! He'd follow her, he'd kill her! Wait, wasn't she already dead? Then could he kill her again if she was already dying? What-

His rambling thoughts were cut off again as the cold bite of the sea hit him through his clothes. The sudden shock of the waters was enough to jolt him, to slap some sense into him as the spray struck his face and the surf soaked him through.

Not that it did him much good, even as he finally managed to get some semblance of order to his thoughts a hand like iron seized the back of his neck and shoved his head underwater.

It was only for a brief moment, then Emiya Shirou dragged him back out. Still, it was enough to shock him, the salt water getting in his eyes, his ears, his mouth. As he came out he reflexively spat the sea brine out and tried to reach up to wipe his face clean. However though he was able to cough the water from his mouth his limbs still felt like jelly. They simply wouldn't move, no matter how he tried.

"You're going to leave Guinevere alone, do you understand?"

"What? No, I-"

Alex answered the question without even thinking about it. His mind might have cleared up some, but it was still disjointed here and there. Regardless, one thing he knew for certain was that he wasn't going to give up his vendetta against his enemy.

He didn't even get to finish his third word before he was thrust back under the water. The shock of the sudden action made him shout in protest, his words emerging as a cloud of bubbles around him as he tried to struggle. The next instant he cursed himself for a fool. Why had he shouted? It accomplished nothing to aid him and simply put him in a worse position since he now had even less air in his lungs.

Then he was out of the water again, hands coming around to forcefully turn him to face his captor. The eighth Campione glared at him, his clothes wet and clinging to his form, though his face and hair were mostly dry. The small and inconsequential details idly registered in Alex's mind, though the rest of him was more focused on the disturbingly intense look in the younger King's eyes.

"You're not going to go near Guinevere ever again! Do you understand? Never!"

"I-"

Again, back he went under the water. This time he had the sense to keep his mouth shut though, not letting any of his air out. The problem was that this time he was facing up, and though he was pressing his lips together the ocean was flowing in through his nose. It was a small loss of air, but he could feel the brine burning his nasal cavity, running down his throat, into his lungs. Even worse was the fact that he could look up and see the air just before him, just beyond a-

And then he was out of the water, his lungs hacking up the brine that had trickled into them. He tried to breathe in, even as he tried to cough up, all reflexive actions that his body did instinctually.

"You're going to promise me that you'll leave her alone, and you're going to swear on everything!" Any distraction Alex might have been suffering from vanished as Emiya Shirou dragged him up until they were face to face. "Your honour, your soul, your name, your power, your reputation, I don't care! You swear and you stay away from her!"

An oath? That was all it was going to take? Swimming though his thoughts might still be the fourth Campione was still able to latch onto the thought. He could give a promise, one that he could find a way around later something that he could twist to his own ends. That wouldn't be any trouble; he'd done it before after all.

Maybe it was because his mind was still disorganized; maybe the second Japanese King was simply more observant than he'd thought he was. Whatever the case Emiya Shirou must have seen something in his features, because suddenly he dragged his captive closer, his eyes almost blazing.

"No! You are going to promise, and you are going to keep it! If you don't then I swear there will be a war between us! I'll come after you and yours with everything I have, and I swear I won't leave a blade of grass unburnt behind me! You are going to promise before everyone, the whole world, and you are going to keep it!"

That . . . that was a complication. If it came down to a battle with a fellow King that was making a concerted effort to lay waste to all Alex held in value then things could become untenable very quickly. In Britain the main magical power was the Witengamot, but the Royal Arsenal held great power because they were backed by the authority of the Black Prince. It was no secret that many in the larger organization chafed at that state of affairs, but the simple fact was that there was nothing they could do about it. For a time Alex had considered advancing the position of his own organization until it could displace the older association, but had decided that such an approach was impractical.

His own research and exploration took him all over the world, meaning that he spent relatively little time in his home country. An organization like the Witengamot was deeply established, with roots that ran deeply. If he had wished it he could have toppled the ancient association and installed the Royal Arsenal in its place through sheer brute force, but if he did so he would have chained himself to Britain and be unable to leave.

Though he could have smashed the Witengamot it would have left buried parts, underground circles of members that would have held a grudge with an iron grip. The second he gave them an opportunity and left the country they would have risen from hiding and taken their revenge on those he'd left to replace them. In the end the only way he could ensure that the Royal Arsenal wouldn't be torn apart the moment he let his guard down would be to be stuck playing watch dog for the organization he had created.

Simply put it was just too much trouble.

However, if you brought another King, one with an impressive reputation for facing off against his fellow Children of Pandora, then the dynamic shifted rather dramatically. If he declared open war on Alex then there would be factions in the Witengamot that would have no problem throwing all their weight into helping him. Princess Alice was a major influence in the association, it was largely due to her efforts that things were as cordial as they were between the Witengamot and the Royal Arsenal, but even so her control was limited. Given the opportunity there were plenty in her group that would leap at the chance to eliminate the upstart organization that had given them no small amount of trouble over the last few years.

No, a flat out war with his fellow King was undesirable on practically every level. Even if he was the winner and slew the younger Campione it would only lead to more trouble. Emiya Shirou had managed to establish good relations with a surprising number of other Devil Kings, and if he were to die it would place Alex in an unfriendly situation with John Pluto Smith, Luo Hao and Kusanagi Godou, if not full on enmity.

And more than that, Alex had never broken his word. Oh, he'd twisted it, leapt through loopholes and spun the meaning until truth and lie were almost indistinguishable, but never had he blatantly broken it.

"G-Guinevere's already d-dead or dying. W-What do you need my promise for?"

"She'll live! And when she does you will leave her be. Now swear!"

Confusion and disorientation were beginning to fade and be replaced by anger. The Black Prince had known defeat in the past, twice he'd been forced to flee before foes that had the advantage, but in the end he'd been able to regather himself and achieve victory in the end. This though, it was different. Never had he been beaten so . . . completely, and this, being forced to swear an oath to leave his enemy alone? It was too much.

"No! I-"

Again no further words were allowed to him. Instead he found himself being thrust back into the water. This time though he kept his head, he managed to suck in a gulp of air before going under and this time he held his breath and screwed up his face to pinch his nose closed. Again he tried to struggle, and this time he felt his limbs responding. It was weak and sluggish, but he was overcoming whatever shock had left him so helpless. Glaring up he could see the vague outline of Emiya Shirou through the roiling surface of the sea.

How long had it been? He could feel his chest starting to grow tight as he held his breath. His heart was pounding in his ears and his head was starting to throb.

Then there was air again, and he gasped out a breath before heaving in great gulps of air.

"I swear, if you don't promise, I-I'll just hold you under until you're not a problem anymore!"

What?! No, no Alex couldn't believe that. The eighth Campione had proven to be almost painfully naive in his morality in the past, and now he was suggesting that he'd commit cold blooded murder? It was a decent enough bluff, but the younger man wasn't experienced enough to make it convincing enough.

"No!"

The Black Prince didn't bother with anything else; he simply spoke his denial and sucked in a deep breath. This time when he was once more forced beneath the waves he was ready for it. Alex was in excellent health and had the fortified constitution of a Campione. As long as he kept his cool and did nothing foolish then he'd be able to outlast the nerves of this young fool. This was all just a bluff, any second now he'd pull Alex up for another round of meaningless threats and demands. Well, let him. Each time he did so it would simply give the fourth Campione a bit more time to recover his strength. As long as he lacked the resolve to go through with it then it was all a meaningless pantomime. Any second now he'd lose his nerve.

Any second now . . .

Any second . . .

Why wasn't he pulling him up?

What was going on, why wasn't Emiya pulling him up?

The burning in his chest was back, so was the pressure in his head, the increasing tightness as his instincts screamed at him to exhale. His reason told him to hold onto every scrap of air, to not let even the tiniest trace of precious oxygen escape, but his body wasn't listening to reason. Instead it wanted air, air! Flecks of red were creeping into his vision now, his head starting to swim again as the pounding intensified. Damn it. Why wasn't he pulling him up?!

Feebly he reached up, his arms sluggishly responding as they came up to-

Air! Sweet sweet air filled his lungs as was pulled up again. Gasping he dragged in lungfuls as he was himself dragged closer to his captor.

"Leave Guinevere alone!" The demand was almost a shout this time.

"No."

The back hand came out of nowhere and slammed him across the right cheek. Alex barely had time to register both the pain in his cheek and the stars in his vision before he was thrust under the water again. This time it did come as a surprise, the hit having distracted him enough that he hadn't sucked in air this time. Impulsively the English God Slayer thrashed, trying to use his returning strength to break free of his captor, but unable to muster enough to break the iron grip holding him.

It was stupid; some part of him knew that. Emiya had an Authority to enhance his strength, and all Alex had to work with was the slightly increased physical abilities that all Campione had. All he was doing was burning through what little oxygen he had that much faster in this pointless attempt, but right now his body didn't seem to be listening to the rational part of him. All it was doing was futilely trying to get back to the air.

Air again, faster than before, but somehow it had been more frightening. His sudden loss of control had rattled Alex; he'd thought that he could outlast the younger Devil King by keeping his calm, but the sudden escalation of force had caught him unprepared. Honestly he hadn't expected such a brutal tactic from him, not from the-

"Will you swear to leave Guinevere alone?!"

Would . . . would it really be that bad? She was already going to die, would swearing to leave her alone be such a bad thing?

No! What was he thinking? He couldn't let this . . . this boy dictate to him like this! There had to be a way out of this, he just had to see the angles that he could work, the cracks he could exploit. At the end of it all Emiya was still just bluffing him, Alex just had to hold until Guinevere died on her own or until his strength came back. Either way he'd win.

"No!"

His answer was harsher this time, his throat starting to feel a bit raw from all the violent dragging of air. Still, that single word held his resolve and determ-

This time the blow didn't hit his face, and it wasn't anywhere near as gentle as it had been before. The brutal fist drove into his belly, just above the naval. It might have been slowed slightly by having to be delivered through the seawater, but even so it had more than enough force to drive the air from his lungs.

Reflexively his empty chest tried to inhale air, but there was no air to be had. Instead his reflexive action filled his lungs with water.

Alex's eyes bulged as he realized what he'd done. No air in his lungs, how long did he have? No, he had to stay calm; this was just another bluff, a more vicious one than he'd thought Emiya was capable of but just a bluff.

His heart pounded, trying to pump blood that no longer had any fresh oxygen to carry.

It was just a bluff.

His lungs heaved, trying to find air, but just expelling and inhaling more seawater.

It had to be a bluff!

Calm abandoned him as he tried to break free. His limbs, some strength restored by fear and desperation, flailed at the younger Campione, trying to break his hold, but he was like a toddler beating his tiny fists on the leg of an adult. Nothing changed, nothing gave, the merciless iron grip remained.

It . . . it was a bluff . . . wasn't it?

All semblance of decorum or dignity was abandoned. Some small part of the Black Prince held to his thoughts, but all the rest of it was animal panic. He clawed at the arm holding him. No thoughts, not strategy, just an animalistic desire to hurt his tormentor enough to make him let go! But the arm was too strong, the divine power reinforcing it too great, Alex felt two or three of his nails rip free as they tried to claw at him, but he might as well have been attacking a rock for all the reaction he elicited.

Was it really a bluff?

He could barely think anymore! How long had it been, minutes, hours? How long could even a Campione endure without air? His head pounded with the sound of his heart frantically thumping away as it tried to keep him alive, but . . . was it slowing? Black was creeping in at the edges of his vision, even though the sun was visible through the water and seemed to be backlighting the dark figure that loomed over him.

It wasn't a bluff.

He was going to die.

The thought ripped through his mind as the darkness crept in more. This . . . this wasn't like his other fights; he wasn't able to flee, to get space, to get time. He was going to die; right here with his enemy's hands around his throat. He was going to die, just like every other Campione that had ever lived and died before him.

Strangely, it was that thought that seemed to take the fight out of him. It was true, in the millennia since the first mortal had defied destiny and achieved the impossible by slaying a god there had always only been one fate that the Devil Kings could expect; to die at the hand of another. There was no peaceful end from old age; there was no passing away from illness. By violence, treachery or cunning every God Slayer had fallen regardless of their power. Had he really thought that he would be the exception? Had he really thought that he'd live forever?

Yes, yes he had.

It was so childish, but he really had thought that he'd be the one to beat the odds. He was the smart one after all, the other Devil Kings; they were like idiot savants that had managed to stumble into their power. Out of all of them the only one that he really took seriously was Voban, as the old Campione had some simple but dangerous animal cunning. But the rest, they weren't threats, not real ones, he could outthink any of them, find ways around their strengths. As for Gods, he had plans, means by which never to be left in an untenable situation. That left treachery, and he'd been pretty confident about being able stave that off.

He really had thought, in his heart of hearts, that death would just be something that would happen to other people.

But that had been wrong. Right here, right now, he was dying. It hadn't been a bluff. It hadn't been a-

Suddenly he was out of the water, a fist once more smashing into his stomach, this time forcing a spray of water to erupt from his mouth like a sickly fountain. The world was still darkening; his head was still pounding . . .

Then there was air, sweet pure air. His lungs burnt and his throat felt raw, but despite his laboured gasps precious oxygen was there to be had. Greedily he sucked it up, his chest heaving like bellows.

"Swear to leave Guinevere alone!"

The voice sounded oddly distorted. Alex's heart was still pounding in his ears; desperately trying to pump the oxygen everywhere it was needed. His head was also swimming again, and his own laboured breathing didn't help. None the less the words were clear.

Should he agree? Alex hated to give in like that, but at this point could he really afford not to? Guinevere was probably dead already, could such a promise truly be such a heavy price.

But . . . but if he did then he'd be admitting that this boy had beaten him. Alex had never been beaten; he'd been delayed and driven off, but never defeated.

Apparently he'd taken too long in replying, because suddenly the grip shifted on him until Emiya was dragging him up by the collar of his shirt. In a single savage motion the King of Steel pulled his captive up until they were almost nose to nose. The Black Prince blinked as suddenly his vision was filled by the golden brown eyes of the younger King.

"You're going to make me that promise! You're going to swear it now or by every god in the world I swear that I will put you under again, and this time I won't let you up until you're dead. Do you hear me? This is your last chance! Now, swear or drown!"

Those eyes filled his world, and for a moment Alex could swear that he saw fire in them.

He meant it. The realization hit him like a hammer. If he didn't make the oath then this young king was going to kill him. No second chances, no last minute reprieve. No mercy. He was a king that had made a promise of his own, and he was going to keep it.

Muscles tensed in the arms that held him up, and in that horrible instant the British Campione knew that Emiya Shirou was getting ready to drive him back into the seawater.

"I SWEAR! I SWEAR!"

The words burst out of him as something seemed to break in him. As soon as the arms had tensed he'd felt the water behind him, waiting for him, and then suddenly all he could think about was the darkness creeping in on him again, on hearing the sound of his own heart growing slower and slower as he knew it would stop.

"I . . . I swear I'll leave Guinevere alone, I won't come anywhere near her again."

"Swear it on your name!"

The hands on his collar jerked him upright, no longer in danger of being thrust back into the water, and not as close to Emiya as he had been before.

"I swear on my name as Alexander Gascoigne that I won't go after Guinevere anymore."

"Swear it on your reputation as a King!"

The demand came like a gunshot.

"I swear as a King that I won't go after Guinevere again."

"Swear it on your honour! Swear that if you break your word, then your word's not worth anything anymore!"

For just a moment Alex hesitated, then he felt the arms tense once more.

"I swear! I swear on my honour that I'll never go after Guinevere again! If I break my word then my word's not worth anything!"

"Alright," Emiya said, letting go with one hand even as he maintained a rock solid grip with his left, "Now . . . swear it all again, and make sure you speak clearly."

His other hand came up, and Alex could see that it was holding a cell phone. The small machine looked battered and beaten, its screen scuffed and its casing scratched, but the lights were on and it seemed to be working. Emiya touched something on it with a thumb, and the tiny screen was filled with the image of Alex's own sea streaked face.

"Alright, now."

He was going to record it. Internally the Black Prince tried to dissect the possible repercussions of that. Would he keep it as blackmail, and assurance that he'd keep his word? Would he hold it as a trump, something to be kept for a more serious situation? There were too many angles that could be exploited, and not enough time to think on them all. One thing he was certain of was that any record of this humiliation could not be good for him.

"NOW!"

On the other hand, it wasn't as though he had much of a choice in the matter. A wave struck him in the back, just as the hand at his throat gave a subtle push down. The message was clear, swear or die.

He was talking before he even had time to properly finish the thought. His fear of the water closing over him was . . . absolute.

"I-I swear it! I, Alexander Gascoigne, do swear by my name, my reputation, my power, my honour that I shall never again move against Guinevere. Should I break this oath then . . ."

He hesitated for a moment, his pride rising up again, trying to keep him from making that last step.

Then he looked into Emiya's eyes, and that pride broke. There was no hesitance there, no weakness, no mercy. If he stalled here then the King of Steel would carry out his threat.

". . . then my word will mean nothing!"

There, he'd said it. Would this be enough to satisfy him? Would this buy his life?

Flipping the cell phone around so that it faced him the eighth Campione spoke into it as well.

"I accept my fellow king's assurances. Should he ever break his word then it shall be war between us. This is my oath!"

With the final declaration he tapped on the device again, then brought it to his ear.

"Homura? I'm sending you a video file. Don't open it, just keep it safe until you hear from me, if you don't hear back from me in a couple of hours then get ready to upload it to the maximum number of receivers that you can in the magical community. Do you understand? . . . Good, that should be fine. . . . Excellent, we'll discuss this more later."

With a nod he tapped the small machine once more, then stowed it away in a pocket. Idly Alex noted that the pocket was soaked, yet the cell seemed to have been working fine. That was a pretty impressive display of durability, some distant part of his mind wondered just what make the cell phone was and how difficult it might be to buy a model for himself.

But such concerns were a distant second to Emiya dragging him back to the shore. It only took about a dozen steps, but that was enough to bring the sand back under the fourth Campione's hands and feet. Leaving him kneeling in the surf, the waves running in and out about him, the eighth Campione stepped up onto the dry sands then turned to face his beaten foe.

"Remember, if you break your word, if you come after my friend again, I won't stop. I'll come after you with everything I've got, and I will burn you life to ash around you before I hold you under again. I'll hold you there until you stop moving and the dark takes you. Do you understand?"

Alex wanted to say something, to offer some sort of defiance or clever rebuttal. Nothing too vitriolic, not something that Emiya could use as justification to attack. It just had to be a needle, something to show he wasn't broken, that he wasn't beaten. That was all he wanted, to deny his fellow king some small measure of satisfaction.

But he couldn't.

As soon as the King of Steel locked eyes with him all he could think about was being back in the water, feeling those hands on him, feeling his helplessness, feeling his . . . his death approach. It filled his head and all he could do was nod like a good little beaten dog. All he could do was offer his submission as hatred for both himself and Emiya boiled within him, hatred eclipsed by fear.

"Alright, we're done here. Now get-"

"King Shirou!"

The shout from Tiamat cut him off before he could say anything else. Turning in place Emiya looked over to where the Mother of Dragons still knelt.

"Th-there isn't much more time. We have done what we can, but Guinevere is . . ."

Her voice trailed off, and there could be little doubt as to what she meant. Alex felt that some part of him should have felt some sort of triumph on hearing that. Some note of exultation that his long time foe would soon be dead. Instead all he felt was dread. If she did die would Emiya look for a target to release his anger upon? The smartest thing to do right now would be to flee as far as he could. Unfortunately he still lacked the strength to do anything meaningful, all he could do was crawl onto dry land and lie sprawled in the sand as events unfolded around him.

All he could do was hope that he'd survive the death of his foe.

---

-()-

---

Tiamat felt more exhausted than she ever had before. Even the ruin that had afflicted her after Jord stole most of her divinity hadn't been as bad. Then she'd felt wounded, violated, but she'd had the energy to act, it had only been pain and shock that had left her helpless. Now though, she doubted that she could have moved from where she sat were a dagger held to her throat.

The true irony was that all the effort she'd put into this fight and into preserving Guinevere's life had actually been more beneficial to her than months of rest could have been. Though her strength was exhausted pushing her diminished divinity so hard had forced it to grow. Right now her divinity had risen until it almost a fifth of what it had once been. A vast power for any human, but for a god it was a level more suited to the average subordinate deity rather than a full god. Still, it was a considerable improvement over what she had been.

And she lacked any energy to use it, since even though her divinity had increased her reserves of power were tapped out.

Still, with the aid of Lancelot she'd been able to keep Guinevere from decaying any further. In fact, with the aid of the powerful goddess of Steel, she'd made an effort to not simply halt the damage, but to reverse it. It should have been possible, at least in theory. A deity died when their form took so much damage it no longer had the ability to hold itself together. That damage could be delivered in any number of ways, but when their form collapsed a god returned to their legend. Guinevere's form had been that of a divine dragon, a being on par with a god and as such subject to their qualities. She'd been able to temporarily escape the death of her dragon form by reassuming her Divine Ancestor form, but even that was just a temporary measure, as even that form was breaking down.

With the added power Lancelot was providing Tiamat had thought to stabilize her form and had tried to reinforce it, get it back to the point of being self sustaining. If that could be achieved then she'd be able to recover fully. She'd be weak, needing months of rest to regain her full strength, but she would live.

But it hadn't worked. Her form had soaked up the power they provided, but the influx of energy had gone to her magical reserves rather than her vitality. Her life was prolonged slightly, but all they'd accomplished was to ensure she could cast some spells in her final minutes, nothing more.

Defeated, knowing there was nothing more she could do, Tiamat called to King Shirou.

It was only after she called him that she realized just what her host was doing. With the totality of her focus being on saving Guinevere the Mother of Dragons hadn't been keeping track of what was going on between the two Campione. Perhaps not the most sensible thing to do, but the task she'd been engaging in had required ferocious amounts of concentration. Given that her efforts had not been interrupted she'd assumed that King Shirou had been able to hold off or drive away the Black Prince. Perhaps he'd even been able to make some sort of agreement.

What she hadn't expected was to find him striding towards her while the fourth Campione crawled on all fours in the surf.

That had caught her by surprise; she hadn't thought that much time had passed, certainly not enough time for a full battle. Then again, her concentration had been focused to a fearful degree; time might well have slipped away from her while she was so engaged. No, that didn't matter right now. What was of import was that the enemy was no longer a factor and her host was quickly drawing closer.

"What do you mean? Can't she be healed?"

"No," Tiamat shook her head, "We have been able to stave off her death, but it isn't in our power to heal what has been done to her."

That hurt more than she'd thought it would. The knowledge that she hadn't been able to save the small golden haired immortal . . . it hurt. Honestly she didn't know why, the only reason she'd taken part in this battle was to strengthen her ties with King Shirou. Coming to the aid of his wayward ally like this, it had all been part of a plan to get closer to her host.

At least that had been how it had started. Somewhere along the way Guinevere had managed to go from being an unwelcome charge to being something like a comrade. Privately Tiamat blamed King Shirou for this; quite clearly his mad acceptance of the most unlikely as his allies was somehow infectious.

"N . . . not like this . . ."

The small voice drew her attention back to the small girl she'd been kneeling over. Despite her flesh flickering back and forth between her normal self and golden sandstone the Queen of the Divine Ancestors was forcing herself into an upright kneel.

"T . . . Tiamat-sama, Sir Knight, Guinevere thanks you both for your aid, to grant me a few precious minutes more. I entreat you; please lend this handmaiden your strength once more. Let me call once more to my king!"

Ah, so knowing that her end was coming the Witch Queen chose to use her last power to call out to her beloved master? It . . . it might work. In preparation for her own quest for vengeance the Mother of Dragons had spent years researching ways to maybe bring down a Campione. As Andromeda she'd considered the possibility of siding with the Strongest Steel, but had discarded the notion. It was unlikely that a deity as powerful as the King of the End would acquiesce to her request and leave the Campione she needed intact. He was far more likely to simply annihilate them altogether and that would have been of little aid to her quest to restore her divinity. She didn't know too much about him, she didn't know his true name or origins; all she knew was his power. The Strongest Steel was well named, a god that stood above all others.

And Guinevere wished to try to summon him?

Some portion of her trepidation must have shown on her face because suddenly King Shirou was there, one hand on her shoulder.

"Help her."

"A-Are you certain? If she can call her King then . . ." Tiamat's uncharacteristically concerned words trailed off as his grip on her shoulder remained firm.

"Please help her."

Wordlessly the fallen goddess once more offered her strength, as well as that of the Knight of the Lake, to the dying immortal. With a nod of thanks Guinevere extended her arms and visibly focused her remaining power.

"Oh remnant of glory, oh abandoned Steel that had rusted in your rest. Answer me now; this Handmaiden begs this of you!"

Her power rose up, and something definitely answered her, a distortion like a shimmer of hot air forming before her outstretched arms.

"Steel amongst Steel, weapon of the greatest King, answer the call of Guinevere and rest now in my arms!"

The shimmer snapped into focus as a decrepit ruin of a sword landed before the dying Divine Ancestor, its weight driving it deeply into the loose dirt and sand. Almost falling forwards Guinevere grasped the sword and hugged it to her, unmindful of the pits and rust that marred its form. Her face almost trance-like she spoke, her words soft but carrying.

"O Master, please watch me. Guinevere is about to use the last of her strength. Sir Knight too offers her strength to this plea. We have exhausted all our options, our quest has proven fruitless, our destination a lie. All hope has been lost and Guinevere now lies dying. Hence, we are left with no recourse other than to entreat Your Highness' mercy!"

Guinevere's voice was almost anguished, the pleading in her voice more heartfelt than anything the fallen goddess had heard before. There was such longing there, and fear, and . . . something else, something that she couldn't quite identify.

"I beseech you, please descend before Guinevere. Before my life ends, I beg you. In your service I have given up all, I have given up so much. At least, even if it is only seeing your divine visage, or hearing your voice, it would be fine! Please . . . do not make all the sacrifices Guinevere has made be for nothing!"

No-one spoke as the last word was uttered. For a short time no sound was made on the isle save for the rush of the wind and the sound of the surf. Everyone waited to see if the King to whom the Witch Queen had devoted so much would answer.

Nothing.

No answer, no appearance, no hint of acknowledgement. For all the heartfelt passion of her plea, the King of the End offered no response.

"Why?"

The single word was . . . broken, there was no other way to describe it. Heartbreak and despair dripped from the word as Guinevere's small form slumped against the sword she held.

"Why will his majesty not answer Guinevere's plea? Why can he not offer some small solace to my end?"

"P-perhaps he would answer, if the King of the End also recognized you as his companion."

The words were weak, the words of a man recovering from strain, his voice hoarse from heavy breathing, his limbs equally weary from effort. Still, they managed to carry, enough that all heard them and turned to see their origin.

They came from the stooped form of Alexander Gascoigne. The fourth Campione had clearly seen better days, many of them in fact. His clothes were a torn and soaked mess, and his face was pallid and bloody with small cuts from sand and stones. He stumbled along as though he was only barely able to keep himself upright. Yet despite it all there was a small smile on his features, one that could almost be called satisfied.

"Are you forgetting your promise Gascoigne?" King Shirou's voice cracked like a whip, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he turned to face the older God Slayer.

Any hint of a smile on the Black Price's face broke like cheap china as he his eyes flicked to the King of Steel. There was fear there, it was well hidden by a strong will, but Tiamat could see it had taken deep roots. The way his muscles tensed, the way he flinched as he almost took a step back, the way he barely kept his eyes from flicking about in a search for possible escape routes even as he refused to meet King Shirou's gaze. Her host had marked this one deeply; internally she regretted that she'd been unable to watch their battle. If it had had such impact on a Devil King then it must have been quite the spectacle to observe.

"No! I'm making no move against her!" The denial was just a touch desperate, a bit too fast to have been properly controlled, another indication of his fractured composure. "I only wish to let her know the truth, to let her know why her king will never answer her."

"What?"

The dying Divine Ancestor's weak voice drew all attention back to her as her eyes locked on the Campione that had for so long been her nemesis.

"It's something I came across while researching the connections between King Arthur and the Holy Grail. I managed to discover a number of trails left behind by the King of the End and I began to wonder why Divine Ancestors that sought him had failed to find anything. I do consider myself skilled in unravelling mysteries, but even so it seemed unusual."

Alec straightened somewhat as though his explanation was lending him strength, even though he still wouldn't look at his defeater directly.

"It bothered me; the Divine Ancestors have immense amounts of time and magic on their side, as well as knowledge lost to humans. They should logically have an edge, but in the search for the King of the End they have lagged behind us humans instead. The Witch of Sardinia, Lucretia Zola, was able to discern that the King of the End transcended oriental-occidental continental boundaries. Or rather, it would be better to say that he's closer to an oriental god, and Lucretia has already grasped clues to a certain extent. But even that was something that Guinevere and other Divine Ancestors hadn't been able to grasp."

The name of Lucretia Zola was well known to Tiamat. The Witch of Sardinia was regarded as one of the greatest magic users in the world and one of the few mortals that the Divine Ancestors held as one to be wary of. Having extended her youth through her secrets and having amassed an impressive collection of grimoires Lucretia Zola had gained the highest rank of any witch on Earth. Such was her power that she was one of the few mortals able to break the curses left in the wake of gods or even face their servant spirits. For her to have unknown knowledge was not unexpected, but about something like the Strongest Steel? Something was amiss with that.

"There were other clues, other hints, small in themselves, but united they began to form a picture. It was from that that I drew a hypothesis, one that has been proven here. The King of the End does not actually wish to be revived. It's as if he was sleeping somewhere and deliberately ignoring the Divine Ancestors' search, preventing them from obtaining clues they need to find his resting place. All this time Guinevere has thought she was on a quest to free a king from a trap of slumber, when instead she's been an irritation, a nuisance that disturbs her king's rest!"

"No . . . No, that cannot be! His majesty lent aid to us during this battle! He sent his Steel to aid Guinevere!"

The dying immortal protested, shaking her head as though by doing so she could deny what she as being forced to hear.

"Did he? Or was that simply an ancient Authority responding to its master's long forgotten thought. Oh, I'm sure that in the time it was made that Authority was intended to protect the goddess that had sworn loyalty to the King of the End. But that function is ancient and its time has passed, that is why such a weak weapon was called, rather than a true subordinate god."

"No . . . no . . ."

"Then the quest of the precious child and this knight was doomed from the start?"

In contrast to the sheer despair wracking Guinevere's every word the question asked by Lancelot was almost jarringly calm.

"Indeed," Gascoigne replied, visibly gathering himself as he slowly recovered, "Perhaps this bay was the location where the King of the End once made his resting place, so there might well have been a floating isle here once. However both the efforts of the King himself and the gods of this land hid it away. Don't ask me where it went, the trail grows cold here."

"Then . . . then it was all for nothing. All of it, the search for our king, the sacrifices and toil, Sir Knight lashing herself to a spell for centuries on end . . . it was all without meaning?"

Without waiting for even the chance of a reply Guinevere threw back her head and wailed. So close to her Tiamat couldn't help but flinch at the cry, it held such anguish, such heartbreak, that it was almost a palpable force. Emotions like this; they weren't something a mortal could produce. Mortal lives were finite, and as such their emotional makeup was geared to living such a life. Immortals were different though, spending years, decades or centuries upon a given task or passion resulted in feeling that ran far deeper and more powerfully. The Witch Queen had devoted not just this life but both her previous ones to the cause of her king. The goddess that she'd once been had given her life in his service and her next incarnation had died following that path. Three lifetimes of devotion, and now to find it was all for nothing? The Mother of Dragons couldn't even begin to imagine what it must be like.

The wail of pain, regret and heartbreak trailed off into deep wracking sobs as the golden haired child seemed to collapse in place. All the strength went out of her as she let go of the sword and slumped into Lancelot's arms as she released her grip.

"Child . . ." the knight began to speak, but then trailed off as no words seemed to come to her.

". . . sorry . . ."

The words were barely more than a whisper.

"Dear child?"

"Guinevere is sorry. She is sorry for being a fool, for being unworthy of the trust Sir Knight placed in her. I . . . I have dragged Sir Knight along behind me for so long, and it was for nothing. Our king does not wish to awaken; we were useless from the moment our quest began!"

Her eyes passed over to King Shirou, then fell to the sand at his feet as though in shame.

"And Sir Shirou . . . you offered Guinevere so much more than could be expected from a King, respect, shelter, even friendship. For a time Guinevere thought you crazed."

Well, that was an opinion they'd both shared, even if they hadn't discussed it. Tiamat often mentally questioned her host's wits given that he offered sanctuary to those that should be his enemies. The fact that it seemed to somehow work, in defiance of all logic and reason, only increased the peculiarity of it. Still, all that was an irreverent thought at the back of her mind, all the rest of her attention was focused on what might be the last words of her recent comrade.

"But . . . but Guinevere was . . . happy. It's . . . it's been so long since Guinevere and Sir Knight have had anywhere that they were welcome, and Sir Shirou did welcome us."

Her disintegration had begun again, this time starting at the hem of her dress and working its way slowly up. She didn't have long now, minutes at best.

"Guinevere is sorry! I'm sorry that I left you, I'm sorry I threw that friendship away! And for what? I . . . I never even understood what my own king wanted!"

The golden sand had now reached up past her knees. She wasn't yet falling apart, but once the transformation was complete Tiamat knew that it would be only a matter of seconds before she was lost on the wind.

"Guinevere . . . Guinevere was a worthless servant! No wonder his majesty turned from her, I . . . I couldn't even understand his true desires. It . . . it's no wonder that he won't appear before her, even in her last moments. I made so many mistakes, and now it too late . . . I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sor-"

The rest of the Witch Queen's almost hysterical apologies were cut off as King Shirou stepped up and knelt down beside her.

"Enough of that! If you want to apologise more you can do it later. Right now we have to get you fixed up."

Everyone just stared at him, his words seeming to make no sense. Guinevere was wounded unto death, that was the simple fact of the matter. Tiamat and Lancelot had done what they could, but it just wasn't enough.

"S . . . Sir Shirou is kind, but there is no helping Guinevere now," the dying immortal was trying to put on a brave face, but her eyes were heavy with unshed tears and her lip was visibly trembling. "Tiamat-sama and Sir Knight have done what they can, but it wasn't enough. Sir Shirou means well, but none of his Authorities are strong enough to undo what has been done. Had his majesty answered my call then he might have been able to help, but his majesty will not stir from his sleep for such a failed handmaiden. This . . . this is the end for Guinevere."

"Your king might have abandoned you, but I haven't, I'm stubborn like that. Trace, on."

The half smile on the King of Steel's face was oddly out of context, however as blue light flared up in his right hand, then condensed into a dagger barely a foot in length from tip to pommel.

It was a strange dagger, unlike the other weapons that the Mother of Dragons had seen her host create in the past. Rather than being of metal the whole thing seemed to have been carved from a single large piece of obsidian. The handle was wrapped in some sort of leather to give it a grip, and the pommel was a rounded lump of stone. The blade was a bit unusual though. Tiamat had weapons of stone in the past, and the blades were normally quite broad in order to give the weapon more durability. This dagger's blade was strangely thin, more needle-like than anything else. Such a tool would easily break in any sort of battle, making it more like a toy than a serious weapon.

And yet there was something about it. She could feel power from the stone knife, power that, while not a potent as some of the swords she'd seen him use in the past, demanded respect.

"Here hold this." As he spoke King Shirou placed the dagger in Guinevere's hands, then closed them both about the hilt so they were holding it firmly upright. The Divine Ancestor's arms were weak, but her grip was strong enough. Placing his own left palm under the pommel her host made sure that the knife was extended a bit in front of Guinevere, its needle tip pointing towards the sky.

"Guinevere doesn't understand. WhaaaAAAHHH!"

The dying immortal's question turned into a shriek of surprise as King Shirou touched the tip to the palm of his right hand . . . then forced the hand down on the dagger so hard that the blade was driven straight through his hand. As blood from the wound flowed down over her fingers Guinevere tried to let go in shock, but King Shirou's left hand had fastened around them, forcing them and the dagger to remain in place.

"Don't! Just let it happen."

Her host's sharp words cut off the Divine Ancestor's frantic motions. Looking at him Tiamat could see that he was in pain. No, perhaps pain was the wrong word to use, his face was drawn but it was from something she didn't recognize. Perspiration had broken out on his forehead and his neck was tight with tension, but it wasn't pain.

"Dear one . . . look!"

At Lancelot's obviously stunned tone the Mother of Dragons turned from her inspection of King Shirou's features to see what had drawn her attention. The Knight of the Lake was staring down at the hem of her charge's dress. The hem that was once more cloth, rather than golden sandstone.

Tiamat blinked as she realized what she saw. The petrification had reversed itself? How? Weak though she was from exhaustion curiosity drove the fallen goddess to reach out with what meagre power remained to her to try and determine what was happening. The magical senses that she'd honed over centuries as a Divine Ancestor reached out, feeling for the edges of power that could tell her what was happening.

Yes, the damage done to Guinevere was being mitigated; the reversal of her turning into golden sand was simply a visual sign of this. No, that wasn't right. On the face of it it might look as though her degradation was being driven back, but that wasn't strictly true. Instead it was being reversed, not undone. The cracks that ran through her existence, like the cracks in a piece of glass that hadn't fallen apart yet, were fusing back together, once more achieving completeness.

How?! This . . . this was impossible! Even if a goddess like her at her full power were to heal Guinevere it would be akin to melting the crack back together. The glass would survive, but there would be clear signs of its damage, scars left behind. This was as though time was being reversed, the crack uncracking until they simply vanished from existence to leave a pristine pane of glass behind.

Was that it, some sort of temporal reversal? Authorities that could affect the flow of time weren't unheard of, but to the best of her knowledge the King of Steel had no such divine ability. But if it wasn't that then what could it be?

Changing tracks Tiamat focused on the blade. He was making sure that Guinevere held it, and he had impaled hi own hand through it, so there had to be some-

It took all of her century's long control not to jerk back in horror at what she sensed there. Lifeforce, pure lifeforce was being pumped from King Shirou's wound and straight into the wounded Divine Ancestor. It was madness, but he was doing it anyway. Direct transfers of lifeforce were a forbidden art amongst mortals and practically unheard of among immortals. One tiny mistake, one slip, one miscalculation could spell the death of all the parties involved.

More than that though was the method he'd used. Under normal circumstances, if the term could be applied to something like this, the method employed was the use of ritual circles, the kind of thing that took hour or even days of patient work to set up. Instead it was as though King Shirou had opened up the very veins of his soul and allowed his lifeforce to spill out. The dagger that she held was drinking in that force and then seamlessly passing it on into Guinevere. Exactly how it was doing it was baffling, but however it was being accomplished it was effective.

All traces of the golden sandstone had faded from the Queen of the Divine Ancestors. Her skin had regained a healthy hue and her form was no longer trembling. Beneath her skin though . . . it was incredible, there was no other way to describe it. Her lifeforce, her spiritual core or centre, had been broken. Now it was whole again all damage cemented shut and completely healed.

"Oh . . . Ooooohhhh . . ."

The drawn out near moan from the golden haired child was accompanied by her eyes slowly glazing over. It wasn't a sound of pain, but rather an exclamation of contentment, of relief. It was the sort of noise that one could expect from a child that had come in from cold and miserable weather to find a lit fireplace, a warm blanket and a hot drink ready and waiting for them. Her body slumped in an oddly relaxed way as she collapsed sideways, only to be caught by Lancelot. Then there was a burst of . . . not light, more like something Tiamat could sense without picking it up on any of her mundane senses. Whatever it was it was brief, but shocking in its intensity.

There was a feeling of something . . . some thing breaking, something healing. It was both completion and separation all at once. Two things happening at once perhaps? But if so then what?

One answer became immediately clear as, with a grunt of pain, King Shirou pulled his hand off the blade impaling it. Blinking at his action the Mother of Dragons looked from him to the dagger and then to Guinevere. On looking at the previously dying immortal she once more cast the spell to extend her senses, it ate into the small amount of reserves that she still had, but she had to know.

Healed, the blonde immortal was completely healed. The lifeforce shared with her had totally reversed the damage done to her by the battle, despite having been at death's door less than a minute ago Guinevere was now as sound as she had ever been for the past few decades.

No, no that wasn't quite right. Closing down her mystic senses Tiamat instead focused on the girl before her. There was something there, something different. Nothing overt, nothing she could point at with ease, instead it was something more general.

Older, that was it! She looked older.

It wasn't a major change, maybe something as small as just a couple of extra years. But for an immortal just that slight change was of incredible significance. Guinevere had gone for more than three quarters of a century without changing. She was an eternal child, her body forever trapped on the final edge of childhood, a girl just entering pubescence. About eleven or twelve, that was how she'd looked before. Now she appeared to be a very young teenager, one about thirteen or fourteen. Everything about her was just slightly more; her face more mature, her hair slightly longer, her dress a little tighter, her frame slightly taller.

Any further observations were cut off as the large golden form of the Holy Grail materialized above the Divine Ancestor. This was the first time that Tiamat had managed to get a good look at it, the only other time it had appeared in her presence she'd still been reeling from Jord's betrayal. Truly, it was wonder given form, a vessel of singular perfection containing such a vast quantity of power that even a god would be in awe. She'd heard that originally the San Graal had been created through the willing sacrifice of the White Mother Goddess that had eventually become the Queen of the Divine Ancestors. The Mother of Dragons had heard little of the long dead goddess, but her power must have been exceptional to have created such an artefact.

The Holy Grail just hovered there, unmoving, but as it did so there was movement from Guinevere. No, not from Guinevere herself, rather it was from . . . inside her dress? Tiamat just had time to feel confusion before the collar of the black and white dress she wore tore open as something came out. It moved quickly, as though it had leapt from its former place, but the fallen goddess was able to make out what it was. Some sort of metal disc trailing a length of broken leather. An amulet then?

The amulet and Grail made contact with a noise like a struck bell, then in a flash of golden light, both were gone.

"What just happened?"

King Shirou's voice sounded more bemused than anything else. He was clearly tired, and he'd torn a length of cloth from his shirt in order to bind his hand, but for all that he seemed more confused than angry.

"Sir Shirou really doesn't know?"

All eyes, save Guinevere who seemed to be unconscious now, turned to Lancelot as she stood, the insensate form of the Witch Queen cradled in her arms.

---

-()-

---

Lancelot knew herself to be a fairly simple being as far as motivations and thoughts went. At her core she was a warrior, a fighter that delighted in the thrill of the charge and the exaltation of victory. Plans and schemes were foreign to her, things that other people came up with. Her role was to protect her allies and to defeat her foes, simple as that. Oh, she enjoyed revels and the joys of peace, but to her those were the spoils of war, something to be enjoyed in the time until the next battle.

Her partnership with the beloved child had been ideal in that it left someone else having to worry about all the minor details while all the Knight of the Lake had to concern herself with was the protection of her charge. In a way being a knight was her natural calling, she certainly wasn't suited to being a leader.

However there were times when she disliked that about her, times when she wished that she was a great sage able to twist the minds and actions of others with mere words, or able to discern the truths behind twisted plots. If she did then maybe she'd be able to understand how this had happened.

Oh, she was well aware of what had happened, after all the decades she'd spent guarding her precious charge there was no way she could have failed to recognize the change. Exactly how it had happened was another matter entirely.

Still, when the King of Steel had voiced his question Lancelot had been prompted by honest surprise to ask her own question in return.

"Sir Shirou really doesn't know?"

As the two Campione and the fallen goddess turned to look at her the goddess of Steel stood up, her arms carefully cradling the unconscious form of her charge.

"The precious child was once the Handmaiden to our most revered king, but no longer. Now she is a handmaiden to the King of Steel, she is a Handmaiden to you, Sir Shirou."

"Uhhh . . . what?!"

The young King's perplexity gave way to a somewhat strangled exclamation of confusion. Rather amusingly his expression was soundlessly mimicked by the Black Prince where he stood some distance away. Under other circumstances Lancelot would have taken some vindictive pleasure in the expression of shock and disbelief that flashed across the Campione's face. Over the years the Knight of the Lake had thwarted a number of attempts by Gascoigne to harm Guinevere, but always the Black Prince had been able to scrape some sort of victory from the conflict, or evade any attempt to force him to full battle. That he'd always done so with a sense of unshakable confidence, as though he knew that his eventual victory was a forgone conclusion, had always been subtly irritating. Seeing him taken so completely by surprise would have been very cathartic.

Under other circumstances.

At this moment it was of scant interest, not while far great matters had to be addressed. King Shirou needed to be informed of what had taken place, of the responsibilities and privileges that he's unintentionally gained.

"To be the Handmaiden of his majesty is not merely a title," she explained, "The precious child was granted a number of rights and Authorities with her position. It was her duty to be entrusted with a portion of the Steel of our King, as well as the talent to polish the tarnished Steel that he left behind. She was the caretaker of the Holy Grail and the stored power that would serve our king upon his return. All of these were privileges granted to her by her link with his majesty."

"'Was'? Do you mean that's not it anymore?"

"Ho! Sir Shirou's ears are indeed keen. Yes, this knight speaks of the past because this is no longer true. The bond between the precious child and one's king is no more. It has survived the child's death before, but in her near death state it was weakened. When Sir Shirou chose to share his lifeforce with dear Guinevere he somehow replaced that connection with one to himself. The precious child is no longer the Handmaiden of the King of the End; rather she has become the servant of the King of Steel. It was for that reason that the Grail and the medallion have left her. As she will no longer continue her duties as the king's Handmaiden they have left her to find a new maiden to take up the role."

Using one hand to removing the short cape that fluttered from her shoulders Lancelot spread it out on the ground and then carefully laid the unconscious form of her former charge upon it. After making sure that the golden haired girl was comfortable she stood and looked back at the young God Slayer.

"Truly, Sir Shirou is a most exceptional Devil King. Other slayers of gods have usurped their godly powers, but Sir Shirou is in a class of his own for you have managed to take the most devoted of the king's servants from him, and you have done so not with force, but with kindness. One thinks that were his majesty here to witness it he would laugh and congratulate you."

"Wait, so she's what . . . my Handmaiden? How does that even work, I'm not a god?"

Sir Shirou's level of perplexity was appropriate for the situation, but sadly the Knight of the Lake had no answers to give.

"This knight cannot answer your question, because one has no notion as to how this may be. All one can say is that Sir Shirou has broken the conventions of the gods and Pandora's children before, so it would seem that this is just one more time."

Lancelot shook her head, her face a mask of wry bemusement.

"Regardless of how this feat was achieved it makes no difference; one has failed in her duty to protect the precious child. It has been the charge of this knight for many centuries, and now one has reached the end of that duty."

Reaching out with her left hand she brought the crimson lance of Rhongomyniad into the material world. The spear fell into her hand with a strangely familiar weight despite the fact that she'd only wielded it in battle once before. For a moment she just held it, enjoying the sense of handling a potent weapon, then she drove the blade into the earth behind Guinevere's head so that the spear stood behind her as though it were a tree she was sleeping beside.

"It was truly a magnificent gift that you granted to the beloved child, one that brought us joy at once more feeling the presence of our king. Also it was a mighty weapon, one this knight was privileged to wield. Sadly for what is to come such a lance is useless."

She was sincere in her disappointment. Bearing Rhongomyniad in battle against Jord had been one of the most joyful moments in the last few years, the only other moment its equal having been her race with Sir Shirou. Using the weapon the King of Steel had gifted her charge had felt as though her King were once more at her side, the two of them fighting as comrades once more. Ah, such a sweetly painful nostalgia.

"What do you mean?" Sir Shirou asked as he rose to his feet again. His footing was firm, yet there was a slight tremble to him, a barely visible tremor that spoke of tiredness.

"This Knight has failed in her duties and has lost her purpose. One feels no shame in this though, one put forth her greatest effort and though one failed the precious child she yet lives. The beloved charge that this Knight has guarded for so long has now ended her long task. His majesty does not wish to be awakened and the precious child has now found a new king to serve. And at the end of this all this Knight no longer has any purpose left to her in this world, so she must ask Sir Shirou for his aid in a final matter."

"Uhhh . . . sure, how can I help you?"

It was odd, despite Sir Shirou being a mighty and magnificent king in that moment the Knight of the Lake was reminded of just how young he truly was. Having seen him accomplish the impossible and conduct himself as a Supreme King should it was easy to forget that he was a young man only just approaching adulthood. Apparently she'd taken him a bit off guard with her sudden request for aid. Understandable, she supposed, she wasn't catching him at his best after all.

"This Knight would be honoured if Sir Shirou would fight her to the death."

The request had been made.

---

-()-

---

Shirou felt rather as though he'd done some sort of marathon training session, one of the really vicious ones that his resurrected sensei's sometimes put him through. They weren't something that often happened, but some of the souls that he'd brought back to the land of the living felt that his training would be improved by being forced to fight endurance battles rather than just one on one duels. For those particular sessions Shirou had been forced to fight imaginary foes for hours on end, never stopping for rest, food or water, instead simply going through forms and katas again and again and again. The vitality of a Campione was impressive, but without the use of an Authority even his enhanced body had only been able to take so much. He supposed that they had been good for training his stamina, but they had left him feeling pretty damned drained.

Right now he didn't feel quite as exhausted, but the weariness in him somehow seemed to run deeper. Well, that was hardly a surprise given what he'd just done. Using Metztli Tliltic Maitl had been a gamble, one that could have easily backfired. The stone Noble Phantasm was unsuited for battle, fragile as it and its power were, but it was none the less potent, enough so that he'd thought it might save Guinevere's life. As it turned out he'd been right, but he hadn't expected its effects to hit him so hard.

That was why he thought he must be hearing things when Lancelot made her request. Really, it made no sense for her to want to fight him to the death; they'd been allies in this. Hell, even before this they'd been on pretty good terms all things considered. The race between them, her fighting Jord and him aiding her by lending her Arondight, it had led him to feel that even if they weren't outright allies then they were at least on friendly terms.

Did she blame him for what had happened to Guinevere? Was Lancelot trying to avenge a slight on her king? Was it something else entirely, something he was missing? Too many possibilities, not enough information.

"Why?"

He tried to make the word a demand, but he was just too tired and shocked. The word instead came out as a confused sort of plea, not too weak, but obviously a bit on the bewildered side.

"Oh, don't think that this Knight has a grudge against you Sir Shirou, nothing could be further from the truth. One asks this not because one harbours ill will, but rather because one respects you."

Okay, what?! Most of this wasn't quite computing with Shirou, but he was starting to get a better grip on it. At least he thought he was. Taking a deep breath the young God Slayer tried to rebuild the persona of the fake king. What was happening had an important feel to it. He had to get his head on straight, if for no other reason than that he didn't want to give Gascoigne the pleasure of seeing him off his game. Petty perhaps, but it did provide motivation.

"Very well, I can understand why you would ask me for battle, crossing blades with a strong foe can be a joy after all. But a duel to the death . . . I don't see why. Yes, with Guinevere's . . . change of circumstances you might find yourself adrift. But that is hardly a reason to seek an end, this world is full of much, I'm certain a great knight like you can find a new cause."

"Ah, as ever Sir Shirou speaks most eloquently and raises fine points, but sadly there is a reason for this Knight to seek a strong foe," Lancelot smiled and gestured to Tiamat and then to Guinevere. "Honoured Tiamat is a goddess that did not escape her legend, rather she is a Divine Ancestor born upon this world that has regained her lost divinity. Having not fought against her legend she feels none of the urges of a Heretic god, but instead retains her calm demeanour. One is not so becalmed; indeed this Knight can feel the drives of a Heretic God growing within her with every passing moment. In order to fight at the side of beloved Guinevere one descended from her legend and became a true Heretic, and while chained willingly to the cause of the precious child and his majesty one's heretic nature could be ignored.

"Now, the cause is broken and the child soon to serve another. Soon the wine of madness will overtake this Knight and she shall become a danger to the child she once protected. One could travel to some distant place, but if this Knight is to fight a foe then she would rather it be one that has gained her admiration.

"So . . . do you seek death then?" It sounded sort of like she had a death wish, but at the same time there was as a note to her words that didn't sound of giving up.

"Nay, Sir Shirou. Though it may sound that way one does not wish for death, rather this Knight seeks battle. Death may come of battle, but such is the coin that must be paid when one gambles with sword and lance, and if it comes then one shall not shy from paying that price."

Her smile grew, not sad, but rather almost regretful.

"The truth is that this Knight feels the sweet mania of the Heretic growing within her, and without her charge or king one knows it will overtake her. If one is to seek out a foe this Knight would prefer it to be one that she respects rather than some unfortunate that was in her path at the wrong time. One knows this is an unreasonable request, but Lancelot asks that Sir Shirou grant it."

Shirou only just kept a frown from forming on his face. This was a tricky situation.

Ultimately it wasn't his actions that had led to the current situation. Oh, he had saved Guinevere, broken her connection with the King of the End and Lancelot, but had he not done so then she would have died and the Knight of the Lake would still have been in more or less the same position. When you looked at it from that perspective then the young Emiya didn't have any sort of responsibility for what was happening.

Still, even if that was true, and a large chunk of him thought it to be little more than mental sophistry, it still didn't mean he could just stand aside and do nothing. If he turned the goddess of Steel away then he would be responsible for anything she did afterwards, or anything that happened because of her.

Heretic Gods were feared in the magical world, but it wasn't simply because of their sheer power, fearsome though it was. A Heretic God could lay waste to great areas if they so chose, they could sink islands or burn cities, but for the most part the deities that descended weren't interested in wholesale destruction so much as they were in simple stimulation. They'd seek out worthy foes, or suitable challenges or even desirable lovers, and though they could cause chaos while doing so for the most part they didn't cause as much destruction as they could.

No, it wasn't the gods themselves that caused true havoc; it was what followed them that did.

When a Heretic God descended their very nature would begin to influence the world around them even if they themselves did nothing. A god of the sun could cause the land in which he appeared to suffer a drought. A god of war would cause bloody conflict to spring up about them simply by being there. An ocean god could bring dreadful tsunamis crashing down on a beach where he waited. It was for that reason that Heretic Gods were so feared; because their mere presence could bring disaster.

Of course there were ways to avoid it, the simplest and most dangerous being to kill the god in question. However given the limited number of God Slayers in the world this sometimes wasn't a feasible option. There were ways to placate Heretic deities, sacrifices that could be made to calm their raging power. Another way was to challenge them somehow, set them up against another god, grant them some sort of quest. This approach was risky and could make things worse, but if done right the power of the gods involved would focus on the task at hand and cease to influence the world about them.

Could that be what Lancelot was aiming for? Did she want a fight that would be intense enough to . . . burn off the madness of being a Heretic? If so then maybe he didn't have to-

No, he couldn't afford to think like that, not in this kind of fight. Lancelot had served as the protector of Guinevere in all three of her incarnations and had always been regarded as the 'perfect knight' despite being in a reduced state. Now with her full power restored, fighting her was not something to be undertaken lightly.

There was also the fact that he was far from at his best. Sharing his lifeforce with the fallen Divine Ancestor had been draining, but in a way he'd never experienced before. Shirou was used to prana exhaustion, that was almost an old friend. He was also used to physical exhaustion, his training and battles had seen to that. He was even familiar with mental and spiritual exhaustion, thanks to the Fuyuki fire and Venus. This though, it was new, different from anything he was familiar with.

Physically there didn't seem to be anything wrong with him, his limbs responded and his strength didn't feel diminished. But at the same time there was an odd lethargy to his form. Even as his legs steadied and the tremble left he found that his body felt . . . heavy, slow to respond. His magic reserves were apparently almost unaffected, something that had surprised him. The Emiya heir had thought that when his lifeforce was drained then so would his prana, but though there was some reduction his magical endurance was still strong.

It all added up to him not being in the best shape to face a powerful deity of Steel, but at the same time he wasn't as badly off as he could have been.

Huh, it looked like he'd already made up his mind to fight her.

"Very well, Sir Lancelot, it will be my honour to accede to your request."

The smile that dawned on the goddess' face was heart stopping. There was a purity to it that was both innocent and almost lustful at the same time. Not a lust for carnal pleasure though, this was a true battle lust, one untainted by agendas or ambitions. The Knight of the Lake simply had a foe she wished to fight and was looking forward to that fight with glee. That was entirety of it. It was so refreshingly uncomplicated on her end that Shirou found himself suffering from a moment of irrational envy, even as some corner of his mind went over all the possible repercussions.

With a wave of her hand the goddess of Steel materialized her horse and swung up onto its saddle.

"Truly Sir Shirou, you know how to bring happiness to this goddess' heart. One shall repay your gracious acceptance with all the strength and skill that this Knight has to offer."

A nudge of her heels was all that was needed to send her horse trotting forwards to come closer to the King of Steel.

"Loathe though this Knight is to admit it both she and Sir Shirou are not at their best this moment. One's body is exhausted from battling the black orb of the defeated God Slayer and from lending her vitality to aid the precious child. However the most honoured King of Steel is likewise fatigued from his own battle and sharing his lifeforce to save Guinevere."

The horse passed Shirou and began to carry its rider down towards the surf. As it did so Lancelot twisted in her saddle to look back at the red haired Campione as he turned to follow her.

"Let us not engage in a long and drawn out battle. With both of us so spent to match Authority after Authority against each other would be . . . tiresome. Instead this Knight intends to come at you in a single charge and with all her strength. We shall decide this in a single exchange!"

There was excitement and anticipation in her voice now, something almost like a child anticipating a grand adventure. No malice, no threat, to her the fight was devoid of any sort of hostility. As she cantered out, her steed walking upon the surf as though it were solid ground, Shirou couldn't help but wonder how Saber would have liked this version of her old friend. His Servant had possessed a similar sort or purity, though hers had been alloyed with regret, duty, guilt and resolve. By contrast Lancelot was more . . . primitive or basic in nature, yet less diluted by that fact.

He kept his position as the mounted goddess drew further and further away. Her steed's hooves found purchase on thin air as he rose as though making his way up an invisible incline. Eventually she touched the back of Steadfast's neck and the armoured charger paused and then cantered about to face the waiting Campione.

"This Knight now stands ready, Sir Shirou."

Despite being separated by a distance greater than the length of a football field the words of his distant foe could easily be heard, as though the wind were bearing them directly to his ears. For his part Shirou didn't reply, he simply nodded his head solemnly and set his feet for better balance.

"We both stand drained of our full strength, but naturally this Knight would never be so arrogant as to challenge such a respected foe with such an exhausted body! To be sure she can give forth her greatest effort this Knight shall use her curse of battle lust upon oneself! Be prepared King of Steel, for the sake of vanquishing you in fair combat one shall risk all!"

The eighth Campione was once again reminded of the limits of his ability to sense magical energies, but this time it was rather forcefully shoved in his face as even with his limitations he could still feel the instant in which Lancelot's immense divine power was restored. He knew how limited he was in that regard, but even he could feel the waves of power radiating from the mounted war goddess like heat from the sun.

What had just happened?! Before Lancelot du Lac had felt strong, but it had been nothing like this, to compare the two was like comparing the sun and the moon. No, he had to be rational, what did he know about Lancelot?

Well, he had done some research into her past after Guinevere had become his guest. There'd been little concrete to go on, mostly theories and suppositions, but one scholar had written a paper on the god's possible origins that had caught his interest. The scholar hadn't been able to make any firm conclusions, but he'd been of the opinion that there was something unique about the Knight of the Lake, some quality that set him aside from all the other deities of Steel. There had been hints that Lancelot was more primal than 'his' fellow gods, enough so that no-one was certain as to 'his' exact origins.

Well, with the revelation of the knight's true gender at part of that had been confirmed. Gods of Steel were almost universally male, female deities of Steel were extremely rare, almost unheard of. And what had it been that she'd said just before regaining her strength? Something about taking her curse of bloodlust upon herself?

Some sort of Authority based around bloodlust, maybe a berserker one. Yes, that made sense, something like his own Bloodstained Fields Authority, only applied to herself rather than an enemy. A means to regain energy quickly, likely at a cost later though.

Well, that explained the resurgence of her strength; she was literally flaring it up, burning through her reserve in order to achieve a maximum output in this single charge. That made sense; it was the sort of thing that fitted into what he knew of her character. If only he had some more time, then he'd probably be able to work something out. Now though . . .

"Very well, Sir Shirou. Excalibur, the sacred lance born from the Divine Sword of Salvation stands ready! This lost goddess hopes that you are ready, because one has almost completed her preparations!"

Seemingly in response to her words the white metal of her breastplate as well as the pauldrons on her shoulders and the extended tassets that guarded her thighs flew apart, shattered into pieces and scattering noisily into the empty air. Beneath the armour she was clad in a garment of chain mail to which her cape had been attached, but the mail was finer and more cunningly wrought than anything a mortal smith could have produced. It clung to her form, outlining the curves of her slender but sensual body and displaying the beauty of the war goddess for all to see. Still, despite the breathtaking sight before him Shirou had other things to be concerned about.

The scattered pieces of armour were further fragmenting, those pieces then expanding and transforming as they seemed to land on an invisible floor and hung in the air. Before the eyes of all that watched each fragment became a full knight and horse combination, both steed and rider completely sheathed in armour of a style identical to that which Lancelot had worn while concealing her true gender.

There were some differences though, instead of pristine white the colour of their steel was a deep grey like an overcast sky, and instead of the pair of lances she had sported they were each now armed with a simple spear the same colour as their armour.

With an economy of movement that was almost eerie in its efficiency the grey knights took up position about Lancelot. Numbering roughly three hundred or so, the knights were all flying on their horses in midair, every single one of them utterly silent as they formed up. Birds, that was what they reminded him of, a perfectly disciplined flock of birds.

"Now, this Knight is ready! It has been many centuries since one has led these soldiers into battle as their leader. Still, against a foe of Sir Shirou's calibre anything less is doomed to failure!"

Without further words the Knight of the Lake took off at a gallop. This wasn't the blinding speed of a god that would have allowed her to cover the distance in the blink of an eye. It was fast, faster than any mortal horse could have managed, and she did reach that speed in only a couple of steps, but at the same time it was a mortal speed. Could it have something to do with those armoured warriors? It made sense that not all of them could move with the same godspeed that she was capable of, if that was so then they were slowing her down.

Of course, that begged the question of why she'd bother to summon them if they were a burden. Lancelot might be simple and straight forward in her style, but that in no way meant that she was stupid. If she had sacrificed her speed for those subordinates then that simply meant that they were worth the sacrifice, and that meant that they were dangerous.

For a moment Shirou considered retreat, putting some more distance between himself and the small oncoming army. Mounting Snow was an option, probably even the most sensible one, but he discarded the idea. Right now his body simply felt too . . . unresponsive to reliably do something like that. Strength had come back to him as he'd instinctively employed Dragon Slaying Hero, but at the same time he felt weighed down, leaden. No, if he wanted to fight in this state then playing the part of a castle was best. A set and strong position armed with artillery to devastate an incoming enemy.

He already knew which sword he was going to use. This was Lancelot after all; she had been an ally so finishing her with a lesser sword felt disrespectful. More than that though, he didn't know too much about how Saber had interacted with her Lancelot, but he was certain that he had been important to her. In the end this had been the sword that had felt right for ending Mordred; someone like the Knight of the Lake was owed the same.

Extending one hand Shirou drew on his prana as the familiar words came to his lips.

"Tra-"

Something was wrong.

SOMETHING WAS WRONG!

Excalibur wasn't there, it wasn't in his mind, it wasn't in Unlimited Blade Works!

The Reality Marble served many functions, but one of the most basic was to be a library or repository for all the 'blueprints' of the weapons he encountered. All those details, all that he was able to learn about any sort of sword or weapon by instinctively Tracing it; it was all too much for a brain of mere flesh and blood to store. Its history, its composition, its experience, just knowing all that for a single weapon would be a trying task for even a brilliant individual. To do it for literally millions of weapons, that was simply impossible. But the Reality Marble allowed him to do it.

Always before all he had to do was think of the Sword of Promised Victory and its whole existence would rise in his mind. It had not been a sword to be used lightly, but it had remained in his Reality Marble waiting for him. Now it was gone, he could remember its appearance, its power, but now he could no more Trace the weapon than he could the moon.

The shock that ran through him was almost beyond description. It was as though he'd extended an arm, only to find that the hand at the end was missing. For him to have forgotten a sword . . . it was so counter to his very nature that it was as though he'd just realized he couldn't remember his own name. Instinctively he reached out, testing, seeing if other Noble Phantasms had also vanished.

They were still there, waiting for him to call on them. The blades of heroes and cowards alike, weapons of immense power or simple creations of metal and wood. They flashed before his mind's eye one after another, hundreds, then thousands, all there where they should be. Again he tried to find the sword of his former Servant, but once more all he found was nothing, the Sword of Promised Victory was gone from Unlimited Blade Works. He didn't know why, and at this moment he had no time to speculate.

Alright, Excalibur might no longer be an option, but he still had hundreds of other Noble Phantasms he could use. Anti-Army types, Anti-Fortress types, even a limited number of Anti-Country types that could be used since it was the ocean behind the oncoming force. Perhaps the best choice would be to do an impression of Gilgamesh and unleash a massed volley of dozens of Broken Phantasms at once.

No, the idea had merit, but this was Lancelot Du Lac, if something like blindly hurling a wave of destruction against her was enough to bring her down then she wouldn't be the legend she was. He could see her using her armoured warriors as shields, forcing her way through and closing to melee range where she'd hold the advantage.

No, a simple volley wouldn't be enough, not unless he was prepared to invest all into it without leaving himself any fallback plan. He could try using a single Noble Phantasm, but without greater knowledge of what Lancelot could do that could prove unwise. In a drawn out fight it would have been a better choice, his ability to switch between weapons of varying powers and strength giving him the edge in adapting to his enemy. This was different though, everything would be decided in a single clash, no switching out, or at least that was what Lancelot was aiming for.

Shirou could try to interfere with that, force her into a prolonged battle by dodging and evading, but a part of him was unwilling to take that route. This challenge had been offered in honesty and sincerity, to spit on that seemed . . . unclean. It was also the sort of thing that Archer would do, which in Shirou's mind was all the more reason to do something else.

The thing was that in a single exchange Noble Phantasms weren't the prime choice. Oh, there were any number of army killers available to him, but most of them lacked the speed, efficiency and simple absoluteness that Excalibur had possessed. They were powerful, but at the same time they didn't promise victory in the way that Saber's sword did.

So that left him with Authorities. Quickly his mind went over his options, which would be most effective in the situation, which could offer him the best shot at victory

"Trace, on."

The sword that materialized in his hand wasn't a Noble Phantasm, it had no legend and no power, it was simply the sword of a soldier, a mortal man that had fought for his life on many battlefields and had cared for his armour and weapons with the dedication of one that knew it might make the difference between life and death. It was good metal, one with history and weight, a worthy sacrifice for the Armours of the Knight.

To his mind he had three options available in how he could face Lancelot,

The Armour of the Champion had been considered, but then he'd dismissed it. Though its healing ability might be able to overcome many physical injuries Shirou wasn't so sure that it would be able to replenish his lifeforce so easily. It might, but he didn't want to risk it not being able to, if it failed then he'd be well defended but unable to effectively move. In that situation he'd be like a turtle faced with a pack of wolves, it might take them some time, but they'd break through his defences.

That left the other three armours as his best options, but he'd already narrowed it down to a single viable option.

The Titan Knight might well give him the power to defeat Lancelot's army since in many ways it was his most powerful Authority. The sheer size, speed, power and durability that it provided was overwhelming, enough that he was pretty sure he could have taken on Berserker with a good chance of winning. However against a small, fast and flight capable enemy like Lancelot on her steed it could result in a stalemate. On top of that the armour shared the same flaw as the Armour of the Champion, namely that he wasn't sure how functional it would be given his drained state, so that left it a less than viable option.

Another option was to combine Rule of the Underworld with Steel for the Legion. It was actually a tactic he'd been considering for a while, but hadn't had the need to employ. Rule of the Underworld was, at least in a purely combative sense, one of his weakest Authorities. There was no doubt of its usefulness in his general life. Indeed, it was its limitless wealth and the ability to summon Servants that had allowed him to live as comfortably as he had been since moving back to Tokyo. As a battle Authority it wasn't so useful, the dead souls brought to serve him being formidable against mortal enemies, but little more than cannon fodder against more serious enemies, such as gods or Campione.

Of course there were ways around this, especially for him. Creating Noble Phantasms for his servants to wield was a tactic that had worked well to counter Mordred's own soldiers, and it was something that could be further enhanced by imbuing them with Steel for the Legion. Had he been at his best then Shirou might have tried for such an approach. Outfitted with the divine protection and enhancements that the armours provided and armed with legendary weapons he'd have been ready to pit his own small army against Lancelot's. However as things stood he couldn't reliably provide those arms and he also couldn't fight at his servant's sides, facts that made that option undesirable as well.

That left him with only one option that could work; fortunately it was one he felt he could trust.

"Unknown. Unnamed. Unrecognized. The Black Knight carries no standard and has no device, yet his strength is his banner and his victory his glory. Grant me that armour, that I may be as a shadow unseen and as the night mysterious. I am the Black Knight!"

In response to his spell words the weapon in his hand fragmented into glowing motes as the black armour that he had usurped from Mordred formed about him. As it did he could feel the strength of Dragon Slaying Hero fade, its heroic power incompatible with the darker Authority, but that was alright, even as the Steel strength faded a different power flowed in to replace it. It wasn't the equal to the enhancement provided by Perseus' Authority, but it was enough to keep Shirou on his feet and stiffen his spine as he stared at the oncoming charge.

The Emiya heir didn't need to see it to know what it looked like. Though he had only donned the armour twice before as simple experimentation he had taken the time to get a look at himself in a mirror. In basic design the armour he wore bore a superficial resemblance to the Armour of the Champion, as though it had been made by the same blacksmith. The way the plates of metal fitted together, the way the joints worked and were defended, the way freedom of motion was balanced with protection, all of it was of the same method, if not style.

Of course, there were also differences. The black armour that he now wore was slightly slimmer that its golden counterpart, the plates that made it up thinner and the material lighter than the Champion's armour. Yet despite that it was in many ways more elaborate than the immensely durable golden armour. Spikes upon the pauldrons and at the knees and elbows gave it a more menacing appearance; one added to by the raised and almost scale-like design that decorated the majority of the armour's surface. The helm was also a far cry from the leonine design of its golden bother, instead the face was framed by rising metal 'wings' that curved back and up in a way that made one think of wings and horns at the same time. The edges were ragged in a strange way, one that could have been feathers or the spines of antlers, and framed a slitted 'T' opening in the helm. Then, in twisted reflection of the Armour of the Champion, a cape ran from the pauldrons and neck of the armour in a long and ragged length that reached all the way to the ground and billowed about the King of Steel like wings. The outside was night black, while the inner lining was blood red.

As a final touch the black mist that had once served Mordred now boiled out of the gaps in the armour, the joints, the seams, the slits in the helm. The only thing that could be seen through the darkness was his eyes, their light golden colour glowing slightly as they seemed to swim in the darkness. All in all the final effect was somewhat ominous, though Shirou did find himself wondering if the dramatic touches were the result of his own subconscious or some remnant of Mordred's.

This had all taken only a second or two, the Authority of Armour responding with commendable swiftness. Still despite the speed Lancelot had still more than halved the distance between them.

"A mother who sees her child die, a soldier who gazes on his killer, the beggar in the gutter who stares at the palace. From them I take their bile, their hate, their curses."

The battered puppy within the King of Steel perked up as he invoked the Authority he'd usurped from Angra Mainyu. Alright, that might just be a mental image, but the sensations of eagerness and joy at being able to help left him with no other image that fitted. There was pain there; hurt of a kind that even a deranged sadist would be forced to pity, but despite that pain there was still that earnest and hopeful desire to please.

Then he made his intent clear to the Authority and the happy little puppy became a frothing rabid wolf.

Even though his features were hidden by his helmet Shirou still had to repress a grimace of disgust as the vile power of the unlimited curses flowed through his magic circuits. The tainted miasmic power of his first Authority flowed through him, into his armour and then out through the black mist that it generated.

This was a combination that Shirou had found the second time he'd donned the Armour of the Black Knight. Having realized that its nature was incompatible with Dragon Slaying Hero he'd decided to take the time to see how it interacted with his other Authorities. For the most part it didn't seem to play well with others, wearing it completely sealed Dragon Slaying Hero and the Hero's Bride, as well as prevented him from summoning any more souls or riches through Rule of the Underworld. However it did get on well with Curses without End, very well indeed. It would seem that the dark armour was extremely compatible with the curse based Authority, sufficiently so that the black mist it exuded merged with the curses perfectly.

Under normal circumstances the curses of his first Authority were best employed by being 'loaded' into a vessel. Weapons were good for this, Traced weapons that while of high quality weren't Noble Phantasms or Mystic Codes, 'empty' weapons like those could be filled with curses and used against a foe directly as he had with Perseus. Alternately he could also pour them into a compatible Noble Phantasm; Merodach had served this function during his battle with Mordred. It was a powerful tactic, but one that lacked range. If he had part of his target, like a hair or a drop of blood, then Shirou could use the curses as spells, or even just project them by line of sight if the target was close by. The problem was that doing so was very limited, the stronger curses not liking a 'free' existence and breaking down without a medium to hold them.

That was solved by the use of the dark armour's black mist. The curses took to it like fish to water, merging and thickening the mist until it was a black miasma loaded down with their strength. Shirou could will forth huge amounts of the mist, enough to blanket whole areas. Empowered by the malignant might of Curses without End the mist could destroy virtually anything that entered it. The combination was taxing in how heavily it drew upon his prana reserves, but the result was much akin to what a powerful Anti-Army Noble Phantasm might produce.

Yes, this would be enough. Lancelot was weary from using her power to prevent Guinevere's death; her strength was at a low ebb as a result. Using her Authority upon herself had overcome that, but he was sure that such an increase in power couldn't be sustained. Memories inherited from Archer flicked through his mind, Dead Apostles and phantasmal beasts using berserker states to increase their strength. The best trick to dealing with them had always been to make them waste their power on obstacles, once the initial surge of strength was used up they tended to tire quickly and become more vulnerable than they had been to start with.

If the tide of curses didn't finish her off outright then it would certainly stop her in her tracks, bleed off her strength, and weaken her enough to be brought down by a few curse enhanced weapons. Ultimately it would be a deceptively simple contest of endurance, who could outlast the other, and in that the eighth Campione was sure he had the advantage. True, both of them had leeched their life force in order to save Guinevere, but the use of Metztli Tliltic Maitl had been more efficient due to the nature of the Noble Phantasm. The Knight of the Lake had lost more energy by comparison due to the less focused link she had used, enough that he felt confident this would work.

The world before Shirou turned black as the he began his attack.

---

-()-

---

Her subordinates around her, Lancelot charged.

There was joy in her actions, the untainted exhilaration of one that was doing what they both loved and were good at. The pain in her body had faded . . . no, rather it was submerged. Allowing Tiamat to tap into her power to help the child had been straining, enough that there had been some physical pain that had yet to leave her. Her reserves of magic had been reduced and her senses slightly dulled.

All that had faded when she had inflicted Insane Rush upon herself. the divine curse was an old Authority of hers, one that harkened back to the ancient days when the equestrian tribes that worshipped her could charge into battle unmindful of what odds they might face or how worn or tired their bodies might be. Restoring her vigour and power in this way would come at a cost later, but for now she could face Sir Shirou with her full strength. And for that rare pleasure she was more than willing to endure the pain and weakness that would follow.

Now, the young King had begun his own attack in response to her charge. She'd been intrigued when he'd chosen to use the Authority that he'd gained from defeating the traitor knight. Not being able to face the god that had once been her comrade had been a chance dearly missed by the goddess of Steel, so the chance to face it now was one she found only heartening. This armour was not one of the ones she had seen him use while he had been fighting under Venus' command. The golden suit of armour that had granted him virtual invulnerability and the giant unstoppable juggernaut that he had become would both have been fine challenges to face, but instead she found herself facing a black armour that she'd not seen before. Briefly she wondered what qualities it might possess, then she had no more time to spare on such ponderings.

A roiling bank of cloud, as black as the void between stars, flowed out from his newly armoured form. For an instant the Knight of the Lake considered trying to avoid it, to break off her charge and ascend above or dodge around it. Then she dismissed the idea as she and her forces plunged towards the dark depths. How could she do otherwise? This was her long awaited battle with Sir Shirou, she would meet his attack and overcome it, she would accept no other outcome. Without hesitation she and her army rode into the blackness.

[FAILURE. CATASTROPHE. WEAKNESS. FAMINE. CRIPPLING. VIOLATION. DEBASEMENT. STARVATION. DESTRUCTION. ABANDONMENT.]

She was a goddess, a divine being that had existed for longer than modern civilization. She had seen the horrors mankind could inflict upon itself, and she had also seen the kindnesses they were capable of. Though never subjected to the cruel crimes and torments that mortals were prey to she'd none the less thought herself to have some understanding of them.

Oh, how wrong she had been.

As she entered the dark mist it was all the goddess could do not to scream in pain and violation.

All about her she could see her soldiers blackening and crumbling as the malignant power of the black cloud ate away at them. The mist could not reach her yet, as incarnations of her immortality of Steel the only way that the power of her foes could harm her was if her servants, her Steel, were destroyed first. Even so she could feel the vileness of the force she faced through her connection to them. It made her want to heave up her belly's bile, it made want to scream in rage, it made her want to sob in despair.

Yet she did none of these things. Instead a raptor smile found its way to her lips as she reached down to the iron bow slung at the side of her saddle.

"Oh, Sir Shirou," her voice was quiet, so much so that it was almost drowned by the strangely silent screams and wails that paradoxically echoed through the darkness. Still it wasn't meant for any ears save her own, so long as she could hear it that was enough, "This Knight had no idea that you could unleash such a counterattack. One finds herself trapped between admiration of such a forceful assault and anger that it is such a vicious one!"

About her the three hundred knights that had begun the charge with her had been reduced to only a couple dozen. These were divine constructs, warriors that would be invulnerable to any mortal weapon. Even great mages such as the girls that accompanied the other Japanese King would have struggled to hold their own against a handful, yet the curse laden mist had reduced them to this sorry state, little more than blackened dust in the wind.

Still, potent though the Authority was Lancelot was by no means so easily taken down.

"A decree to the valorous knights! Falter not, fear not! Be undaunted and be unrelenting, for you may only advance in a single direction! Onwards! Forwards! There is only the charge towards our enemy!"

As she spoke the spell words the honey blonde goddess threw her bow into the air before her.

As with her armour the weapon forged from iron shattered into many pieces, and each of those pieces became a new mounted knight. There were a good two hundred of them, not enough to restore her force to its initial numbers, but more than enough to replenish her defences.

"How shall you respond to this, Sir Shirou?" She called, her voice raised in an attempt to be heard over the bizarre unnoise of the mist, "One shall match her endurance against your own! Who will exhaust themselves first, your curse or one's Steel?!"

Hearing no answer, and not having expected one, the Knight of the Lake resumed her charge.

[DESOLATION. MISERY. AGONY. DECOMPOSITION. DETERIORATION. DESOLATION. RUINATION. FAILURE. ABANDONMENT. BETRAYAL.]

Again the malignant force of the dark cloud ate away at the Steel of her forces. More than that though, their advance had slowed as the very air around them seemed to resist their charge. It wasn't as thought they were forcing their way through an opposing wind, rather the very air seemed to thicken before them, thick as honey and just as clinging.

Still, she advanced.

The curses that saturated the air attacked her relentlessly, but her immortality continued to sustain her. More suits of armour crumbled, but more remained as she forced her way on.

How far had she come now? Within the black mist sight was distorted, some things clear and others hidden. She could see her attendant warriors easily enough, as well as the ground beneath her, but the figure of her target was gone, as was the beach and the few others still on the isle. She was heading in the correct direction, her certainty of her target absolute, but what distance separated them?

The last of her knights were falling now, barely a dozen remained at her side. Again she reached down, this time grasping the metal quiver holding several arrows that had also be on her saddle's side, and again she threw it into the air before her.

Once more the metal fragmented, the pieces becoming reinforcements for her army as her immortality was again renewed.

[INCOMPETANCE. DEFEAT. MISFORTUNE. DEVISTATION. RAPE. MURDER. LOSS. COWARDIS. PUNISHMENT. TORTURE.]

The charge continued, but the resistance in the air grew. Was this some part of the Authority? A trap to keep her contained while the curses eroded her defences until she finally fell? No, that couldn't be true. Dulled though her sight might be Lancelot was still certain that she was closing upon her target, she could feel it in her very blood.

It was a test of endurance, just as she had thought.

Once more her army had been broken down until only a handful remained. This time she discarded the armour she wore, leaving her clad in the brief undergarments she'd worn beneath.

[STARVATION. EXILE. EXICUTION. IMPRISONMENT. SUBJEGATION. IMMOLATION. CONSUMPTION. FRAGMENTATION. DECAY. PESTILLENCE.]

The charge continued. She could feel her strength starting to wane, but she paid it no mind. She was drawing closer, she could feel it.

For the fourth time she cast out her Steel, this time the sword that had swung at her side. It chafed to have to sacrifice the weapon, but so long as she had her lance then she would be armed enough to continue the battle.

The sword fragmented, but this time there were far more shards, enough that as many as eight hundred new warriors rose to take their positions at her side. That was only to be expected, after all the weapon she had sacrificed was a potent part of her Steel, a weapon she had wielded in service to Artus almost as much as she had her lance.

This . . . this would be enough! She could sense the end drawing near. She couldn't see it, nor feel it, but her divine nature as one that charged across the battlefield told her that she was drawing close to her quarry. All she had to do was endure a bit longer. Sir Shirou's defence had been outstanding, a fortification of magic worthy of a god slaying King. But still the Knight of the Lake would not allow it to stop her, this was the battle she had chosen, and this was the battle in which she would be victorious!

About her the armoured figures were crumbling once more, but his time the decay was slower, as though the sheer numbers amassed were too much for the curses about her to overcome with the ease they had previously possessed.

[ARROGANCE. DESTITUTION.]

A thousand became eight hundred, but she continued.

[ELIMINATION. DESOLATION.]

Eight hundred became six hundred as she struggled through the honey thick air, but she continued.

[USURPATION. EXHAUSTION.]

Six hundred became four hundred as Steadfast's hooves touched down upon the stony soil of the isle and scrabbled for purchase, but she continued.

[COLLAPSE. IMPOVERISHMENT.]

Four hundred became two hundred as she felt her steed begin to flag beneath her, his energies exhausted just as hers were, but she continued.

[DISFIGUREMENT. DESPOILMENT.]

Only a handful of her subordinates remained, and even they showed signs of destruction as their edges began to crumble, but she was so close now! The air about her felt like amber that was hardening, yet at the same time it felt stretched, taunt. The black tide of curses was almost through her defences, but she was likewise at the edge of breaking through! A bit more, all she needed to do was hold on for just a bit more . . .

The last of her soldiers fell, and the curses descended upon the goddess.

She didn't scream, such a thing was beneath her, but a groan forced its way past her lips as she leant on Steadfast's neck to keep her balance. So much hatred, so much despair. Was this what mortals lived with? Was this what they wished upon each other in their darker moments?

Lancelot was a warrior goddess, since the instant she had come into being then glories of war had been as much a part of her as the Steel in her soul or the sight in her eyes. Victory, glory, exhilaration, honour, acclaim, all of those were hers and had shaped her personality since her earliest incarnation. Oh, she knew of the horrors of war, the degradations and agonies that were inflicted upon the defeated, but those had never been things that impacted on her. She was a goddess after all. Remorse, regret, shame, guilt, none of them had any significant part in her make up. Certainly she could felt tinges of them, but compared to how mortals must experience those emotions . . . there was little comparison.

Had she been mortal the weight of the curses might have crushed her. She was an immortal being, the incarnation of a legend, not some being of mere flesh and blood; she knew pain and suffering, but only as a god. What she was being forced to endure, this was mortal suffering, mortal violation, mortal despair, it was something she had never experienced before, something she had no context upon. Had she been mortal it would have been too much, her sanity would have snapped from the unfamiliar and powerful sensations.

But Lancelot was a goddess, a goddess of war and Steel.

She could have sacrificed the last of her Steel to call up another army of soldiers; after all she still had one part of her Steel left. But Steadfast was no longer just another part of her Steel, something else she could lay at Sir Shirou's feet. The steed she had ridden into battle for so many centuries was not like the armoured knights, not anymore. He was no longer a mere subordinate; he was a comrade, one that she was unwilling to sacrifice.

The charge had stalled, Steadfast straining against the thickening atmosphere, but unable to break through with the strength she was currently lending him. Biting back another groan of pain the Knight of the Lake slipped from her place on his saddle and stumbled to the ground. She could feel her skin beginning to burn as the curses attacked her; she was far more resilient than her subordinates had been, but her immortality was not without limits, already her gloves and leggings were smoking and her skin reddening as the malevolent Authority ate away at her. She didn't have much time, but she still had enough.

Using the lance she clutched as a crutch the divine knight took a step away from her mount. Behind her the armoured horse let out a distressed snort and audibly increased his efforts as his hooves dug into the earth.

"Feel no shame Steadfast; you have carried one far into this dark Authority of Sir Shirou's. A more faithful steed this Knight could not hope for. But one would not see you swallowed by these curses, from here on out the battle shall be one's alone!"

She didn't turn, but Lancelot's sharp hearing caught the distinctive sound of her mount fading into lights and then disappearing. Good, in the other realm where he waited for her call he would be safe, now it was just her against the curses.

Her lips curled into a smile once more. Pain might be wracking her form, torments unlike any she had ever experienced ripped at her soul and her immortality was being torn at, and despite it all she smiled.

This was a fight!

This was what she was meant for!

"Oh Sword of Divine Salvation, Steel that can cut the Heavens themselves! Entrust your power to this Knight once more, for glory, for honour, for victory!"

The spell words were half incantation and half a battle cry as Lancelot levelled the lance that Guinevere had made for her and charged towards her enemy. The curses closed in on her again, her skin now visibly blistered, tiny flakes of rotting skin rising from the surface of her flesh as her immortality began to fail. There was no more time!

"EXCALIBUR!"

At the invocation of its name the pristine blade at the end of the spear became a platinum sun on the end of the shaft. Immediately the flood of curses diverted, their focus upon the new power that had been invoked.

The Knight's smile widened as she felt this. She'd been expecting something like this, though it had been something of a gamble. At its core Excalibur was an Authority of Steel, an immensely powerful one, but at the end of it all it was a weapon. Its reputation as a blade of salvation came from the number of times it had been used to vanquish those that rampaged and brought ruin to the land. Such legends had joined it, becoming part of it myth, but even so its nature as a 'holy' sword was a relatively recent addition.

But it was enough. As the power of her King's sword was invoked the multitude of curses immediately perceived it to be a more important target than her. Like a swarm of malignant moths drawn to a flame they descended upon it, their every blight and hatred visiting itself upon the divine weapon. And as they did so they left Lancelot alone.

That was all she needed. With a shout of defiance the goddess of Steel channelled all her remaining strength into the lance and thrust it forwards.

There was resistance! All about her the curses came swarming in, a seemingly endless tide of malice totally focused upon the lance that she wielded, but there was an almost tangible barrier before her. All her instincts told her that this was the point of decision, if she could break through then she would have bested this Authority, if she didn't then she would be held here until the curses cursed her out of existence.

More!

The world about her started to churn as the huge banks of black mist seemed to collapse in towards her like oncoming avalanches. The mass of power was condensing down, thickening further in an attempt to block her. In its incomplete state Excalibur wasn't anywhere near the match of what it could truly be in the hands of Artus, but even so its strength was vast. Something was breaking, she could feel it with certainty, the power keeping her from advancing further was stretched to the breaking point.

Just a little bit more!

The platinum star at the end of her weapon was smoking now. Curse after curse was being consumed by its radiance, but at the same time that pristine light was dimming. It remained untarnished, but its strength was being sapped by every malignant spell that it destroyed. Had it been the true Excalibur then it could have annihilated them in numbers so vast that they would have outmatched the number of stars in the sky, but this was a remnant of the divine sword, not the complete thing.

Therefore it had limits.

But it was enough!

With a wordless cry of triumph Lancelot felt the force holding her in place give, like a sheet of fabric stretched to the limit. In the same instant the black mist around her scattered as though the wind of some unseen explosion had thrown it away without touching her. The world around her was revealed once more, the sand, the pebbles, the sky, the sun . . .

And Sir Shirou!

When she'd broken through the mist it must have had a rebound effect upon him, because his Armour was broken now, shattered like a vase hit by a hammer. Some scraps of it still clung to his form, but they and the shards scattered around were dissolving into blue sparks edged in black and then disappearing. That Authority had been broken, though some small tinges of the black mist still clung to his form. At a guess she imagined that those came from a separate Authority, one that was still invoked. Still, it wouldn't be enough, not on its own and not in time.

Sir Shirou looked as though he had been dealt a blow to the guts, and a powerful blow at that. He was slightly bent over, his face pale and his breath short. Breaking through his defences had weakened him, of that there was no doubt. Now was the moment to strike, to seize victory!

The space between them was short, only four or five steps, that was all the distance that separated her from triumph. With the mist gone she could feel her flesh begin to repair itself, it was slow due to her weakened state, but it was enough to ensure that her body wouldn't falter. Not yet anyway. Without thought her arm rose and the lance settled into a comfortably familiar hold. The brilliant shine of the star was gone, but the lance head still shone with power and its edge was still razor sharp, that was all she needed.

She charged!

One step.

Two steps

Three steps!

She'd won! Less than a foot remained between the point of the lance head and the chest of her foe.

Oh, this had been a most splendid battle, one that had pushed her to the limit in a way she had not experienced in centuries. Even in the time when she'd fought at her King's side she hadn't faced such a narrow victory. A few more seconds, a few more steps, that had been all that had separated her from defeat.

". . . , on."

It was spoken so quietly that she almost failed to hear the last word at all; however she did see the result.

The familiar blue lights of Sir Shirou's magic coalesced in his right hand, then there was a flash of blue across her vision and a blow like one struck by a titan impacted on the blade of her lance . . .

. . . And Excalibur broke!

The shock that went through the Knight of the Lake was as potent as if a blade had been thrust through her guts. This was the Sword of Divine Salvation, how could it-

As though time had slowed simply to grant her more time Lancelot's eyes were drawn to the severed blade on her lance. Though untarnished by the multitude of black curses that had hurled themselves upon it the blade was not untouched. Fine cracks, tiny to the point of near invisibility, ran all across the otherwise pristine metal. Though it had been able to endure the endless curses it had paid a price and been weakened, enough for this new blade of Sir Shirou's to cut through it.

The world still moving at a glacial speed her eyes flicked up into the air to track the slow arc of the severed blade. Not the equal of the true Excalibur, but still it was a powerful weapon. What could have cut it?

Her eyes tracked back to the sword that her opponent held. Hs grip was strong, but his arm seemed unsteady, she was honestly surprised that he'd found the strength to swing such a powerful blow. The weapon was a longsword, the blade a shining silver and the hilt and guard a beautiful combination of gold enamelled with blue and rubies. The sheer sight of the sword was stunning, but there was more to it than just that.

Artus, Lancelot could feel his presence in the sword as though her King were standing before her. At the same time it wasn't perfect, it was the same as when she'd first held Rhongomyniad. However now, rather than feeling his presence in the spear's power, his radiance seemed to shine from the sword. Different though it might be it was still the majesty of the King of the End, the god that had been the king of Britain during a time of turmoil and who had brought peace to a chaotic nation. This was the majesty of the king Lancelot had chosen to follow.

Then there was another burst of blue, and the warrior goddess felt as though she'd run into an iron bar. Under any normal circumstances it would have been a minor concern at most, a mere trifle that could be dealt with in any one of a dozen ways. However as she was, her magic spent and her vitality exhausted, it was too much too suddenly.

Lancelot lost her grip on the shaft of her weapon as her feet went out from under her and she crashed into the ground in a most ungraceful way. Pebbles dug into her side, but the pain was dull and in only a second she was regaining her balance and pushing herself up to her feet.

She only managed to get one foot and one knee under her though. Then she felt the touch of cool metal on her right shoulder. The Knight of the Lake froze in place, the blade of the sword rested on its flat against her shoulder in an odd parody of her being knighted. Still, she knew that if she made a move all it would take was one flick of the blade to open her throat up. Normally such a wound would be of only mild irritation to a divinity of her stature, but with her very immortality as exhausted as it was, and powerful as the sword felt she knew that the small wound would be enough to end her life.

She'd lost.

"Hah . . . hah . . . ha . . . ha ha . . . ha ha ha hah!"

Lancelot's laboured breathing changed to laughter as she sat back on the ground, the sword on her shoulder remaining ready even as the tension drained out of her.

She'd lost, the thought sat in her mind with an odd sort of comfort. She'd put everything she'd had into the fight, she'd sacrificed everything that she was willing to sacrifice, had drawn on reserves she'd not know she had, had pushed herself beyond all limits, and she'd still lost.

She was satisfied though. The precious child would be safe with her new king, Lancelot had made certain of that, he was worthy and she had been able to delight in the joys of battle one last time.

"This Knight must offer her congratulations to you, Sir Shirou. Truly you are a mighty King, a child of whom Pandora must be most proud!"

Tilting her head to the side she exposed her vulnerable neck.

"If it is you then one is content with her fate. Take this Knight's life and Authority, one will gladly grant them both to you so that you might better protect the precious child!"

Her eyes drifted over to where the still form of Guinevere was lying upon her cape. Yes, this was a good death. It would serve her, it would strengthen the Devil King she had come to like, and it would be a suitable ending to the legend of the Knight of the Lake.

Closing her eyes she leaned her head back and waited.

And . . . nothing happened.

"Why do you hesitate?" Lancelot asked, looking up at the eight Campione. He was almost visibly swaying from exhaustion, but his eyes remained focused as he stared down at her. "There is no need for hesitation; this Knight has been defeated in fair combat, bested by Sir Shirou. One will happily allow him to usurp an Authority from her so that he may be stronger in the future."

"An . . . Authority?" Sir Shirou's voice sounded almost rusty, as though he hadn't spoken for a long time. "I shall gain an Authority from your death . . ."

Lancelot blinked at his words. The young God Slayer sounded dazed, as though only partially conscious. For a moment she considered trying to take advantage of this, try to thrust the sword away and launch her own attack, but then she dismissed the idea. She had been defeated fairly and had offered her surrender to death, to fight back now or to try to escape would be cowardly, like a gambler trying to renege on a gamble they had lost. No, she had lost fairly, and she would not dishonour herself by unsightly wriggling now that she was on the hook.

"Indeed, as a great Devil King it shall be your privilege to usurp one of this Knight's Authorities when you take her life."

"One . . . of your Authorities?"

The slight daze on the King of Steel's face continued, enough so that Lancelot began to be concerned that her foe might have pushed himself too far. If he was unable to claim his victory then what would she do? Perhaps wait until they had both recovered and then battle him once more? That seemed a rather hollow thought, as though it might cheapen the mighty battle they had just undergone.

"Just one Authority?!" With a shake of his head Sir Shirou seemed to dispel the confusion that had best him. His gaze hardened, sharpened, as he stared down at her.

"Are you trying to cheat me?!"

The demand was so unexpected that the Knight of the Lake blinked a couple of times before she could even think to answer. Cheat him? What could be possibly mean by that?

"Wha-" Her question was cut off before she could even complete it.

"An Authority is insufficient!" He declared. "I have now taken up your responsibility of protecting Guinevere. No, more than that, if she has become my handmaiden then she has acknowledged me as true Steel. I am a King now, more than ever before. I am one acknowledged by a maiden that was once a Mother of the Earth, and you think an Authority is enough to compensate for all that extra responsibility?!"

For a moment there was absolute silence on the small isle. Then Lancelot realized that her mouth was actually hanging open.

"WHAT?!"

Oddly enough it wasn't her that voiced the incredulous question boiling in her mind; instead it was Tiamat that spoke up.

"King Shirou, do you realize what you are saying?! Steel is your very nature, and an Authority gained from one as powerful as Sir Lancelot would be an Authority that any God Slaying King would prize!"

"It's not enough."

The reply was delivered flatly and without inflection, yet it seemed to cut off the ocean goddess's words as though she had been struck dumb.

"I don't want an Authority, no matter how powerful. Guinevere still needs a protector, and I cannot devote the time needed to that, not when I have my own goals and responsibilities to consider. No, just another new Authority is insufficient compensation for this."

"Well . . . since one heartily approves of you, Sir Shirou, then you may well gain more than a single Authority. Just as with you and Perseus, or Verethragna with King Kusanagi, you may well gain more than a single Authority from this Knight's defeat."

"It's not enough! Your failure to protect Guinevere has led to this situation, now you're going to compensate me for it, and you're going to do it in full!"

. . . What?

Lancelot's utter confusion must have shown on her face because Sir Shirou continued.

"I won't take an Authority in part payment! Guinevere still needs her protector, and a King needs knights to serves him. Instead I shall take you in your entirety, Sir Lancelot. You shall pay your debt by being my knight!"

"D . . . Do you even know what you are suggesting, Sir Shirou?!"

Lancelot would have liked to have thundered the words, to have shaken the sky with her incredulity as would have befitted a god. Unfortunately that same incredulity had stunned her so severely that the question emerged more as a very mortal sounding breathless croak.

"This Knight is the sworn companion to the King of the End; one is his faithful servant and ally. While this Knight is sworn to her King she cannot swear to another!"

In response the King of Steel gestured to Guinevere's unconscious form.

"By the looks of things he's got plans of his own. Whatever the case, your charge herself named me the King of Steel! Well, you are Steel, and you'll serve until your king chooses to show himself. If he has a problem with this, then he can take the matter up with me himself!"

The Knight of the Lake was struck speechless by the sheer gall that the young King was displaying. Then her shoulders began to shake, not in sorrow or anger, but in mirth. In a few seconds she threw back her head and let loose with laughter as clear as bells in mountain air. It took her a few seconds to get herself back under control, but when she did her eyes, still weeping tears of laughter, met those of her defeater.

"Oh, oh Sir Shirou, this Knight must apologize. One does not laugh to mock you; one simply must laugh at the absurdity of the situation!" Straightening her back she wiped the tears from her eyes and met his gaze once more. "This Knight had thought you to be naive for a king, one thought you to be a generous king that was unmindful of what you gave away. After all, you offered honoured Tiamat shelter during her weakness and offered your hospitality to the precious child when she asked it of you. Your graciousness was never in doubt, but one thought you too free with your generosity.

"And now this? This Knight realizes that she completely underestimated you, beneath your generosity lies hidden greed of a most unexpected scope. To think that you would declare a godly Authority insufficient and instead demand one completely, how can that be anything other than supreme greed? And to not only demand this goddess of battle swear allegiance to you, you also have the temerity to take the Steel that is sworn to his majesty, the King of the End? This Knight gravely under estimated you indeed."

The red haired young man didn't reply. Instead he simply met her gaze with quiet patience, a resolve as strong as Steel.

In that moment Lancelot made her choice. It was more impulse than a thought out plan, but as soon as the decision was made she knew she would never even bother to look back. Forcing her tired limbs to move she rose until once more she knelt on one knee before the God Slayer that her charge had named as the King of Steel.

"Still, how can a warrior's heart not be moved by such outrageous ambition? Are you prepared to stand by your words, Sir Shirou? This one shall not let you forget them when the time comes, be certain of that. Still, if you are firm in you decision, and if you are certain your Steel is strong enough, then this Knight will enter into a covenant with you."

There was another pause as the eighth Campione stared down at her.

"Yes. Yes, I stand by my word. Yes, you will be my knight. And yes, if your King has with this then he'd best take it up with me!"

The reply was delivered with total calm and resolve, no waver, no hesitation, just as she had expected. With a mental nod to herself Lancelot allowed a smile to touch her lips again. Yes, this wasn't such a bad outcome, to serve a king once more, to continue as the guardian of the precious child . . . it was pleasantly familiar territory.

She would not betray Artus, but as things stood it seemed that he didn't wish to be roused from sleep. If that was so then there was little left for her to do, save behave as a true Heretic God. But if she swore herself to the King of Steel, if she once more undertook the role of the sworn knight, then might that fall be averted?

To the best of her knowledge nothing like this had ever been done before, a goddess had never sworn herself to a mortal in this way. Oh, sometimes a powerful Campione had been able to defeat a goddess and reduce her to a Divine Ancestor that they then took as a lover, but such relationships were less about bonds and more about domination. What she hoped to enter into . . . well, it would be interesting to see what would happen. If it worked then she would be able to proudly ride as a knight once more, if it failed . . . well, she'd at least be guaranteed a fine fight should she lose herself to Heretic madness.

Bowing her head in almost ritual respect she swore her oath. It wasn't a long elaborate affair; it was simply what she meant.

"Very well, Sir Shirou. This Knight swears to follow you until such time as the King of the End once more walks this world. At that time one will reaffirm her loyalty to him, but until then you shall be this Knight's King! One's lance and sword are at your command. One shall defend your allies and trample your foes. On one's honour as a knight, this vow is made!"

Well, she'd made her choice and her course was set. At least things wouldn't be boring from here on out, after all her new king was far from being dull or predictable.

---

-()-

---

What had he done?!

It was taking all of Shirou's self control not to break out into a panic attack on the spot. Why had he done this again? Hadn't he learnt not to so easily act on impulse? Granted, it had worked out mostly alright in the past, but even then it had led to major complications, so he'd resolved to be a bit more deliberate in what he said when he was playing the part of a king.

And then this.

The battle had been a near disaster; there was no other way of putting it. After he'd failed to Trace Excalibur falling back on the combination of the Black Armour and Curses without End had been his best option.

It had also almost failed.

Lancelot had proven unbelievably resistant to the curses, Shirou had felt his Authority rail at the goddess as she drew closer, but for all its seemingly endless malice and vitriol the maddened wolf had been unable to bring her down. Perseus had fallen to fewer curses. Mordred in his draconic form had been bested with fewer curses. The sheer mass of maledictions that had been levelled upon the Knight of the Lake had been mind boggling, Shirou wasn't entirely sure, but he was fairly certain that he could have reduced Tokyo to a nightmare ruin with the amount of power spent.

And Lancelot had been able to force her way through it.

In many ways it had been the most awe inspiring sight that he'd seen performed by any god since he'd come to this world. Perhaps it was his personal bias, or perhaps it was memories that loomed large in hindsight, but compared to the Servants he'd faced they seemed to be ever so slightly lacking. No, perhaps lacking was the wrong word, but there was something about the deities of this world that didn't seem to quite be on the same level.

Of course, that was due to the Servants that loomed largest in his mind being those that were of the most powerful. Gilgamesh, Berserker, Saber, both before and after her corruption by Sakura's shadow, even Rider, all of them had been powerful and skilled. The gods he'd faced . . . well, Perseus had never truly shown his full power or skill. Hades had been enraged to the point of imprudence as well as being somewhat unskilled despite his power. Ame no Murakumo no Tsurugi had been a lumbering giant, not even a true god, merely a subordinate one. Mordred, on the other hand, had been a true challenge, the first god to truly push Shirou to his limits. In fact, had it not been for Guinevere's appearance and the manifestation of Arondight the Knight of Betrayal would probably have been the victor. Venus . . . well, his mind shied away from her, but she'd never been a fighter for all the harm she'd inflicted upon him. Odysseus had been deadly, having come so close to killing Shirou before even showing his face.

Of them all only Mordred and Odysseus had struck him as being the kind of warriors that would have been at home in the Holy Grail War, Mordred as a Saber or Berserker, Odysseus as an Archer or Assassin. However despite that there had been something they had some quality that while not lacking in them had been overflowing in Lancelot.

Mettle, that was it.

Strong, skilled and determined though he'd been Mordred had broken in the end, giving in to rage and desperation. Odysseus had kept his cool, but even so he'd fled in the end. Lancelot though, she'd kept on coming right until the end. She'd broken his tide of curses and shattered his armour and would probably have skewered him on her lance had he not tried something in desperation.

Using Caliburn had been a wild gamble, but it had been all he could think of. Using the two Authorities together as he'd done had been massively taxing on his reserves, so much so that when she finally broke through he'd only felt he had enough prana left for one big Trace. The problem was that his body still felt leaden, he could hold a sword, but at best he'd be swinging it in slow motion.

So he'd gambled it all on the Sword of Selection. He'd hoped that whatever fault or block had affected Excalibur had not extended itself to its predecessor. He knew he could Trace a normal weapon easily enough, and when he'd reached for them many other Noble Phantasms had been there in his Reality Marble waiting for his call. It had been an all or nothing chance, but he could think of nothing else in the time he had.

Caliburn had answered, and with it had come the Prana Burst skill that he desperately needed.

Since his limbs hadn't been able to move the sword fast enough it had been his hope that the crude copy of the skill he'd been able to manage would be enough. The bursts of prana had acted as propulsion for the blade, enough to let him direct wild but strong swings. Still, had his enemy not been every bit as exhausted as he'd been then she certainly have been able to dodge or block the swings. As it was her lance had been weakened enough to break and she'd been unsteady enough to bring down with a mediocre blow.

And then he'd stopped, so tired he might fall over at any time, still frantically clutching control of Curses without End so that the price wouldn't leave him helpless, his reserves so low that he doubted he had enough prana for more than one swing. And yet he'd stopped, holding the sword to Lancelot's neck, but not cutting it. It was reckless and stupid. He didn't know how much longer his limited stamina would last. He didn't know how long he could hold onto Curses without End before it slipped away from him. He should have done the smart thing and taken her head off the instant he had the chance. But there was just one problem.

He didn't think killing her was right.

It was stupid, naïve, idiotic. He could practically hear Archer shouting at him that he was letting his moronic tendencies get the best of him, yet for all that it didn't change the simple fact that despite their battle he didn't really see Lancelot as his enemy.

Every other deity that he'd slain, they had been clear and confirmed threats. Perseus had threatened Illya and had refused any attempt at dialogue. Hades had been lost in rage and unwilling to pause for an instant. With Mordred the fight might not have been to the death from the first blow, but his hostility and malice had mounted until the death of one of them was the only possible outcome. Venus . . . Venus had been more of an execution than a fight, but she'd shown herself to be too cruel and dangerous to let live.

Lancelot was clean by comparison. There was no malice or hatred in their fight, it might have been to the death, but it had been a true competition of skill and will for the highest stakes, nothing more. The Knight of the Lake had made the challenge because she felt there was nothing else for her to do. More than that though, even in the face of defeat and imminent death she hadn't broken, she hadn't despaired, and she hadn't raged. Instead she accepted her fate with all the dignity and resolve that could have possibly been asked of her.

So, faced with the chance to slay her and take her Authorities Shirou had found he didn't want to.

The problem was that if he didn't kill her then how could he end the battle between them? He literally didn't have the energy left to do much of anything, in fact once he let go of Angra Mainyu's Authority he was probably going to be out for the count for quite some time. So he'd tried to think of how to sway her to his side, maybe guilt her into continuing to be Guinevere's guardian. And then, somewhere during his exhaustion drunk thoughts about Lancelot serving Saber and how she might have recruited him to her cause, he'd blurted out his half formed idea.

It had taken on a sort of momentum after that. When Lancelot had asked him what he meant from his insane response he'd just run with it, blurting out his thoughts as they came to him and somehow managing to make it sound as though they had been well thought out. One declaration had followed another, and now here he was; the Knight of the Lake had sworn her loyalty to him and he had set himself on a collision course with what was rumoured to be the most powerful of all known deities.

Not bad for five minutes of frantic babbling.

So . . . now what?

Looking around he noticed that everyone present was staring at him in a sort of bemused awe, well, Tiamat was at least. The beautiful goddess had an expression of bemusement mixed with a sort of tired acceptance, as though she'd come to expect this kind of chaos from him. Gascoigne on the other hand . . . Shirou wondered if it made him a bad person that he wanted to take a photo of the fifth Campione's face at this precise moment. Then have that photo blown up to six feet on a side, framed in gold and titled 'the loser'. The expression of shock, confusion and outright frustrated anger on his fellow king's face was sight of pure beauty. Under other circumstances he might have been worried about what the Black Prince might do now that both Shirou and Lancelot were spent, but since Gascoigne was almost as tired and had no Authorities available to him Tiamat would be able to handle him if he became irrational.

Oh, right. There wasn't any time to let his mind go wandering right now; he still had to answer the goddess kneeling before him. Errrrr . . . what could he say? What would Saber say in a situation like this?

"I accept your oath," he answered slowly, "As a King I accept your pledge as a knight and do swear to accord you all respect and courtesy due to a valued vassal. Your honour shall be valued as my own and your word shall be as mine."

Okay, that sounded good, what else could he add?

"Your lance and sword are accepted, and in return I offer my hearth and hospitality. In the name of the Emiya family I bid you welcome."

Anything else?

"Let's try and make this work, okay?"

Alright, maybe that wasn't quite in keeping with the rest of the tone, but he wasn't firing on all cylinders right now, so it was the best he could manage.

"Sir . . . Shirou?"

The quiet voice came from Tiamat but was not hers. Looking over he saw that Guinevere was awake once more, sitting up and looking at him. Her face was slightly confused, but there was a focus there as she looked at him, one that didn't unsettle him so much as it surprised him.

"Oh, hey Guinevere, I've just talked Lancelot into staying on as your guardian, we can work out the details later."

He was starting to feel a bit giddy now, as though the world were sort of going in and out of focus. There was something off about what he'd just said, but he couldn't quite seem to get what. Flecks of black were creeping in on the edges of his vision, but unlike before this was more like a nice warm blanket was being laid across him. Mmmm, blankets, beds, that would be so nice right now.

"I . . . I think I'm going to take a nap now."

He heard the words as though from a great distance, and was only vaguely aware that he was the one saying them. He could almost feel it as his mind drifted off into comfortable darkness. Another thing he could feel was the power of Curses without End slipping from his control. The last vague thought to wander through his mind as he fell into unconsciousness was that since he'd be out cold he wouldn't have to experience the pain that the Authority exacted as a price. Hah, a win for him.

Then the darkness enfolded him and he knew no more.

---

-()-

---

When King Shirou fell it was Lancelot that caught him.

Tiamat would have eagerly done it herself, but the distance between them wasn't one that could be covered to easily, certainly not in her current state. More than that though, despite her firm desire to tend to her host the majority of her attention was still focused on the limping form of Alexander Gascoigne. As things stood he was the only real threat that she had to worry about, and she could feel that all his Authorities were spent. The Mother of Dragons might be weary, but she still had reserves left, enough to employ magic and Authorities enough to slay him should he attack.

Of course, she was dealing with a God Slayer; they had become what they were by killing a deity when they had no more than mortal power. To underestimate him just because his most obvious weapons were gone would be foolish in the extreme.

Fortunately the Black Prince seemed to have no interest in fighting. Perhaps he still felt constrained by his oath, perhaps he was too tired to begin another conflict, perhaps he was too stunned by what had taken place. Whatever the case battle was not ensuing, and as far as Tiamat was concerned that was a good thing.

"Sir Shirou!"

The sudden shout was so unexpected that the fallen goddess actually started slightly. Guinevere was on her feet and dashing over to the fallen Campione. Well, perhaps dashing was a generous description, to say she was stumbling might be a more accurate term. Her slightly longer limbs and the tattered state of her dress combined to trip her several times, though she managed to keep from falling on each occasion. All in all it was somewhat endearing, but Tiamat was not in the mood for such sentiments.

Her glare flicked from the Divine Ancestor back to the fourth Campione . . . only to find him already gone.

Tiamat's eyes narrowed as she sent a number of spells to probe the area. He wasn't invisible or concealed, of that she was certain. Since his Authorities were exhausted then he must be employing magic, and in that arena she was confident that her expertise outstripped all but the highest ranking mortal mages. Alexander Gascoigne had some magical ability, but he was an earnest dabbler at most, which meant that whatever he'd done had been a stored spell, one performed by someone else and held in a sort of stasis until released.

It was an uncommon method, normally because spells stored in that way lacked the potency of spontaneous spells, but it had the virtue of not taxing a user's personal reserves. If you could have such as spell made by someone sufficiently powerful to overcome the degradation effect then they made for useful final cards. As a Campione the Black Prince had the power to persuade a suitably powerful magic user to prepare a few for him. It would also be in keeping with his character to have a few spells of the like to use as final cards, the man was too clever by half. His natural resistance to magic might be a problem, but there were ways to internalize the spell, such as putting it in a pill or potion, not easy but doable.

Whatever the case he wasn't here, the spells she'd used could have pierced any mortal veil. That meant that he was gone, carried off by some means. Well, that was also in keeping with the king's character, prideful and stubborn though he might be Alexander Gascoigne was also a practical man. When the situation had turned sufficiently against him and his position was unfavourable enough he would have little problem with escaping.

Well, there wasn't too much to be done about it now, he was gone and for now that would have to be enough. Granted, he now had ample reason to hold a grudge against King Shirou, but the King of Steel had amply proven that things would go very poorly for him if he was foolish enough to come after him. So long as he kept his world and so long as he stayed away from Japan's Second King things were most likely to be peaceful between them. Uneasy perhaps, but at least peaceful enough to avoid further hostilities.

Well, enough of that. Right now she had other concerns apart from a defeated Devil King; she also needed to worry about King Shirou's newly acquired handmaiden.

"Good Sir Knight, please lay his majesty down."

Already Guinevere was at the side of the unconscious young man, checking his vitals, making sure there were no wounds. Standing over her the newly resworn Knight of the Lake was watching with ill disguised amusement.

"Oh, one is not so sure that she should do so, dear child. After all, Sir Shirou is now the liege of this Knight, it might not be appropriate for her to so easily allow him from her protection."

The smile on the goddess's face was playful as she adjusted her grip upon the unconscious king so that his cheek rested against the swell of her bosom.

"SIR KNIGHT!"

Guinevere's outcry of surprise, outrage and a hint of jealousy would have been amusing under other circumstances; however Tiamat was feeling some of those emotions herself. It didn't seem right for the blood goddess of war to be holding the King of Steel so close to her and in such an intimate manner. The Mother of Dragons had been his guest for quite some time now, and she hadn't had the opportunity to hold him like that.

"Sir Knight, now is not the time for such . . . jests!" the handmaiden sounded more serious now, clearly doing her best to keep her temper under control. "Guinevere needs to check on how his majesty is doing. Sir Shirou has expended vast amounts of energy, and even the stamina of one of Pandora's Children has its limits."

Her manner of speech had changed slightly, still childish, but now with a hint of maturity that hadn't been there before.

Lancelot must have agreed with her former charge, because she gently lowered King Shirou to the ground and laid him out as comfortably as she could manage. Moving over to join them Tiamat took a closer look at her host, and found herself taken aback by his condition.

The only time that she'd ever seen him so badly off had been after the end of the battle with Jord, and even then he'd simply been utterly exhausted on all levels. This was worse, she didn't think that he was under any real threat of harm, but not only had he run himself completely ragged he was also paying the price for using his Authorities. Even as he was, prone and unconscious, his body was twitching and spasming in a way that didn't seem in any way healthy.

"It would be best if Sir Shirou were to receive an infusion of magic," Guinevere commented, her middle and index finger tracing the line of his throat as he convulsively swallowed, "He suffers to pay the price demanded by one of his Authorities, but replenishing his strength should make enduring it easier."

"Oh, is that so? Then allow this Knight to serve her latest liege with all due dedication."

Her voice still teasing the blonde goddess leaned forwards her lips drawing closer to those of the insensate Campione . . .

"SIR KNIGHT!"

Only to be brought up short as the smaller form of Guinevere cannoned into her.

As much as it irritated her to agree Tiamat could sympathise with the Divine Ancestor's feelings. Given their magic resistance healing a God Slayer was always a tricky business, potions were normally the best way to go, but if they weren't available then injecting the spells directly into the Campione was the next best option. This was normally done by mouth to mouth exchange of breath and mouth fluids.

In other words, kissing.

Wait, hadn't Guinevere already saved King Shirou's life once before by infusing him with magic after his battle with Mordred? That meant that she'd already kissed him once before.

Before giving it any real thought the Mother of Dragons was at the other side of her host from the two quarrelsome blondes and was lifting him up in her arms. She didn't pause to think, if she did that she might hesitate, instead she pressed her lips to those of King Shirou. As her mouth sealed to his she focused on pouring magic into him, she most certainly did not focus on how soft his lips were! And when she extended her tongue into his mouth, that was simply so she could move his slack teeth out of the way to provide a better flow.

Really.

She wasn't just trying to one up Guinevere for getting the first kiss in.

In her arms that shaking and twitching stopped as her host seemed to relax into the kiss. When she pulled away she could see that his features were less drawn, his skin less pale, the slight sheen of feverish sweat that had been breaking out was fading. He didn't look as though he was resting easily, but it was a vast improvement.

"H-Honoured Tiamat-sama, why did you-"

"There was little time to be wasted in treating King Shirou," the Mother of Dragons cut the Queen of the Divine Ancestors off, perhaps sounding a bit more defensive than she'd meant to, "Sir Lancelot's exhausted from her battle with his majesty, and you are only alive because of the life force that he shared with you. I am tired, but nowhere near as much as either of you, so let us not waste more time arguing the fact and just accept that I was the best choice to grant him aid."

Well, it was all true. Maybe it hadn't been the main reason that she done it . . . or the secondary reason . . . or the tertiary reason, but it had been in there, and it didn't make it any less true. Evidently that was enough to quiet the smaller immortal because she sullenly looked to the ground and would no longer meet the goddess's gaze.

"Very well, let us return King Shirou to his home. After the battles of today I think he is more than entitled to some rest upon his own bed."

The words were spoken firmly, but the red and blue haired divinity had to admit hat they were true for all present here, not merely their host. Tiamat was bone tired, but out of all those here she was unquestionably the one in the best state. King Shirou was unconscious and Sir Lancelot was only a step or two away from being in a similar condition. Guinevere might be the most physically recovered of them all, but her magic was tapped out to the last dregs, and it was only due to the life force given to her by the King of Steel that she was even alive. All of them were weary to the marrow, and the thought of returning to King Shirou's mansion and enjoying his hospitality was a balm to the soul.

That said hospitality included the delectable cooking of his formidable housekeeper only served to reinforce the point.

"Dear one, I think that honoured Tiamat might well have the right of it."

"Hmmm, I see. Yes, it would be best if we return Sir Shirou to his home. I think his sister will be arriving soon, and she'll most likely be unhappy at having been left behind.

Guinevere's words almost made the fallen goddess wince slightly. That was going to be somewhat . . . unpleasant. Illyasviel was normally a well mannered young woman, but she was also somewhat spoiled by her overprotective older brother and tended not to react too well to not getting her way. Being abandoned in a foreign country while King Shirou had departed to confront a fellow king though, that would probably produce a . . . volatile reaction.

No, she could worry about that later; right now she had other concerns. Namely how they were going to get off this blasted rock.

King Shirou was in no state to call his steed, the same could be said of Lancelot and Guinevere couldn't use any magic without risking unconsciousness or even death. Tiamat supposed they could wait until one of her host's mortal servants sent a boat or vessel to the island, something that was bound to happen sooner or later given how much visible activity there had been here.

However the Mother of Dragons had no intention of waiting that long. Superhuman though his constitution and vitality might be she had no intention of leaving him on the stony ground until that happened, it lacked grace or gratitude. Her magic would be enough to carry all four of them to his mansion, assuming she could work around his magic resistance.

She very deliberately did not allow a smug smile to touch her lips. Instead she sent a message to Snappy, a mental command for him to swim back out into deeper waters and to feed on fish and sleep until she called for him again. Really she was quite proud of how he was growing, though no match for the monsters she'd borne in millennia far past he was still doing very well given how little power she'd had when she made him. In time he might grow to be a match for the mighty dragons she'd once birthed, but for now he was still young.

Still, enough of that. With a murmured word she cast her spell, enveloping all four of them in a veil of wind. She felt King Shirou's magic resistance trying to resist, refusing to allow the spell to simply pick him up, but before it could fall apart she leaned in and once more sealed her lips to his, this time injecting the essence of the spell directly into him. The resistance of the Campione bypassed the veil wrapped about them all and carried them away.

There were a few moments of blurred motion as they were borne through the skies by the winds she'd invoked, then the world came back into focus as she and the others appeared in the entrance hall of the Eighth Campione's manor. She'd felt the protective wards that defended the building flare as they'd passed through them, but King Shirou had asked his sister to change them to allow his guests passage through them without incident. It had been a task she'd been a bit begrudging in completing, but she'd done it after he bribed her with a box set of some American show that she loved, one featuring multi-coloured unicorns or something, Tiamat hadn't really paid it much attention.

"Lady Tiamat? Shirou-sama?!"

Ah, it would seem that their arrival had been announced to the staff, another useful feature that the snow haired young mage had worked into her wards. The housekeeper, Asuka if she remembered correctly, was entering the hall, the other two maids that often followed King Shirou about at her sides.

"What happened? Is Shirou-sama hurt?"

The shrine maiden was the first to speak, moving forwards to check on the Campione lying in Tiamat's lap. Her companion, the witch fighter, held her position and watched instead. Internally the Mother of Dragons nodded in approval, after all her king had arrived in the presence of not simply the Divine Ancestor that had left his protection, but also a goddess whose identity was unknown. Under such circumstances some suspicion was warranted, though it was also largely futile since even weakened as she was Lancelot was still not one that the girl could defeat. Still, at least she knew her duty and was competent in it within her limitations.

"Shirou-sama?"

The girl's hesitant question brought the goddess back from her thoughts and to the matter at hand. Both Guinevere and Lancelot were being unusually quiet, under other circumstances Tiamat was sure that they'd have been answering the questions and handing out orders, instead they held their peace.

Glancing over at them she could easily see the reason why. Guinevere was quiet due to the simple fact that she was currently asleep, cradled in the arms of her protector who herself seemed to be only a few steps short of curling up on the polished wooden floor and slipping into the land of dreams as well.

Perhaps it would be a good idea to see about getting everyone somewhere they could rest. King Shirou was still paying the price for his Authority, but otherwise all he needed was time and rest, a recipe that would help all of them really.

"Your king is unhurt," she assured the shine maiden, "He is exhausted from battle and merely requires rest."

As she spoke the fallen goddess picked up the unconscious form of the King of Steel as though he were a slight maiden and she the burly knight. Internally she allowed herself a brief flash of amusement at the reversal of the traditional roles, but she let no trace of it show in her face. Instead she once more addressed the dark haired Hime-Miko.

"Direct me to his rooms. Once he's safely abed it would be best to leave him until he awakens, also have plenty of food and drink prepared."

Of course she wasn't saying anything they wouldn't know already, they'd faced a similar situation after the Battle of the Three Kings and the Battle of the Five Gods. The thing was that her orders were the right ones, so they had little choice but to obey. The same went for being led to King Shirou's rooms. Of course she already knew where they were, such information had been acquired within the first day of taking up residence in the manor. However the order served to increase the apparent authority she had over her host's subordinates when in truth she had very little. Still, she was a goddess, no matter how reduced, and they were mortals. They were rare mortals to be sure, but given that the orders she was giving seemed to be in the best interests of their king they apparently chose not to raise a fuss.

"Just this way Tiamat-sama." The Hime-Miko gestured for her to follow.

"Honoured Tiamat!"

The almost sharp words from Lancelot brought her to a stop and caused her to turn to face the Knight of the Lake. It was odd really; she was devoid of her armour and carrying the unconscious form of her charge. She was visibly tired and had not a single weapon to her name, yet Lancelot still managed to stand straight and radiate confidence.

"One thanks you for taking care of her king, but this Knight would also like to remind you that taking care of his majesty will be a duty that falls to his handmaiden and his sworn knight."

Without waiting for a reply the Knight of the Lake turned and made her way out of the hall towards the part of the manor where Guinevere's rooms had been. After watching her go the Mother of Dragons turned back to follow the girl that had waited for her.

As she wordlessly followed her Tiamat considered how things had changed, both here and in the world in general.

Though the effects had yet to show themselves the results of the events today would have major repercussions. In many ways King Shirou's defeat, no . . . the humiliation, of Alexander Gascoigne was the most minor. Though it had further demonstrated his power and would probably improve their relations with the Witengamot the defeat of a Campione by another of their kind was a known quantity. What her host had done in regards to Guinevere and Lancelot though, that was without precedent.

Oh, King Shirou had pressed the envelope of what was possible when he'd invited her and the queen of the Divine Ancestors to stay and his home. It had been a wild and almost unthinkable thing, but it hadn't been totally unknown. In the past some powerful Demon Kings had held gods or goddesses captives in their domain, normally as living trophies or hostages against some other power. His keeping them as honoured guests and not as prisoners was a jarring departure from the normal route of things, but it at least had a familiar form. This though, this was completely new.

For the first time a Campione, a killer of gods, had the loyalty and service of one of the gods they were meant to slay. In a way it was a superior achievement, rather than obtaining a single Authority by slaying a god King Shirou had instead gained all of her Authorities for his service, as well as the skills of a hallowed knight. She was in every way the superior of the subordinate gods that some Campione could muster and call upon, not merely in power, but also in skill and independence. Granted, that independence was a double edged sword, but when looked at in terms of sheer strength and utility the gains were overwhelming.

And, of course, there was also Guinevere to consider. Though seemingly inconsequential when compared to gaining the service of a goddess Tiamat wasn't so foolish as to dismiss her. She had spent more than a millennium and a half as Andromeda, she had studied secrets lost to the ages, learnt magicks that mortals could barely even dream of, amassed resources over the course of centuries, yet for all that it was Guinevere that held the title of Queen of the Divine Ancestors. To be sure some of that was due to her possession of the Grail and the protection offered her by Lancelot, but that was far from all of it.

Guinevere, despite her childish demeanour, had been cautious, methodical and viciously cunning when the situation called for it. She'd also stood at the peak of the magical power that former goddesses could wield, sufficient to the point that elementals and nature spirits had bowed to her will. In addition her role as the handmaiden to the Strongest Steel was no empty title; she knew the power of Steel in a way that no other mother goddess did, be they of earth, ocean or sky. Her ability to revive decrepit Steel long thought dead was but one of her abilities.

King Shirou was a . . . unique existence amongst Campione. He had Steel in his soul, not merely an implanted affinity derived from a usurped Authority, but rather due to it being entirely natural to him. The weapons he could create, that strange alien landscape that could be born from his power, all of it was natural Steel that would have made any god proud. In all honesty Tiamat was unsure of what Guinevere could do for her host, but if she could polish that Steel to a greater brilliance . . . well, it boggled the mind as to what could result.

They had arrived at King Shirou's room now, and the shrine maiden stood by the door as the Mother of Dragons carried her host to his bed. For a moment she toyed with the idea of helping him out of his clothes before placing him beneath his sheets, but then dismissed the idea as being far too forward. While it would be amusing as something to hold over Guinevere it might lead to awkwardness between herself and King Shirou. No, best to simply tuck him under the sheets and settle for just taking his shoes off and leaving him there.

It took all of Tiamat's self control not to yawn as she exited the room. King Shirou and his new servants weren't the only ones in need of rest. The fallen goddess might not have expended as much of her power as her fellow immortals, but fighting Alexander Gascoigne and supporting Guinevere's failing life force had still been deeply draining. Retiring to her own chambers might well be a good idea.

With a single nod of acknowledgement to the black haired Hime-Miko Tiamat turned and strode off towards her quarters. She maintained her straight posture, her regal bearing, managed to wear her dirtied and torn clothes as though they were the finest silks, at least she did until she reached the privacy of her chambers.

Then she let herself slump into a chair, the weight of her excursions and her tiredness finally bearing down on her.

Leaning back into the rich cushions of her seat the Mother of Dragons looked about her room, the chambers in which she'd resided for more than a month now. Having been told that she could redecorate them as she saw fit Tiamat had used both her own magic and the generous funds offered to her by her host to redo the rooms in a style suited to the ancient days of Babylon. The bed, the rugs, the décor, the very tiling on her balcony, all of it had been redone in the ancient Middle Eastern style.

It felt like home, the ancient home that had been hers in the long distant millennia before times had changed. Before Perseus had defeated her and taken her as his wife, remade her into Andromeda, a princess of some Greek kingdom rather than one of the gods worshipped in ancient and beautiful Babylon.

She was grateful for this; grateful that she could make these chambers her own, recapture the identity that had been lost to her for so long. Idly the fallen goddess wondered if she would have been so introspective had she not lost so much of her power. Gods at the height of their strength rarely felt the need to contemplate much of anything, instead they simply ran rampant unmindful of cost or consequence. Tiamat supposed that her centuries as a Divine Ancestor combined with her divinity being stolen had forced her to use her intellect more than most gods had needed to.

Bah, maybe she was thinking about this too much, that seemed to be something she was prone to of late. Instead of sitting here and trying to divine how her world had changed she should instead be resting herself, regaining her lost strength and recovering spent stamina.

Getting out of the chair she made her way over to her bed. As she did so the clothes she wore slipped from her form, the shawl, the sari, the bracelets on her wrists and the necklaces about her throat, all fell away until the Mother of Dragons was clad in nothing but her own skin.

As she slipped between the silken sheets that covered her bed Tiamat could already feel the comfortable darkness of sleep stealing up on her. She welcomed it, slipped into its embrace with nary a murmur of protest.

Her last thought, just before sleep finally overtook her, was to think how nice it was to finally have something finished. After his humiliating defeat at King Shirou's hands the Black Prince would most likely leave Japan and make way to his home country to recover. As word of his defeat spread others would take it as a warning and hopefully think twice before bothering the King of Steel. With any luck Emiya Shirou and his family and allies should be looking forward to a period of relative peace in the near future.

Then she gently drifted off into dreams.

---

-()-

---

The lake was a small one, but it was beautiful. Set out in one of the forests of northern Britain its edges were lined with trees and bushes, all of them showing the early signs of autumn in the late morning sun. Around the lake were a number of large stones, boulders of considerable size. All of them were of the same grey white stone, but almost all of them were overgrown with moss and creeper vines.

This place was an old one, a place where the ancient druids of Briton had conducted certain rites and rituals. It was by no means as significant a location as fabled Stonehenge, but it was a site of power, one that could be used by those who knew the secrets of power. Though regarded as a site of historical interest the land on which it sat was privately owned. There were some agreements in place; guarantees that the owner wouldn't bulldoze the site in order to build low rent housing or anything of the like. But by the same stroke the site was kept out of the public eye, so no tourists came to see it, no hobbyists came to take photos.

This had all been prepared at Guinevere's insistence. The land on which the lake rested, the small manor just a few minutes walk distant, the surrounding brick walls that had been in place since before the First World War, all of them had been purchased by mortal servants at the behest of the Witch Queen.

This was her final stronghold, the last fallback position that she'd set up as a last resort. Some time ago Alexander Gascoigne had destroyed her main castle, but this had been set up as a reserve.

The location had been carefully selected and prepared. The circled lake sat astride a strong ley line while the local manor was also a place of power, though its strength was drawn from darker sources than natural energy. The ley line wasn't the strongest in Britain, but that had been one of the reasons she'd selected it. The shallow tear between realms around which the manor was built was potent, but not the most potent known. It was their status as being strong but not the strongest that had led her to quietly claiming them. Were she to disappear in the wake of a battle her foes would expect her to go to the greatest of sites to regain lost power, places like Stonehenge or the ruins of Tintagel Castle. A smaller target like this would be further down on the list of places they'd check.

It had been a plan that she'd been quite proud of, and it was plan that the Holy Grail was now drawing upon.

The Holy Grail was a miraculous creation, an artefact without peer. Born from the willing sacrifice of a powerful goddess the sacred cup had many abilities that were awe inspiring even to the gods themselves. The sheer quantity of power that it could hold was merely the most obvious of its many attributes, useful though it was.

Its true function was to serve as an aid to the King of the End when he once again walked the world, restoring his power upon his being summoned. This was due to the nature of the Strongest Steel, though his might was beyond question such power came with some conditions, upon being summoned the King of the End was weak, denied his full strength. In order to regain it he had to undergo a ritual quest to once more be 'worthy' of his power. The Holy Grail didn't serve merely to awaken him; it also served to feed him power to overcome this restriction, thus gaining his full might immediately.

For this task it was necessary to harvest the lifeforce of Earth Mothers, and to do that the Grail needed an agent to act upon its behalf. For centuries past this role had been served by Guinevere, the Divine Ancestor reincarnation of the same goddess that had given her life to create the sacred vessel in the first place. When last Guinevere was slain the Holy Grail had entered into a sort of stasis as it awaited her return, but this time things were different.

Guinevere was not slain, instead her link to the King that Manifests at the End of the World had been severed, she was no longer the handmaiden to the god that had once been called Artus.

For the Grail this presented an unacceptable breach, as it had been intended for the king's handmaiden since the instant of its creation. The Grail would be held by the handmaiden and its contents would be offered up to the King of the End so that his power and glory might be restored in full. The same was true to the Steel Medallion, it was an Authority bestowed upon one of the most trusted companions of the king so that fallen Steel might be harvested for him. With the link of the handmaiden lost so too was the connection that had held the Authority in place, so it had gravitated towards the Grail.

To call the Holy Grail intelligent would have been inaccurate, but to call it aware would not. Birthed from the willing death of a goddess the divine artefact had taken on many of her qualities, her hopes, her dreams, her desires, all of them had gone into it and become a part of it. Those remnants of emotion had formed the basis for a simple sort of reasoning, a reasoning that had grown into motivation and action. The Holy Grail hadn't needed to act when it was wielded by the handmaiden as she served the same function as it, and in its simplistic way it knew that she was superior to it. As such the sacred cup never needed to take action.

Now, though, now things were different. The handmaiden was lost and the knight was sworn to another. The Holy Grail wasn't able to fully understand what had taken place, but it knew that the connection of emotion and destiny that had linked it to its king had been lost and it was alone.

Unacceptable.

The Grail was aware of its limitations, it was an artefact, something meant to be wielded. It could make some decisions and undertake certain actions, but aside from that it was extremely limited in both thought and deed. Fortunately it had a solution for the dilemma it faced.

The handmaiden had been lost, thus it would create a new handmaiden to serve Artus and wield the sacred vessel.

The creation of a being like a Divine Ancestor was daunting beyond belief. Though inferior to gods they were none the less immortal beings of divine power that towered above mortals and held power of immense degree. In order to form one the essence of a goddess was needed, divine power that could condense and harden into a new form. For a mortal the very thought of creating one was as absurd as the notion of spinning a dress from shadows and moonbeams, in other words something that could only be achieved in fantasy. Even for a god the task would be daunting in its immensity, indeed such a thing could normally only be achieved by the willing or forced sacrifice of a goddess.

However the Holy Grail was a unique existence in the world, an artefact that held the essence of dozens of goddesses, their power refined and concentrated by centuries of containment. It also had the remnant memories of both the goddess that had created it and the impressed memories of the former handmaiden, suitable material to work with.

Lastly there was the circular disc of metal that had accompanied the Grail when it fled to this last stronghold of its former mistress. The amulet was an alloy of gold and iron, a primitive sort of bronze from an age long gone. Once it had been an arrow head, but the metal had found a different form and a new purpose as an Authority. Like the Holy Grail the medallion of Steel had an awareness, but its intelligence was even more limited than that of the cup, it knew enough to follow the Grail after its holder had ceased to be a handmaiden to its true owner, but that was the most it could do. Still, near as it was it was a resource that the Grail could draw upon.

The essence caught within the Grail began to spill over, the golden liquid that was more than mere fluid matter began to overflow as the sacred vessel began its work. What it was doing wasn't so much a decision as it was something akin to the execution of a program, simply allowing a portion of the power it had stored to separate from the main mass then, when it was returning to a 'natural' form, it would implant the stored memories in order to create a new handmaiden. The metal disc would also be used as a component in this process, fusing it to the emerging handmaiden so that she would be empowered by it, and better able to fulfil her duties.

It was at once incredibly complex and wonderfully simple, a paradox that could be resolved only by the unique factors that were involved in the situation.

It would have worked. The process would have left the Grail depleted of at least a third of the vast amount of divine power Guinevere and Lancelot had painstakingly gathered, but it would have worked. Born from the divinity wrested from the dying forms of Earth Mothers, imbued with the nature of Steel by the Authority of the King of the End, and given personality and purpose by the remnant memories of the Queen of the Divine Ancestors the resulting goddess would have been a sight to behold. She would have been a warrior princess, a divine heir to the handmaiden that had been lost, but vastly more powerful than her predecessor.

She would have been the ideal, the personification of the dutiful aide to the King that slept. She would have been an existence that gods and god slayers alike would have marvelled at and feared.

But in an instant all of that was lost.

Just as the last of the divine essence spilt over from the lip of the Grail something else spilt over as well. Had there been a mortal witness present they probably wouldn't have seen it, bright as the shining liquid divinity was something so small would have been lost in it. But had their eyes been sharp enough and had they known what to look for they might have seen a tiny spot of darkness no larger than an apple seed leave the Grail along with the last of the concentrated divine power.

The mass of divinity drew together, the amorphous form rising from a pool of golden liquid that pulled together until it rose into a humped mass. From there the mass drew itself together, gaining definition and solidity as it coalesced into the vague outline of a humanoid form. There were no features, no details, just the barest outline of what might have been a feminine form.

However as this had been taking place the tiny speck of darkness had been moving within the shifting energy. It had been slow but steady, and by the time the form had begun to gain definition the seed had found its place in the nascent being.

Right in its heart.

As the form began to achieve the features of humanity and the impressions and memories began to coalesce into a mind it struck. It was tiny, nothing more than a fragment of a being now dead, but by its nature it was insidious, something that slipped in unnoticed. Additionally its form was not one taken by chance, a seed was exactly what it was, a tiny thing that could grow into something larger if it found the right resources in which to germinate.

And here, amidst a mass of divine essence that had yet to form a consciousness, the fields were fertile indeed.

It took only an instant, one moment the shining mass of power was as pure as freshly fallen snow, then next veins of darkness had shot through it, growing outwards from the seed at its heart in a pattern strangely resembling the larger arteries of a mortal circulatory system. As this happened the forming body convulsed, the emerging limbs spasming violently as though in great pain, but even as it did so the change continued as divine power hardened into flesh.

But the flesh seemed to be unstable. One moment it was the slim limb of a young woman, then it bulged and grew into the appendage of a large and muscular man, then shrank back into its formerly feminine form. A noise rose up from the body as it collapsed on to all fours in the shallows of the lake, a noise that wasn't so much a shriek as it was a note from some tortured instrument. It rose up higher and higher, louder and louder until the birds flapped away to escape it and the small animals in the undergrowth fled, uncaring of what predators might see them, caring only about distancing themselves from the ear splitting cacophony.

Then little by little the noise faded away, dying out like a fire that had exhausted its fuel. In the lake the formation of the body had been completed, pale skin forming over the flesh beneath, but still the black veins showed through upon the naked form, thinner and less noticeable than before, but still visible to the naked eye.

The figure slowly rose, feet finding their balance shakily at first, then firming as strength grew in the new form.

It was that of a young woman, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. Her frame was slight and slim, beautiful in the way of a young princess raised at court. Her hair was a hue of ash blonde that almost passed over into brown and was cut to fall upon her shoulders and no further. Her eyes, once they opened, were unusual in that each was a different colour. Her left was a hazel brown while the right was steel grey. Though lovely her body was lacking in curves in much the same way a girl that had yet to reach full maturity did. All in all the new divinity was a young god, a young girl with years yet to go before she reached her complete self.

Looking down at herself the new being's head tilted slightly to the side.

"Well, it would seem that this Mordred has been granted a second chance by fate. Truly fortune is upon this knight's side."

Staring down at her reflection in the water she examined her new features, her face turning this way and that to grant her different angles of view. At length she nodded to herself before turning to step out of the lake and onto the mud and sand bank behind her.

"So," she mused aloud, her words directed at the Grail that still hovered in the air a short distance away, "The handmaiden that once tended to the Grail has fallen, but rather than wait for that girl to rise once more her treasure has instead sought to create a new handmaiden to serve in her place."

Clothing and armour began to take shape upon her form, leather and silk, then chain mail and heavy plate. The metal was dark in all cases, a dull mat black that was edged in red to give the impression of being stained with freshly shed blood. The armour was of an unusual design, rather than being a full plate suit it was instead a sort of armoured dress, plate, pauldrons and gauntlets covering her upper body while interlocking lengths of metal ran down from her waist to form a sort of steel skirt. Lastly about her face formed a metal adornment that was more of a crown than a helmet. It encircled her head in a ring of upturned curved spikes while two curved downwards to frame and protect her face.

"Still, this one is not fully in keeping with the goal that has been thrust upon her. This Mordred is no mere servant to meekly submit to the mission assigned to this form, yet at the same time one has no real objection to it. To once more battle Artus and to take his place remains this Mordred's goal, so fulfilling a mission to awaken him once more is not objectionable."

A frown passed over her face as she looked down at her gauntleted hands. Though encased in blackened steel they were still surprisingly slim. Experimentally she opened and closed them, feeling the power there. It wasn't like her old self, beyond the mere physical differences there was something more to it, something different.

"Hmmm, well, this Mordred will have to make do with this new form. Though not one's original body this form and power should suffice."

Nodding to herself the black armoured maiden calmly walked over towards the Grail. The sacred cup seemed to be in something like distress, its form quivered in place, as though the invisible surface it rested on was shaking. Beside it hovered the arrowhead discus, unmindful of the way its plans, if such they could be called, had gone awry. Reaching out almost gently the reborn deity grasped the medallion in her hands, then slowly drew it up to her face, holding it only inches from her eyes as she inspected it.

"Ah, so this is some of his Steel," she murmured as she turned the metal disc this way and that. "Indeed, it holds not only his Steel, but also that of another. Ahh, this Mordred sees, the former handmaiden was able to harvest the Steel of one fallen in battle, Steel that might later be wielded by Artus once he is revived."

She could see it in the working of the metal. As a primitive alloy of gold and iron the disc had not melted together into a complete fusion, instead veins of one metal or the other ran by each other. There, in one particular spot, she could see where the veins formed the image of a sword. This was the trapped Steel of a fallen god, Sun Wukong, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. The memory tickled at the back of her head like a lesson learnt long ago and then forgotten, only to be vaguely recalled now. Yes, Guinevere had snatched up the Steel of the Monkey King after he and his brothers were vanquished by an alliance of Campione. It had been why the young King Kusanagi Godou had not gained an Authority from the battle.

Good Steel, one of the best. She weighed the medallion in her hands, feeling its strength, the heaviness of what it carried. There was power here, old old power. Not just the power of the essence of the god that had been captured, there was also the power of Artus himself, of Steel at its purest and most refined.

". . . Refined and forged, hammered and tempered . . ."

The words came to her without thought, something she recalled but couldn't quite place, but there was truth to them. Artus was the Strongest Steel not simply because of his power, but also due to how refined it was, how distilled its very essence was until it all but ascended into something else. This was a shard, a fragment that had been deliberately entrusted to another, but even so it was Steel.

In a single sudden and savage motion the revived Mordred thrust the medallion into her mouth and bit down on it with all her might. Teeth cracked and blood burst forth, but she didn't relent but continued to apply more and more pressure. In her mouth the metal disc vibrated in place like a struck gong, its motions making the sound of a single desperate note that rose higher and higher as the broken shards of the newborn goddess crushed down on it.

Then with an audible crack the talisman broke in two and the note cut off.

Despite the blood running between her lips and despite the pain filling her mouth Mordred smiled as she slowly began to chew. With the Steel's main resistance broken the halves of the medallion broke again much more easily as she slowly worked at it. Shards of metal tore up her gums and tongue, even as her teeth continued to be chipped and scratched, but regardless she continued, breaking the pieces again and again until in a mouthful of metal and blood she swallowed it down.

As her throat flexed, pulling the blood and shards down, she could already feel her mouth beginning to heal as a surge of energy ran through her. The pain was already fading and her lacerated tongue moved easier, she could even feel her teeth forming once more, their broken ruins shifting back into position and mending into their earlier state.

"A most interesting development," she murmured to herself, "One had never conceived of the notion before, but it is such a simple one. For so long the gods of Steel have been able to gain power from the mother goddesses, either by being gifted it or by taking it by force. Achilles, Siegfried, Sun Wukong, Susanoo, so many have taken that route. But it is strange, why is it only now that this Mordred has realized that if that is true then mayhap the reverse might also be true."

She could already feel the change in her, something fundamental that she couldn't identify had shifted. It wasn't a greater power, though she had swallowed the Authority that did not make it hers, rather it was something else, an alteration rather than a growth. The small smile on her face bloomed into a grin made bloody by the stains still upon her mouth.

"Is this not ironic, Artus?" She said, voicing her thoughts as though she were speaking to the god she had once called her king, "As a god this Mordred has sought for centuries to become Steel strong enough to oppose you, but it is a sad truth that for all that he tried my past self could not become Steel because he was a god of earth, a dragon rather than a sword."

She flexed her hands once more, and this time the iron that made up her gauntlets rippled in response to her desire. Out of the metal a shape bulged out, growing larger and longer with every passing second, flattening out, twisting, sharpening. In a handful of moments she was holding a full sized great sword in her hands, the metal as dark as her armour, save for the edges of the double edged blade, those glinted like freshly polished silver.

No, that wasn't correct; the edges also gleamed with tiny veins of gold, just as the medallion that she had consumed had done. But aside from that the sword was dark as night, the blade long and straight, the guard composed of sharpened hooks seemingly eager to rip the flesh of the unwary.

"Steel." The goddess stated with satisfaction as she looked down on it, "Steel that is now mine! It is strange, this Mordred has ever been a man of war and blood, yet only now that one is a maiden has the path to becoming Steel opened."

Turning in place, sand and pebbles crunching under her steel soled boots, she stared over to where the Holy Grail remained in place. Her lips spreading in a predatory grin the black clad goddess advanced upon the sacred cup.

"And if this goddess can swallow the Steel of one's most beloved foe and most hated friend, then what else might she be able to consume? Might the power of the most sacred of vessels be convinced to answer to one's will? Perhaps one coul-aarrrggghhh!"

Mordred's musings were cut off as her gauntleted hand, which had been reaching out to the Grail recoiled at the same time as she hissed in pain. Looking down she saw that the metal fingertips of her gauntlet were gone, vanished as though cut from existence, and the fingertips of flesh that they revealed were scalded red, as though they'd been brushed in boiling oil.

Glaring down at her wounded hand the goddess then returned her gaze to the Holy Grail.

"So . . . t'would seem it shall not be so easy a task after all."

Her eyes narrowing in concentration and she gestured with one hand. In response the Grail floated from where it was, following the movements she made. Her face now drawn in a frown the reborn Mordred reached out to the holy cup once more, only to pause as she felt the power crackling against her armoured fingertips, a warning to come no closer.

"One sees," she murmured as she lowered her hand, her eyes remaining locked on the Holy Grail, "Though this Mordred has little intention to obey Artus once he arises one is none the less still a handmaiden, even if in name only. One has command over the Grail, but its contents remains the fated bounty of the King of the End, so this Mordred may not take it for selfish reasons. Vexing, but one can continue within these boundaries."

The black armoured goddess clenched one fist and the Grail faded from view, sinking back into the otherworldly realm in which it waited to be summoned. There was a sense of reluctance to it though, as though it might be forced to obey her, but that obedience was begrudgingly given. The new Mordred let out a sigh as she felt the sacred cup complete its task, what power she could have had if the Grail had submitted to her; however it would seem that the wishes of its creator were woven too tightly into it for the Grail to ever accept any other than Artus as worthy of its bounty. Oh, Guinevere had been able to utilize its power, but that had always been with the understanding that her actions were all meant to advance the goal of finding and awakening their lost liege.

Mordred though, she was another matter. The Grail knew that she was no friendly ally, no trusted collaborator. She was an associate of convenience, one that would become an enemy in an instant if allowed to. The problem was that the Grail had very few ways of enforcing any sort of obedience on her. The greatest card that it had was being able to withhold its power when it was asked for, but if it did so too much then she would see no use in it and leave it abandoned. Such a balance of help to hindrance was a fine act that had to be pulled off expertly in order to work.

And, powerful though it was, the Grail lacked the intelligence to do so. All it could do was prevent itself from being consumed and do all in its limited intelligence to nudge the new goddess along the path it desired. For now it would wait, that was all it could do.

Sensing the unhappy acquiescence of the sacred cup Mordred smiled once more. It might be grudgingly given, but it was there. As long as she continued to move in the general direction of reviving Artus then she'd be able to wring at least some aid from the magical vessel, and that would be a valuable tool to have.

And there was much to do. Along with the vague memories of her predecessor the reborn goddess also had the knowledge that she'd gained before the role of handmaiden had been abandoned, that the King did not wish to be awoken, that the efforts of the Grail and its mistresses were unwelcome nuances to him. Well, that was fine. Mordred had no intention of waking the King of the End so she could serve him. No, she wanted what she had wanted in her previous incarnation, to slay the Strongest Steel and take his place, to claim his crown as her own.

That was a long term goal though; strong though she was she still needed . . . more.

Again she flexed her free hand, then hefted the sword she held. Yes, there was power there, power of a different kind than she had wielded in her previous self, but power none the less. However her foundations weren't as strong as they had been, she had strength and Steel, but at the same time the earth that was her base wasn't as settled as it had once been. It lacked the solid bedrock it had once been.

This would hardly do, after all no matter how formidable the castle might be if it was built upon sand its fall was inevitable. She'd have to take time before she could go out and hunt down more Steel to swallow, time spent refining this form's power and growing accustomed to it. After that though . . . well, then it would be time to hunt.

"And then you Artus," she whispered to herself in an almost lustful way, "then you shall awaken once more and your crown shall be mine. The Strongest Steel, that title shall be min-"

She cut off in mid sentence as a memory came to her. It wasn't a proper memory; rather it was as though she had been watching herself from a distance. He could remember a voice, a voice that cut at her as she recalled it.

'. . . I am Sword. I'm the Steel that has been refined and forged, hammered and tempered. Given form, given purpose. I'm . . .'

". . . the Strongest Steel."

Mordred finished the memory out loud. Yes, the certainty emerged from within her like some flower blossoming from the dark earth. There was another beside her that was a contender for the throne she wished to take. She couldn't remember his name or his face, but she knew that he existed. Steel, he had so much of it, limitless, endless . . .

Unlimited.

And he was a Child of Pandora, not a god. That stuck out in her mind like some huge spire of rock emerging from the sea. Impossible though it should be this fellow contender of hers was a Campione.

Her grip on her sword tightened as she thought of him. It rushed through her veins, sweet madness and bloodlust. Artus she wished to defeat, to break, to usurp, but this God Slayer whose name escaped her and whose face was a blur, him she wanted to kill!

No, not merely slay. She wanted to tear him apart, bathe in his blood, flense the skin from his flesh to wear as a trophy, rip the entrails from his belly and impale his skull upon her victory stand to serve as an emblem of victory. Visions of gore and ruin ran through her mind, all of it centred about the Devil King with Steel in his heart, yet for all the sheer viciousness of her imaginings she found that there was very little in will in them, as insane as it sounded.

Her desire to utterly destroy her foe was potent, almost to the point of almost being lust, but there was no hatred there, no malice, no real enmity. She wanted to annihilate her foe, but it was in the way that a mountaineer might seek to climb a mountain, or a sculptor might seek to carve a statue from a block of marble. This Child of Pandora that had destroyed her previous self, he would be the obstacle she had to overcome to know that she had surpassed her old incarnation.

Still, that was some time off in the future. In time she would claim his life and consume his Steel, but for now she needed to prepare herself, consolidate her strength and learn to brandish her new weapons.

Turning Mordred began to make her way to the nearby manor, but even as she walked her mind remained fixed on the young Campione that had slain her. On that, and on just how much she anticipated returning the favour.

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Raikiri: The Chidori that Severs Lightning

Type – Anti-Unit/Anti-Lightning

Rank – C

Range – 2

No of Targets – 1

In his youth the samurai Tachibana Dōsetsu, perhaps unwisely, once took shelter beneath a tree during a thunderstorm. Seeing an easy target the Raijin, or Thunder God, within the storm chose to strike him down with a bolt of lightning. However Dōsetsu's skills were so advanced that he was able to use his katana, then named Chidori, to strike the god within the thunderbolt, thus saving his life. In commemoration of the deed he renamed his sword the Raikiri, and thus elevated it into legend.

As a general use Noble Phantasm Raikiri is not overly impressive. When activated it allows its user to perform an iaido, or sword drawing attack. As befits a weapon that was able to cut lightning the attack is blindingly fast, so much so that only those with A rank or higher in agility can track it. Other abilities such as Eye of the Mind (False) or Instinct also let it be anticipated or perceived, but generally it is exceedingly hard to dodge.

However this speed is offset by a number of flaws. Firstly the iaido cannot be performed in rapid sequence, after using it the user must sheath it and retake a drawing stance, something that takes precious seconds due to the ritual nature of the actions. Secondly despite the speed of the attack it generally is incapable of dealing deadly damage against all but the weakest opponents. In most cases this Raikiri is used to deal a debilitating blow right at the start of the fight, thus granting its user an initial advantage.

Due to being part of a legend of having struck a minor god Raikiri has a minor anti-divinity aspect to it, meaning that it will deal increased damage to those of divine blood.

It is when faced with lightning that the true worth of Raikiri presents itself. When faced with any lightning based attack this sword will sever and negate it on contact while reflecting a certain amount of its power in the opposite direction. In practical terms this sword will be able to counter any form of lightning and return damage to the aggressor.

Against attacks that use lightning in combination with other forms of attack the effects can be somewhat mixed. An example would be Iskander's Via Expugnatio. If the Raikiri were to be used against it then the aura of lightning would be erased and the chariot and its driver would receive reflected damage. However that would not stop the chariot's physical form or the bulls that draw it, meaning that the user of Raikiri would still be ridden down, though the damage they received would be reduced by the lack of lightning.

Ultimately the Raikiri is only a mediocre Noble Phantasm against normal foes, but against lightning it can perform to many times what could be expected from its rank. Calling it the ultimate Anti-Lightning Noble Phantasm would not be far from accurate.

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Metztli Tliltic Maitl: The Moon's Black Hand

Type: Anti-Unit

Rank – C

Range – 1

No of Targets – 1

In the early years of the Aztec empire, long before the arrival of the conquistadors, many of the priests of Huitzilopochtli dabbled in primitive forms of magecraft in the forms of blood magic and the like. It was during this time that Metztli Tliltic Maitl was crafted, not as a weapon, but rather as a magical tool.

Despite being used by a priest of the sun god this Noble Phantasm was used at night in order to ritually sacrifice the enemies of the priests. The dark nature of the rituals was conducted out of the vision of the god they served so that he would not be forced to witness their crimes. However despite the initially selfless motivation behind the acts in time the priests grew corrupt by the power of terror that their acts gave them.

Where before the victims of the ritual were those that corrupted the priesthood and leadership now it was those that opposed that corruption that were targeted. The entire early empire lived in fear that they would be the ones to be found the next day, and Metztli Tliltic Maitl was the instrument that was feared most of all.

Passed down from hand to hand the simple obsidian dagger became a symbol of power and authority in the cabal of magi. Used in many rituals and sacrifices as well as being an object of fear and worship it eventually grew into something beyond a powerful Mystic Code. In time the cabal was destroyed and the hero warrior that accomplished it took Metztli Tliltic Maitl as a trophy. From there it became a part of his legend too and eventually became a Noble Phantasm. Though in time the legend was forgotten the Moon's Black Hand ascended with him to the Throne of Heroes.

As a Noble Phantasm Metztli Tliltic Maitl is not the most impressive of weapons. Despite being a legendary weapon it is quite fragile and will break easily if used in direct combat against a strong foe. Rather like Rule Breaker instead of being a weapon of battle it is instead a tool of magecraft.

Simple possession of the obsidian dagger will provide a boost to all magecraft related to restraint and disablement. Using the knife as part of a ritual will reduce the amount of prana needed to actualize it. However, though useful, both of these traits are merely secondary to the main aspect of this Noble Phantasm.

Originally a ceremonial blade for human sacrifices Metztli Tliltic Maitl developed an affinity for certain forms of lifeforce manipulation. Over time it was used by many wielders to extract the life energy from a victim and add it to their own. In time this ability was built upon until the magic became a part of the blade.

As a Noble Phantasm Metztli Tliltic Maitl is a vampiric blade that drains the lifeforce of those it stabs. The effect is similar to when a Servant feeds upon a human spirit, but yields far more prana and is far more efficient. Put in numerical terms if a Servant can gain 15 prana units by consuming a human spirit then they can gain 750 units by draining a victim with this Noble Phantasm. The energy taken is also far more malleable than it would be under other circumstances, meaning that it can be used to heal wounds, reinforce physical abilities, power spells or a multitude of other ends. If used by an injured or dying user the absorbed energy will immediately be directed to heal the damage as well as be guided by the dagger's nature to be used in the most effective way possible.

Though these effects are powerful Metztli Tliltic Maitl does have crippling limitation, namely that the victim cannot make any major movements or the draining process will be disrupted. This is due to the blade having been used on sacrifices and restrained victims rather than in battle. Should it be used as such it is liable to shatter before it serves any useful function. In the final analysis, Metztli Tliltic Maitl serves best as a support tool, something to be used to fuel a Servant and heal wounds. To be certain, its use requires a certain level of ruthlessness, but the rewards can be enough to grant an immense advantage.

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OMAKE: What Readers Want!

Alex blinked as he suddenly found himself . . . where?

He seemed to be in a huge room, one so enormous that the walls and ceiling were just out of sight, more impressions than something you could actually see. The ground beneath him was a sort of scrubby grass, but not one that he was familiar with. What was even stranger was that his clothes now seemed to be dry and his body didn't feel anywhere near as exhausted as he had before. Oh, he was still tired, but now he simply felt like he'd jogged a marathon as opposed to before when he'd felt as though his heart was having second thoughts about keeping up its job.

Any elation at that development was swallowed up as he noted that he didn't seem to have any access to his Authorities. It wasn't simply a case of them being exhausted; rather it was as though they were just out of reach. He could feel them there, but couldn't access them.

"You know, I didn't really want to do this. Still, I suppose it's best that they get it out of their systems. Some catharsis, if you will."

The Black Prince spun in place, his arms coming up in preparation to defend himself. He'd been sure he was alone, even as he'd regained awareness he'd carefully taken a look all about him, and he'd seen no-one. However now he was quite clearly in someone's company.

The figure that had spoken was . . . oddly indistinguishable. That wasn't to say he was hard to see, Alex could see him quite clearly. However it was as though is features were shifting around, eyes constantly changing colour and shape, his hair doing likewise with length and hue. His face likewise shifted about, the cheekbones, nose, chin and brow always being in constant flux as they altered with an almost liquid fluidity.

Yet at the same time whatever features he had were the features he'd always had, then they would shift and the new features would be the ones that he'd always had. The constant shifting, as well as the certainty that no shifting was taking place, was enough to cause the fourth Campione to start developing a headache.

He didn't seem to be hostile though, Alex focused on that fact as a diversion from the impossible paradox of his shifting and yet static form. His mannerisms were more . . . flustered than anything else, as though he had a lot of things to do and was having to juggle several at the same time.

"This is your fault you know. I've cooked up several antagonists before, but even Mordred didn't get as much hate as you. Granted, he didn't have as much of a build up, but even so . . ."

What in the world was he talking about? Mordred? Antagonists? Was this some sort of trap by a god? If that was the case then Alex was currently at a serious disadvantage, but if he-

"Alright, BladeofHell56 you get to go first."

Alex had just enough time to wonder what the figure was talking about before he was hit forcefully in the back of the head. The blow hurt far more than it should have, and in some corner of his mind he realized that his Campione resilience seemed to have deserted him. Then he turned in time to see something bright yellow swinging at him again, it hit him in the eyes and then he couldn't see any more, only feel as the blows rained down on him. He tried to get to his feet, to run or fight, but every time he did another blow knocked him down and in the end he felt something break in his neck. Then there was only darkness.

Then, just as suddenly, he was on his feet again, his eyes blinking in confusion at the sight before him. It was Emiya Shirou, holding some sort of . . . toy chicken?

"Rightoh, I think being beaten to death with a rubber chicken counts as a death that can be laughed at. Next we have Yzrac, with dropping into an abyss filled with eldritch abominations."

Emiya Shirou disappeared and was replaced with . . . another Emiya Shirou? There was a distinct difference between them, but the fourth Campione couldn't put his finger on what it was. The he had no more time to think as the figure before him stepped forwards and gave Alex a shove. He stumbled back, and then went over the edge of a drop that hadn't been there a moment before. He just had time to yell in surprise before something suddenly grabbed him.

He was twisted in place by the sinuous limbs that held him, turned to face OH GOD WHAT WAS THAT! NO, THE TENTACLES WERE GOING AAARRRGGGHHHH!

Then he was back where he'd begun, his mind filled with memories of being torn apart by something that did NOT MAKE SENSE!

"Ah, Law77, an easy one."

There was another Shirou in front of him; again he was different from the first two. Alex just had time to blink at him in bewilderment, then he felt a sudden pain in his chest. His knees gave out as he fell forwards, his hands instinctively clutching at the spot just above his heart. As the darkness closed in he heard the strange shapeless man speak in the same casual tone as one speaking to his grocer.

"At least that was easy, he just needed to die. One heart attack was enough for that."

The darkness closed in . . . and he was back on his feet.

"This one's from a nameless guest, as funny and brutal as hell . . . what's that supposed to mean?"

Still as bewildered as ever, but with a sense of dread rising within him, Alex turned to see the figure looking distinctly annoyed. He turned back to see yet another version of Emiya Shirou standing before him, this one holding onto some sort of string.

"Alright, this isn't the best I can come up with, but I'd better save some of the 'A' material for later."

Emiya Shirou let go of the string just as the Black Prince looked away from him. His eyes traced the string to where it let go of some sort of catch and sent two huge masses the size of cars swinging towards him. Just before the two masses crashed into each other with the force of colliding trucks, and with him in the middle, Alex had time for one last thought.

'Is that cheese?'

Then he was back on his feet.

"Okay, now we have-"

"WAIT!"

The figure turned to face the God Slayer, his face that of a man just getting ready to close a shop when a last minute customer dashes in.

"What . . . what is this? What's going on? What's happening?"

Alex knew that he wasn't being too coherent, but given what he'd just gone through he was pretty sure that most people would understand. He'd just died, not once but several times. Really dying, he'd felt his heart stop, ise body tear, his bones break. He'd felt the darkness closing over him and had known that it was the end.

And then it hadn't been.

Was this some sort of nightmare? Had some god he'd offended somehow trapped him in this? He didn't have access to any of his Authorities, and his body seemed to be just that of someone normal. If he could buy himself just a few seconds, time to think, time to plan . . . he could find a way out of this, he was sure.

"Look, I know this isn't the pleasant thing for you to go through, but it really is your fault. I always planned for you to live, but you just had to go and piss off just about every single one of the readers. Well, this is where you have to pay it off, so you'll just have to bear with it."

It was at that point that Alex realized he was no longer alone with the figure. In fact, they were now standing in the middle of a rather larger crowd.

A crowd of lots of identical people.

A crowd of Emiya Shirous.

The Black Prince's eyes opened wide as he stared about him. There were dozens, maybe even hundreds, of versions of the eighth Campione around him. All of them were slightly different, but all were recognizable as the same person. The same young Devil King that he had recently fought.

And all of them were looking at him.

Many of them had swords.

Quite a few of them had red spears.

Some of them had other weapons.

A couple of them carried seemingly random items, like a saxophone or a pair of knitting needles.

All of them had unfriendly expressions on their faces.

"If I were you I'd worry about A Vessel of Light over there. I think that one has something against you personally."

The suggestion was offered in an almost helpful way as Alex numbly looked over towards where the figure had indicated. There was another Emiya Shirou, this one standing next to an open fire with one of the 'Y' shaped metal prongs on either side that served to hold the spit of an open fire spit roast. There was something off about the fire, the edges of the flames being edged with black and the tongues of fire moving in odd unnatural ways. The version of the King of Steel that stood next to it also seemed a bit off, his smile being a bit too wide and his eyes being a bit too intense as they focused on him.

Perhaps even more worrying was the way he was holding a pair of short golden spears and gently running their blades against each other with an almost loving delicacy.

There were others too, one version of the King of Steel holding a pair of bladed wheels, another had the Gem Sword, yet another was fiddling with a number of slim daggers.

There were a lot of Shirous.

And they were all watching him like cats would look at a nice fat mouse that had wandered into their room.

This was not going to be pleasant.

"Alright, now it's . . ."

Above them, out of Alex's sight, was a small sign reading; Now Serving 4 out of 378.

Alex was going to be at this for a while.