The outside of the little arrangements they made in the Underworld was utterly inexcusable. It was pitifully dark and misty, unwelcoming to the souls dwelling within it. Even if this place was an unfathomable lounge for souls awaiting their destiny in Tartarus, it could certainly make use of some… perks.
In fact there were a plethora of things he, the one True King, would handle quite differently around here as its Ruler. It was a shame, really, that the dunce wouldn't grace the latter the opportunity to give ideas. No, it didn't matter. It was too perfect indeed to go down this path he'd decided on instead.
He wasn't merely here to watch the lowly dogs nip and yap for an ending other than the disgrace they'd unquestionably earned for themselves. Indeed—he would never grace these lowly animals with his presence if he hadn't other things in mind. It took all of his long years of practicing patience to even fathom sitting next to the very beings he hated, in order to accomplish the one goal he had in mind.
Entertaining that lot was, when they bickered amongst themselves; though it was utterly despicable that they believed he was following any of their damned orders. They were more blind than the sightless—too preoccupied with their petty squabbles and bets in the tournament to see the true dealings at work.
However, something of which held much a higher value than anything he'd ever come across. Well, maybe not as precious as the Dame who stole his heart eons ago… but that was neither here nor there.
What was of importance was this meeting he was to have: it was the final step to ensure his plans would fall into action at the most appropriate of times. While the Gods of Old remained distracted by their inner quarrels, it would be his grim delight to put them firmly in their place; to make them pay for their misdeeds; and take back what was his right—and then some.
Yes, he would continue to find joy in watching them tear at each other's throats a little while longer. Powerful energy rippled around him, the very Underworld stirring in his wake as the man grinned to himself.
Their impotence would eventually lead to their doom.
—
Kiritsugu set his bag on the armchair, rubbing the stubble at his chin with his forefinger. He peered over to the boy lounged across the long sofa at the left hand side of the room.
"What did Loki say?" Shirou breathed, adjusting himself upright and leaning on the arm of the chair.
"Not much, but..." Taking off his blazer and hooking it on a hanger that he fixed onto the railing in the closet by the front door, Kiritsugu debated the best way to explain. While what the God of Mischief said had been edited, it was still a considerable amount to digest. "Dolos is dead. Killed by the Lancer of your war and the Rider from the parallel universe."
"What?!" Shirou stumbled off the couch with a dramatic crash, auburn eyes wide. " Why !?"
Kiritsugu delved into the details of what he knew—or rather, what the God felt he was inclined to know.
"It seems I was correct about the curse and it sprinkled into the whole ordeal, tonight." The assassin slumped into a chair he pulled from the desk along the way and sighed. "Loki claims he can guarantee our win, but you know I think little of what he says. We must proceed with caution."
Shirou nodded, digesting the information that cast the few remaining contestants to the Dome while the events unfolded in the hotel. By the amount of Observers that had evacuated alongside them from the tower—that shrank in size every day as the participants thinned out—he and the Old Man gathered their suspicions of what was truly happening.
The boy loathed Loki's plot to amplify the remnants of the very tainted Grail, that took such an arduous effort to eliminate that Heroic Spirit. If the girl Haley was able to subdue it, what right did Loki have (even if it were somewhat beneficial to their win) to accomplish such a heinous thing?
Not that it mattered. Judging by the events that just unfolded—the Panel of Hosts did not approve of it either. Knowing what he did about the evils from the Grail, Shirou was grateful for their interference.
"Did Loki give you what you needed?" Shirou managed to ask, recovering from his thoughts.
Kiritsugu reached into his pants pocket, pulling out the familiar case of cigarettes. After lighting one, he brought the bud to his lips and inhaled slowly. "He did."
He blew out the smoke, eyes heavy with fatigue. Being The God of Mischief's scapegoat to ensure not a single of the Observers (or the Panel) knew of his dealings was draining him. The idle threat to Shirou's life yet haunted him like a ghost.
But he wouldn't tell him any of that. The kid's heart was soft. He would not harden it with the decision he had made, nor the details of the final deal he had struck with Loki; he could not say in confidence that the God would uphold it. However—he would allow Loki to believe that he was groveling at his feet for his mercy and promises.
That was why the Assassin kept the knowledge he had learned in his secret scouting strictly to himself, bitterly plotting to end it for a final time... Or at least, to salvage what he could of the good that still existed in the world…
For the one thing he had done right.
He wouldn't take Shirou's accomplishments for himself. The boy was growing into an honorable man in his own right. Kiritsugu may have nudged him in that direction with the stories of his ideals—but Shirou had made them his own and managed to save the world alongside his daughter.
Illya…The stories his son brought of the girl and the sacrifice she made would impact him for the rest of time his soul possessed. The mistakes he had made, the path he had sought led directly to the end she took upon herself to assist, closing the gate…
A shame he will carry. A light gone—but not lost.
"Old Man?" Shirou looked with a silent query, slanting his head.
Kiritsugu offered him one of his rare smiles. "Tomorrow, Loki fights the couple—" the kid's sunlit eyes flickered, "—After the God fights, there will be a few matches in between, then the final obstacle before we are crowned the victors…"
"Then what?" Shirou tilted his head onto the pillows propped behind it.
Kiritsugu barely glanced in the direction of his pride and joy.
—
Steel rang louder than sounding bells, clanging strong and true against the monstrous blades and accompanying evils… Evils that multiplied as time drifted onward: in both the realms of the living and in the Underworld… too swiftly, according to the suspicious, watchful eyes.
Demons were not once things of Hades. Yes, there were crude beasts of legend, spirits of malice, Furies and other otherworldly things—but not quite demons. No, those were in other realms of darkness that the living conjured from other prevalent religions.
Now, those detestable savages shrilled battle calls as they soared over the Undead and the Forsaken souls in their wildly diversive, monstrous front. On the opposite end of the shadowy realms, Cerberus yowled, attending to his own prowling against the dead. The three-headed hound was aided by the battle cries of the harpies, dragging and clawing at the rioters with their talons.
Brilliant light showered the foggy realm, a golden bow glistening in its warmth as it was gripped by the silver-haired warrior. She readied an arrow from her endless arsenal and let it soar to the uprising that marched ever forward. Howls of defeat roared, as restless souls echoed their voices in their relentless charge at the barriers separating the Gods from the dead.
A nasty wind wrestled with Trista's locks, another arrow fitted and ready to strike the horde. At both her sides, Observers armed from shoulders to toes advanced forward: their Divine weapons flourishing in their own, grand radiance.
"Their resilience grows," Ozzard said grimly, side-eyeing the warrior next to him.
Her weapon only whined in response, setting forth another dazzling array of projectiles. "How do y'all think Hades is completely unaware of this?" Trista could not fathom it—a revolt in his own realm, and yet he remained oblivious. What damn magic was at work here?
Her companion's shoulders raised indifferently. "Maybe Athena is trying to hide her miscalculations from her Uncle and is having that Wizard play a part in it." He launched another spear across the way, impaling the heart of a Forsaken that dissipated into dust. "You would think the overabundance of souls flowing into Tartarus would tip him off, otherwise."
Trista sucked her teeth. The great Mage of Flowers left his Tower of Avalon to aid Athena in keeping her Godly family in the dark. What a legendary tale this might turn out to be! His involvement in all this was blurry at best. At first sight, it was merely to assist Athena in keeping Loki in line; having that sort of clairvoyance was too much to pass on.
But now even she was not so sure that was the Half-Incubus's only motive. There had to be more, something he had seen that he had not divulged to anyone. In his spare time, he placed a bet on an odd couple of living and dead (of present times and the past) to do… what? He definitely wasn't helping them because he believed in their love story. Or maybe he was—it was difficult to tell.
"Understandin' the Gods ain't what we're here for," she sneered more to herself than to Ozzard. "But this—damn it all, ain't this timin' perfect."
Ozzard slowly bobbed his head in agreement. "Too perfect. Athena dispels us in her aid against Forsaken that rise to defeat us, and yet a tournament among them continues—all because of some… arrangement between Loki and Hades? Ridiculous. Our numbers are spread thin because of it. You'd think this was a plot from the Forsaken themselves."
"No, no that ain't it. Somethin' or someone is encouragin' them. My bet is on Loki." As her recurve disappeared, only one Forsaken remained standing in the swirling ashes of the fallen souls. Trista angled her head to an Observer in back to retrieve him for questioning.
Ozzard glanced at the astounding woman, so glorious in the armor that hugged her every curve. "Mine is on Gilgamesh, beautiful." At the raise of her eyebrows, he offered her a flirtatious wink.
She answered with a kick to his groin despite it being covered by a metal plate, as she let out a humored laugh. "Shoo Prince Charmin', there's nuff love stories fillin' this dreadful place."
"Hmm, all the more reason to add another."
Trista gagged on air. "Bleh, augh," her fingers curled into a fist to pat dramatically at her mouth.
A smirk edged up the corner of Ozzard's lip; his expression hardened as the last standing Forsaken flopped onto his knees before them. He bent down onto his haunches, leveling his stare with the hues of black glaring at him. "I'll keep it simple—answer me honestly and you can wander out of here with your soul."
Its eyes were blacker than obsidian, but were lit with vicious repugnance. It reeked of rotting flesh, yet It showed no indication of that disturbing aspect. Despite the foul odor, what was more potent was the sorcery leaking off of It. He'd felt this before.
With that Diarmuid fellow.
That Forsaken Heroic Spirit has—no, correction— had similar malignance coursing through his veins. The death of Dolos, or rather, the sending of his soul to the Other side—was the result of trying to ignite it once again.
All wondered at the true purpose of doing something so repulsive. The man was already long passed, and had since suffered tragedy in a second life that dragged him into this wasteland. Why torture him outside of the Arena's events? Despite himself, Ozzard didn't find the soul deserving of that .
Rumors did say it was punishment for breaking tournament regulations. Though this... thing at his knees told a different version of that story. Probably the version that held the truth.
It offered him no words, only a bleak and haunted expression. Ozzard inhaled through his nostrils, sliding his eyes to the analyzing woman next to him.
Trista wedged the Forsaken's chin between her index and thumb, and turned Its head side-to-side, inspecting and expecting a reaction. Nothing answered. Aside from the obvious contempt melting what would have been attractive features—It simply sneered at her.
"What sent ya," she asked blandly, knowing the thing was long gone. At Its silent response, she dropped her grip and planted her hand flat on Its chest.
The Observer spared her companion a glance and nodded, "By the Angels, be gone, then."
Underneath her fingertips, the body—colder than ice—flared. It dissolved from her celestial touch, the grim, pasty outline of Its greyscale soul waving like a flag before a small portal cracked open. Anguished cries blared in the crevice as the soul's darkness was whisked away like a feather in the wind. The sounds of the tormented cut out, and a heavy sigh exited Trista's downturned mouth.
Sending the wicked to Tartarus never got easier. She was a veteran of the procedure—yet her compassion did not flag. The wails of the fallen grasped at her heartstrings, yanking on the tender threads as they clamored to be saved from divine punishment.
Having such power over their fate demanded great responsibility. Never would she send one to eternal damnation before their time unless other methods proved futile.
Many had questioned her stubbornness on the matter, and had wondered what could possess her to turn up her nose to the Gods in respect for one of them . Judgement had fallen upon them already.
It was simple, really. Trista thought it was obvious: if those discarded souls could wander this realm for centuries—avoiding shadows and the like, enjoying various comforts—what grounds did she have to speed up the process?
It was this very rationale that she forfeited in disparaging Diarmuid. What had he done to deserve being shipped to the realms of purgatory by her hand? Showing her mercy at his blade? A draw was likely not his intended purpose, but embracing restraint certainly was.
Even in death—he clung to Knightly Honor, in contrast to the environment that instilled no such beliefs. He held concern where it needed not be. The Observers bore witness to his reluctance at the beginning of their match.
None heard his quiet murmur of forbearance at the order to neutralize her through her own lips.
That was enough for Trista, though. Some orders were just not justifiable to follow.
The petty torture that ensued after was agreed upon just to settle the rage in the infuriated Loki's heart. His… obsession over the former Knight was quite unnerving. Clearly their involvement in his game of absurdity was nothing worthy of his attention. Perhaps he seethed solely regarding Merlin's involvement.
Standing tall, she refused to mull over it any longer. There were heavier incidents that required resolving than involving herself further in the tournament's shenanigans. What's done is done, and her moral compass would stay intact despite everything challenging it.
"They've gone further and further with each passing moment," Ozzard said, his voice hollow and his gaze bleak with the reflection of the slaughter. The souls raised from their mock bodies and sent away by fellow Observers.
At least there was another who shared similar ethics. Trista would be thankful for it, as endless time drifted onward. "Yea, and yet one has to wonder beyond the duty of curiosity as to why. What false promises pilot their further corruption?"
Hues of jade clashed with bronze as both Trista and Ozzard shared their silent understanding, and turned away from the fallen behind them.
—
The air remained crisp, carrying Haley's long hair in its draft. She and Diarmuid stood on top of the Hotel's roof, communication from the watch speeding her pulse. One dilemma resolved thanks to the buzzing of golden jewelry.
With her Knight's hand clasped tightly in hers and wearing her most determined of faces, she called forth the Grand Caster.
In the most dazzling of fashions, flurries of fuchsia and carnation-colored petals scattered in the wind. Some carried in a spiral, fluttering in their majesty before dissolving into the sky. Wading through the cluster of flowers was the Mage, dressed in all white.
Merlin bore the softest of smiles, but there was a hint of mischief hidden well beneath his gentle approach. The aroma in the waft led Diarmuid to drown in ease, but his wits kept him afloat. Before they arrived at the rooftop, Haley had mentioned he had this… aura around him. Being aware of it now left Diarmuid even more suspicious of his ambiguity.
So many actions by the Panel—raising obstacles and set-backs alongside their disdain. The Irish Knight could not comprehend it all. Their contempt was almost tangible and the conflict he and his Lady struggled against in consequence, riled his ire.
In spite of that, he knew there was no reason to dwell on it. They had not gotten their way. Whatever seed resided within had not received enough water to grow as Dolos or Loki—or both of them—had desired. That was enough.
Tilting his head in the lovers' direction, interested and amused by their resolute stares, Merlin grinned. "I take it you have decided? Is your choice..."
"We do not know what exactly is your end goal, Lord of Flowers," Diarmuid interrupted, as lavender eyes studied him with fascination. "But I assure you, we shall not falter."
Merlin crooned, "And I assure you that I would expect nothing less from such a delightful pair."
Diarmuid merely smiled. "Your words do us great honor. As you already know my Lady's choice..." He sucked in a breath. "We wish to speak to you on our next objective."