Based off the LN's final lines in Dia's tragic death;
"He screamed curses until the final moment when he disappeared. There was no longer the glorious figure of a Heroic Spirit, but only an evil spirit roaring with resentment."
-update -x3
Thank you to my Beta Valancy for joining me on this project!
***Thank you to SaintKira for the help on fixing some of these problems and helping me adjust the ideas of the story!***
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Clouds of smoke filled her lungs as the woman wrinkled her nose. Her knuckles brushed her nostrils as she puffed up her chest and wrapped herself tighter in the heavy trench coat covering her light figure. She muttered something under her breath about how this in-between world so closely resembled the living world. Thought, the blistering cold air caressed her skin and reminded her she is no longer among the living.
The psychic carefully meandered through the growing number of people and strange, underworld creatures. It was awkward to brush up against the unnatural normalcy of their bodies. Physical forms that shouldn't exist, all devoid of the usual warmth that a living body would produce.
Back pressed along the cobbled walls dimly lit by the faded bulbs, she cautiously found a rounded stool seat and turned to the bartender; he gave her a sideways, analytical glance. She only offered him a light nod in his direction, before her eyes ventured through the bulk of souls gathered. Nothing . Her head dropped to her chest in disquiet - she needed to hurry, to find the soul she was seeking— before her life force became detectable. Before the dead realized that a living soul wandered their domain.
Awkwardly, she pushed off the hard, rounded cushion; she dared to raise her azure eyes and caught the scorning gaze of a sublimely-toned man. The scar stretching a torn path from the corner of his lips to his eyelids made her shudder involuntarily. His crusted look is almost damning. Her lip twitched, and she took a backward step.
"Apologies," she squeaked, and turned on her toes to avoid the man's dagger-like eyes. His body language was anything but welcoming, and thankfully—after he muttered a curse at her—he didn't follow.
She scanned the lobby as she exhaled a breath of relief. The rear of the room was furnished with dull brown lounge chairs, and seemingly fewer dead entities. Before she could provoke any further notice, she glided over to examine the souls: they were chatting, relaxing, and even playing darts.
Where is this soul? She was informed that she would be dropped as close to her target as possible. By now, she had almost ventured the entire— Wait . Her eyes narrowed. In the corner - along the window panes that omit little light from the outside - are some booths. The man she was hunting is situated in the rear corner booth that brushes against the wall.
His features were more mesmerizing in person: his body was all hard muscle, toned at the base; his cut abdominals protruded through the tight tunic that turtle-necked at his throat. It's an awkward, pine-green color that complements his pale skin tone. His eyes are jaded, a faint red tinge in the background of the slits.
After she inhaled a confidence-boosting breath, and calmly strutted toward him. As she neared, his lure became as obnoxiously powerful as the legends proclaimed. The pull from the mole beneath his right eye dragged her heart and mind to it—but her ability snapped it to subsume the magic into her own and dismantle it. Her mind can't be infiltrated by curses, nor anything else cerebrally manipulative. Her consciousness is always clear.
She closed the distance between herself and the man seemingly lost in thoughts (of turmoil and angst, she sensed); here is the Servant from the Fourth Holy Grail War: Diarmuid ua Duibhne.
Fists propped under his chin, he didn't even give the woman who approached, a swift interested glance. He'd known—even in the pits of this purgatory—that a woman would eventually be drawn to him, enticed by his love spot. The cursed thing under his eye. Funny, how even this shadowy world left him with something that burdened him so.
"You're Diarmuid, correct?" The Lady asked in a whisper.
Diarmuid lifted an eyebrow curiously, but maintained his stare out the window. He watched as the fog drifted through the still trees in the shadows.
"Indeed," he scoffed and peered over his shoulder at the girl. He scrutinized her odd choice of apparel. She had gloves that ran to the bends of her elbows and left her fingertips exposed. She revealed her face from behind the trench coat she was using as a disguise. The collar of her romper—unbuttoned from the waist up—sat lax around the neck. The upper cleavage of her chest peeked from the top of her tank as she angled to the side of the chair.
A quirky smile adorned her face as she gestured her hand to the ripped leather beside him.
"May I?" He shrugged before he leaned forward on the hardwood table top that separated them. Her long brown hair matched the dark wood, but her bright turquoise eyes and unwavering attention are what sparked his interest.
"If you must, but I warn you… "
He extracted his fingers from the round of his chin and placed his hands flat on the table.
"… If you become troublesome, your situation will rapidly turn dire." An empty threat . He would do anything to remain as far from a woman as possible. In the final moments before the ultimate end befell him—his last wish was to remain unbothered.
The woman scrunched her eyebrows together and curled her lip in confusion.
"You threaten me? What would you do? Have me teleport, since 'killing' someone in this place does nothing but bounce their soul around? As if."
She scooted in closer and wiggled her arms from her side to rest them on the table as she sighed with disappointment.
"How is this even comfortable?"
"You supposed it should be? Did you forget where you are, miss? I do not believe they care to make the residents comfortable before their departure into Hell," he retorted, displeased.
What was with this woman? Hadn't she received the same speech to her consciousness as he did? Or had she developed amnesia when she talked to him—because of his curse? He watched as her hands pulled the romper's shorts down just a bit; they had rolled up when she sat down.
"I guess not… " she shrugged nonchalantly and looked about suspiciously, before she leaned in closer.
"I suspect that a way out would be nice, right?"
Diarmuid gave her an exasperated look and shook his head. Did this woman have a torture wish? Spouting such nonsense in this location would put a target on her back. And his.
The Irishman scanned every rickety chair that is occupied by regulars in grubby tunics, their shifty gazes accompanied by hurried whispers and outlawed bargains. Particularly, Diarmuid eyed the warriors in the corners; they sulked about, weapons ready. Didn't seem like anyone heard her.
"Miss, you'll cause me a great deal of trouble if you continue spitting those... treacherous ideas."
"You think so? Aren't you all about trouble after... " her voice trailed off as she fingered a strand of hair and twirled it around her finger, "… you cursed yourself into this hole?"
He flinched at her words as if she'd slapped him. She frowned, realizing her mistake. This was not going as she had hoped. Her goal was not to antagonize or offend the dead-man.
"Sorry, it must still be fresh," she pointed at her own eyes and he lifted his brows. "The red?"
Diarmuid realized what the lady referred to. He hadn't really looked at himself in a mirror since his drop here after the Grail's destruction. He turned his head and peered into the window glass for a reflected glimpse of his gloomy face. There in his reflection; the former Servant observed the tint of red in his irises, the slit in his pupils, with the rest coated in crimson. Ah - he must look like a monster to her.
"I hadn't realized that I'd kept this grotesque look. The curse must still linger." He grimaced… This conversation was quickly turning disastrous.
"Well, back to -"
The woman started again, and Diarmuid abruptly cut her off again: "I believe I told you I preferred not to attempt such—"
She interjected just as rapidly, annoyed by his interruption.
"Oh, just listen . If you don't want to talk here - " she hunched over, " - do you know any place where we can canoodle in private?"
He bent closer also; his eyes blazed at such a suggestion.
"No," he stated firmly. "Now go . Last warning, miss." Crimson eyes glowered at her, but she held his stare. The way she challenged him... was she not affected by his curse? One of the very few among the many that crossed his path?
The woman slid out from her chair and nearly crashed her leg into the table.
"I am not leaving until we talk. It will take only five minutes of your time; it's not like you have much to waste it on anyway, right?" The strange woman tilted forward and bestowed her most blissful smile. The sudden gentleness that infused her tone made Diarmuid uncustomarily awkward.
The Spear man hissed a breath before he replied, "Five minutes - then you'll leave me be?" He decided to finally oblige, and concluded that once he has listened to her useless rambling, he will find the nearest observer and report her madness. The high pitch of her voice was highly irritating. He had been sentenced to an outcome befitting a cursed, disloyal knight. He accepted that. The last thing he needed is to do anything that will hasten his descent.
The Lady agreed and took a step back; her boots clacked on the floor. Diarmuid attentively guided her to the back of the lounge and held the door open. He bowed slightly before he gestured for her to exit.
"After you, Miss."
"Chivalry suits you," she winked as she patted his right shoulder (since it wasn't covered by the metal plate, unlike his left). "Too bad the concept died out a long time ago."
His eyebrows knitted and lowered slightly as his lips formed a firm line.
"Cannot imagine why," he grunted as he yanked closed the door behind him; he was keen to not draw any more attention to their odd discourse. There were a couple of curious, wandering eyes watched their strange encounter. He then gestured with his thumb to a small alley behind the building.
"Should be quiet there," Diarmuid remarked as she crossed her arms over her chest.
"Of course. A dark alleyway. How inviting." She gulped and quickly assessed their surroundings. "Well - you first."
The strange woman raised her palm suggestively; Diarmuid sighed at her lack of confidence. Whether it be because of him or the spot they were heading to didn't matter. She was in a holding realm for individuals—just like herself—heading to Hell. How someone could be so... subtly afraid was beyond him. The lady to have done something to earn a ferry here.
They walked in silence to the back of the building. Diarmuid rested his back on the brick wall under the stair case that leads to the upper parts of the building. A small light illuminated his face.
"Well, get on with it, Miss," he urged. The faster she talked, the better. The smell of rotten trash wafted over from the dumpster not too far off, and little demonic rats scurried underfoot.
The woman took a deep breath.
"You—along with others—have a chance to be spared from going to Hell. The circumstances of your sentencing are vague, at best. The curse you wished upon the Grail wasn't the reason behind its darkness is one such anomaly, since it had been corrupted in a Grail war long before yours. Not only that: your anger and frustration towards the people who made you do such a thing was... understandable. So the decision is to be reconsidered, but of course -"
The woman sighed and flicked her wrist, as a bony rat that malingered by her ankles crashed into a wall.
Diarmuid jerked at the sudden motion; he didn't quite understand how the rat was flung without her physically touching it. Something to ponder later , he rightfully thought, as she continued on:
"Of course, there is a price. The Gods are bored, so they want the spirits to fight for a second chance. With some help, of course." Her crystal eyes focused on his blood-red ones.
"So they elicited mediators—such as me—to act as a 'Master' or whatever, to help you fight for your freedom in a battle royale." The woman dug her hands into the pockets of her romper, as the crisp, still air was beginning to bother them.
"It's a bit messed up if you ask me, but if it frees your soul then I am up for it. I would act as a stand-in Master, to aid you in the fight with my own abilities. But the idea of Master is vastly different. The single seal given has stipulations in place to only stop you from killing me, or aid us in battle." She paused to take in his reaction.
His face was blank—unreadable—as Diarmuid listened to her proposal. The very idea behind the whole concept felt like poison on his tongue. To dip himself into the cup once more… is like slurping that poison to its full extent.
How could he even contemplate putting himself through that madness again? However... the thought of being released from his exile to the worst outcome for his pulled Spirit tempted him. To also have rules in place to ensure she doesn't abuse her control over him... even better…
But then again, to be under someone's control again? Utterly unacceptable. Desiring a second chance under a lord is why he is here to begin with. The idea was troublesome at every angle.
"Of course you can decline. But keep in mind, I am only here to help you. I don't think you deserve the punishment you are getting. I know all of what happened in the five Holy Grail Wars of Fuyuki, but your fate specifically leaves a bad taste in my mouth."
"I don't quite understand - who even are you? You come here, interrupting the last bit of peace I have. Just as such, you propose I do battle for an impossible wish. For what true reason? That I did not deserve this fate?"
His harsh laugh bounced off the alleyway. "You needn't try to fool me. You must have another goal."
The woman carefully eyed him from head to toe. She pulled her hands from her pockets and folded her arms. She had envisioned he'd be skeptical, but thought he'd at least be tempted by the desire to battle again. But given his past - it is understandable that he is suspicious of her.
"My main goal is truly to save you; do you wanna know who I am? Then make the deal with me. You have nothing to lose, Diarmuid. If you partake in the battle, there is no punishment unless you break the rules. Which is what I am here for. If we lose, you still go to the very Hell you're whining about. So why NOT take the risk? If you have a chance to prove and free yourself, why not do it since the outcome of losing is still the same? Hmm?"
Diarmuid's fists clenched at his sides as his nail bit into his palms in frustration.
"How do I know what you're proposing is truth? What proof of such things do you have?"
The woman closed the gap between them and snatched his hand. She uncurled his fingers and laced them with her own. Diarmuid flinched at the gesture. He almost ripped his hands from her the instant she intertwined them. But his gaze steadied on their interlocked digits instead.
"They're... warm?" This heat he felt from the palms of her hands. They're also clammy, as if she had sweated from nervousness in this cold, damp place. His eyes slowly found hers; they glared back into his.
"Is that proof enough? No sane living being would come into to this world if they didn't have some sort of goal in mind. Like say, saving a certain soul?"
This was not possible. It had to be some sort of trick or spell. But then again, the souls of this realm were stripped of all their magic and any additional power or weapon. The bodies they inhabited of their old selves are mere copies, which leads them to be cold and useless. A reminder of what they used to be along with the few luxuries and temptation in the gates to the Underworld- and what they are. Dead.
But her hands are flared, warm and soft to the touch. Diarmuid must confirm. His other, large hand, drew up from his right side and he laid a gentle palm on the left side of her chest, just above the breast. She barely moved, but the twitch of her lip showed she was not comfortable with his prodding. Which was unfathomable - considering she is a woman, and his spot should have lured her into acceptance. Even if somehow it hadn't – he must confirm his suspicion.
A heartbeat. The insanity of it all... she really was alive.
They stood there like that for a minute or two. The realization rammed into Diarmuid like the cursed spear stabbing into his chest yet again.
Was what she said true, then? A living being... sent into the realm of the dead to give one soul the chance to deny the Underworld they're fated to?
"Well?" The woman fractured the silence and let his hand drop to his waist as she gingerly pulled it from her chest. "I don't have much time to get you to contract with me."
Diarmuid tried to remain casual, to only show faint signs of interest in case this was some sort of deception.
"I still don't understand the proposal. So I do battle in a Grail War, but instead of a wish, I am to be released from Hell's doors? How is that possible? Where does this battle take place? In the Living world once again?" The woman heaved an exasperated sigh and glanced down to the end of the alleyway.
"It's not a Grail war. It's a tournament. I don't even know if there will be other souls from the past Grail wars participating. The details were sketchily given. And no, you won't be summoned to the living world. That has been halted, for the moment. The Throne of Heroes is damaged - it's why you are here. You were updated on that, right?" The woman cocked her head and gripped her wrist behind her back.
Diarmuid did get the update. He was trapped, stuck in the Grail after his physical form disintegrated into ash in his rage and he was believed to become an evil spirit.. His lancer's copy lingered in the Grail being cursed by all the evils of world inside it—until what he considered to be a miracle—his release finally arrived. He was separated from the Grail by a bright shine, to return to the Throne and forego his tragic fate. But alas, the light shortly blinked out, and death's door called him back with even more despair.
It engulfed him with flames and burned through him instead. Agony filled him worse than when he had stabbed himself and wished for them to be cursed; an ominous voice stated to him that his spirit core was tainted with the Evil's of the World, and there was only one place that it would go.
The Counter Force informed him then, that the Throne of Heroes was damaged from the corruption of Angra Mainyu (the soul he was trapped within the Grail with). Upon the destruction of the Grail and the Gates, the pathway between the Throne of Heroes broke from the corrupted Grail; it opened a gaping hole resulting in the release of Heroic Spirits that the Counter Force rounded up.
It was deeply disheartening to know that his rage had morphed into a true cruse merged with his base existence in the Throne- and then they thrust him into Hell's Lobby.
His attention returning to the present, Diarmuid replied to the impatient woman, "So we fight here, it matters not where the battlefield is. But the reward - you have yet to completely explain," he said with finality.
The woman lifted her shoulders in weary resignation.
"You won't go to hell, - that's your prize... but I will admit, they didn't say if that means you're going to be revived, or whatever. But I would think so – for where else could you go? Limbo? A ghost? A servant again? Stay here? All options are still better than the last."
She kicked a stone and it tumbled, but Diarmuid didn't avert his gaze from her; he tried to process the idea she had presented.
"But I will do my best to get those answers. I really am on your side. I am sure there are bad people being given the same offer… but I digress, my intentions are good. I came here to save you, Diarmuid," she brought her hands to his face, and gently brushed his forehead as she moved that irritating strand of hair away from the bridge of his nose. He truly was a handsome man, despite the demonic looking eyes.
"You don't deserve such a tragic end. So I willingly took the chance to change it. But it is up to you whether you want to take that leap of faith with me."
She pulled away and smiled warmly.
"So tell me, will you fight for a wish, one last time?"
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This story has been my heart and joy. I know there is some canon divergence, and OC's, but I am as faithful as I can be to the characters of Fate. I have implored hours into this fic, and hope that in someway, readers shall stick around to see it unfold!