The church looked cheap in the evening light.
Everything from this age looked cheap to her though, Medb thought as she peered out of her carriage, so she couldn't exactly blame the church. It was just a sign of the sad state of the times, she supposed. Everything these days was so shoddy and gaudy in a way that she did not at all appreciate. That stained glass was tacky, though. She leaned back, and the leather seat creaked wonderfully beneath her. "Make sure it's safe," she commanded.
Her footstool jumped and wrung his hands, eyes flickering from her to the carriage door with unconcealed fear. "D-do you think it'll be dangerous?" he stuttered pathetically, cringing at the blow that was no doubt coming for such insolence. His face was getting paler with every passing day, and each shower she made him take only seemed to add to the grease that was all but dripping off of his sad, limp hair. Some men grew strong through hardship. Others collapsed like a house of cards at a slight breeze. She couldn't stand that kind of guy."I thought we w-were just kidnapping the priest. How dangerous could he b-be, compared to you?"
"It doesn't matter," she said idly. "It's your job to make sure the coast is clear." When no violence seemed to be forthcoming, he relaxed, and that was when she cracked him across the greasy face with her crop. He squealed, clutching his face, and toppled backward so hard that he banged the back of his skull on the frosted glass she'd had inset into the carriage's side. "Do not break my window," she growled. It hadn't cracked, but it could have, and she did not take the destruction of her property well.
Another unsightly, dripping red line having joined the rest of the scabs on his face, he clawed desperately at the door. It surprised him when it burst open, and he spilled out onto the ground in a heap.
"Are you a mannequin, or are you a man?" she asked the tangle of limbs and slime below her. "You have a job to do."
With a squeak, he scrambled to his feet and whipped his head from side to side, turning all around to survey the area. Medb knew he would never actually find anything dangerous, as incompetent and self-centered as he was. It was mostly because she liked to kick him around. A show of dominance, because it was fun, and she was bored. The nerve of this boy to ever think she would call him master, capital-letter M or not. He turned his shaking, greyish face back to her and nodded anxiously. "I-it's clear."
"I'm sorry?" She said dismissively, plucking at one of her white gloves with her other hand. "I couldn't quite hear you."
A flash of anger roared across his face before he remembered to be afraid. That was interesting. She thought she'd beaten that out of him. He inclined his head, ostensibly out of respect, but mostly to hide the insubordinate look he couldn't quite wipe away. "It's clear, your majesty."
"Thank you," she replied haughtily, and scooted over to the entryway. He offered her a sweaty hand, and she took it and squeezed it hard enough that the bones creaked as she stepped down. The glove would need to be washed.
One of the great horned beasts pulling the carriage snorted and stomped, and she soothed it with an imperious brush of her hand atop its head. Even in this unfamiliar place, the animal knew where it belonged. That wasn't something she could say about many other entities she'd met since being summoned, and, not for the first time, she found herself glad that they'd made the trip through time and space alongside her.
She inclined her head toward the church. "Now get the door."
His head jerking from side to side like a panicked animal, he ran to the heavy wooden door and pushed it open. She planted her hand on his shoulder and shoved him off to the side. As he tumbled to the ground once again looking much more pathetic than usual, she stepped into the doorframe. The church yawned open before her, a massive room just as worthless as the outside had been, and at the far end, standing ramrod straight at the podium, was the priest. He did not move, nor he did seem surprised to see her.
So that's him, then? She looked him up and down, and she could feel his eyes doing the same to her. Let him look. She was proud of her body, and had nothing to hide. She brushed a bit of imaginary dirt off of her blinding white leather jacket, then carelessly adjusted her shades. With a wet splat, she spat her gum onto the floor, off to her left.
The priest smiled warmly, and inclined his head in greeting. "This is an unexpected pleasure, Rider," he said in an unsurprisingly deep voice. He sounded the way he looked.
He can wait a second. She tilted her head vaguely in her doormat's direction. "Now get back into the carriage so you don't get your fool head cut off. I can't win this whole thing if you're dead." The priest needed to know that she didn't respect him.
With an expression of boundless relief, her doormat scrambled back up into the carriage and slammed the door behind him. That was okay. She had bigger fish to fry, and it would be a pain if he got his stupid ass killed in the crossfire.
"What's up, holy man?" Medb called, letting the door slam shut behind her. It closed with an echoing crash. A sound of finality. The end of the priest's freedom. "You know why I'm here?"
"I confess, I do not," the priest said, though his words bubbled with hidden laughter. He was handsome, but he also seemed infuriating. If there was any strength to this man, she might enjoy breaking him. A poor substitute for certain other men kicking around, but he might do in a pinch. "Although I believe I can guess, Queen Medb. Did Zouken Matou send you to me? I did not expect you to be one to follow another's orders."
"Nobody sends me anywhere," she purred, walking to the center aisle, trailing her fingers along the edge of a pew. "He provided useful information, and I made a choice."
"I see, I see," the priest replied. "So that is how he is playing this war, then. That is interesting." He remained exactly where he was, hands clasped behind his back. The smile was at odds with the utter lifelessness in his eyes. It was a little unsettling, even to her.
"I don't really care about whatever you're saying," Medb said. Her delicate touch twisted into a claw, and her fingernails carved parallel wavering lines down the rich wood as she went. "I'm here for you, holy man. We can do this the fun and easy way, or the hard way." She smiled sweetly. "Which would you prefer?"
The priest chuckled. "Do you think I am the type of man to look a praying mantis in the eye and not expect it to follow its nature? I like my head where it is."
She blew him a slow kiss with her other hand. "Playing coy, then. I like that. The hard way might be fun after all."
"If you think you can kill me," he said idly. "You will find that more difficult than you may have bargained for, Queen Medb." She reached the aisle and stopped, facing him. "I may not be a Servant, such as yourself, but I am no helpless child." He raised his right hand, and she wondered whether or not there was a Command Seal upon it.
Did that old bastard send me to fight a Master? If that's true, he could call his Servant at any time. Need to watch out for that. But if he was going to be relaxed, so was she. She rocked back on her heels, idly playing with the end of her crop with her free hand. "I'm not here to kill you, holy man. We need you." That looked to genuinely catch the priest off guard. His eyes widened just a hair, and he lowered his hand, but those were the only tells he gave. "Interesting," she threw back. "So you thought you were gonna die, and you didn't run."
"I thought no such thing," he intoned. "Rather, I assumed you had come to me for forgiveness, as one of my flock." He sighed, drawing his other hand out into the open from behind his back. It was empty. "The stench of sin lies thick upon you, Queen Medb of Connacht. I do not know if our heavenly Father himself could ever wash its stain from your soul, but it is my obligation to try."
"Brave words," Medb said hotly. "We'll see how soon they turn to screams of terror when I come for you." Warmth burned in her fingertips and her chest, not unpleasantly. The tingle of anticipation that heralded approaching battle or sex. Both were exhilarating.
"More fearsome beings than you have tried to frighten me, girl," he said simply, maddeningly calm. "I am still here, and they are not."
"And scarier guys than you have thought they could escape me," she said with a grin that was just this side of feral. Yes, she thought she could enjoy this. "None of them did, in the end." Not precisely true, but it had turned out that Cu could only avoid her so long, even through death.
"If I were to ask what Zouken Matou plans for me," the priest asked. "Would you tell me?"
"I might," Medb said with a shrug. "If you asked." Imperious bastard. Who does this asshole think he is?
The priest inclined his head again. "Fair enough, Queen of Connacht. What does Zouken Matou plan?"
She tapped her chin, more than a little sensual in her parody of deep thought. "Nah, I don't think I will tell you," she said, just to be spiteful. It didn't matter if the priest knew or not, but she didn't like him. "Not specifically, anyway. There's a ritual we're going to do, and we need an empty shell that's strong enough to take a little strain. You fit the bill."
The touch of a smirk twisted the priest's shitty little lips. "An empty vessel, is it?" The amusement in his voice sounded more genuine than anything else that he had said since Medb had arrived. "Is that what he thinks I am?"
"On this one, I'll defer to his advice," she said. "A queen knows when to heed her advisors, after all."
"Is that what you believe him to be?" That shit-eating grin hadn't left his lips. She wanted to break all those teeth. For a start. "An advisor?"
The embers of adrenaline in her chest sparked to life, the touches of warmth flaring into heat. Anger and hatred and bloodlust and regular lust. The way she always felt just before a fight. "Of course. He understands respect, and he has knowledge of the time and place that I simply don't possess. When one invades a foreign land, one must often employ a native guide."
The priest laughed.
Mocking her. Mocking her.
Bastard.
Fury burned in her chest, and for a long moment, the two of them simply watched each other. Kill him. Kill him! The fire turned to white hot wrath, and she fanned the flames. She fought and fucked better when she was passionate. "What's so funny?" she hissed.
"Nothing, nothing," the priest said in a way that clearly meant something. "You're an excellent judge of character, Queen Medb. That is all."
Piece of shit bastard. You don't know your place.
But you will.
His laughter died, and he went still, though the ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips. "Shall we begin?" the priest said, as though asking his congregation to join him in prayer, and in his left hand appeared two swords, held between his fingers. His arm blurred as he exploded into motion, dipping to the left, and the swords shot through the air like bullets.
Her response was immediate; her crop swept out and swatted the weapons away as they approached, like the annoying gnats they were. She launched forward, feet pounding on the luxurious rug beneath, tearing after the clearly terrified priest.
A whistle as two more swords shot toward her, another clinkclink as she deflected them. She closed the gap, and as he turned to swing again she saw no fear, only cold determination.
Her crop cracked against another sword, this one held fast in his hand, then again and again as he tried twice more, then barely parried her own swipe. "Oh," she said sweetly. "You blocked my attacks. So you're fast, for a human. I'll give you that much." Crack crack crack. The sword went spinning out of his hand, and as it clattered to the ground he met her crop with one held in the other. She danced back, frowning. "How many of those do you have?"
"As many as I need," he said, then lunged forward. The sword in his left hand swiped at her head and at her arms and at her gut, and she knocked each away without much effort. This was child's play. Her crop drew blood from his face, and he turned to run—
But instead of fleeing to the door, he leapt at the wall and climbed it faster than she'd have given him credit for. A sword screamed toward her, and as she twisted out of its way, he was in midair, midflip, and another sword thundered down at the place she'd be. That one came close, but again, she knocked it out of the air without much trouble. He landed behind her, and she whipped around to face him.
She feigned a yawn as she deflected another swipe. "Is that the best you've-"
Before the words were out of her mouth, three black swords appeared in his right, and he dispassionately stabbed upward at her. She jerked her head back before they could skewer her brain, startled, and three lines of fire traced burning furrows down her face as the blades passed much too close for comfort. She grunted, her crop slapping the claws away, but the priest used the distraction expertly. The sword in his left became three, and with the force of an onrushing cavalry charge, stabbed deep into her gut, three points of agony lancing through her as their points tore through her body and her jacket. All three points exited through her back.
She did not scream; rather, with her free hand, she lashed out with a closed fist, taking the priest in the jaw. As he staggered back, she retreated as well, yanking the three swords free. "You dare," she hissed through clenched teeth, feeling the blood run down her face and lower body. "You dare pierce me?"
Kirei's face had lost even the small bit of passion he'd possessed during their banter. He simply wasn't wasting energy on it. Every move was considered and methodical, she realized now, and he was not to be underestimated. His trump card had been played, and he no longer had the element of surprise on his side. Swords bristled out of both closed fists. He assumed a ready position, all six weapons gleaming and aimed straight for her.
He was dangerous. She saw that now. And he would pay for his hubris.
Her fingers danced, the swords she'd ripped out of herself spun, and her left hand became a mirror of his, triplet blades like wickedly sharp claws, her crop gripped tight in her right. Blood ran into her mouth, and she relished the taste as she spat. "You're the first one to truly lay a finger on me in this war, holy man," she said, the humor gone from her voice. "I commend you." The wrath burned hotter and hotter, and she luxuriated in the flames.
Kirei stood as still as a statue, ready.
"You really are that dead inside, aren't you?" she mocked, tapping her crop on the ground. "You've done something few people have, and you don't feel a single thing? Not fear, not the thrill of battle, not the lust for blood. That's pathetic. It's laughable. No wonder the old man needs you for this. With such an empty shell of a host—"
The priest's expression never changed, but he came at her again, swiping both hands in a pincer attack. Now that she knew to expect multipronged attacks, though, parrying was child's play. He moved like lightning, attacking from every angle at once, hammering on her defenses, wearing her down.
At least that was the idea. If she'd been a human, with human reflexes and human endurance, he might have stood a chance. Echoing, sparking metal clashing on metal filled the church. His expression never changed. Pain pounded in time with her heartbeat. She was no longer smiling. The ground under them became slick with blood.
He'd try to run, to create distance, but she wouldn't allow it. He was most confident at range, and so she would stay close. Even wounded, she was faster than him. A human could never fight a heroic spirit and win.
He danced backward, and she pressed the attack, moving onto the offensive. He blocked everything, but she could see the way sweat beaded on his brow, the way the tips of the blades had begun to shake.
A simultaneous attack, a simultaneous parry, and she lashed out with one pointed heel. It took the priest in the chest, and he stumbled back again — but this time his back hit the wall. The disorientation was enough. Her crop cracked against his face three times, and as she saw his vision waver with the force and intensity of the pain, she lashed out with the swords that were still covered in her own blood. They were sharp, she had to give the priest credit for that; they barely slowed as they sheared through his right elbow.
Blood sprayed her as the hand, still connected to the forearm, dropped to the ground, splattering her jacket and her face and her aviators as he recoiled in pain and shock. The blood was hot and wet and smelled of iron, and it made her feel alive. Even he couldn't remain completely blasé to such a thing, she thought as she wiped the smears from the glasses, and yet… when she could see clearly again, his expression hadn't changed. That cooled her passion a little. The satisfaction began to fade. "Why don't you feel something?" she asked softly.
Instead, he took another swing with his one remaining hand, and she deflected the assault with her crop. His face was still lifeless, and she could not let that stand. "Feel something!" she commanded, louder, and he didn't react. There was no victory if there was no submission!
Parry. Twist. The crop hit him in the sensitive veins under his wrist, and his fingers spasmed, the blades falling free. "Feel something!" she roared, and drove all three blades through the arm and into the stone wall behind. They pierced to the hilt, the sturdy walls behind cracking under the sheer force of the attack. She let him hang.
His face remained impassive.
With one foot, she kicked one of the fallen blades up into the air and caught it by the hilt, and in one fluid motion pinned what was left of his other arm to the wall as well, skewering him just below the shoulder. Blood continued to pump from his stump, to dribble from every place he was nailed to the wall; his face was going pale, but still, he didn't scream or grimace. Not even a twitch of genuine emotion.
"I've beaten you!" she screamed, bloody spit flecking his face. "You're cut to pieces! You're going to be used in a ritual that you know nothing about! Why aren't you afraid?" She ripped the aviators from her face and threw them away; the sound of glass breaking and their heavy breathing were the only sounds in the church.
"Fear," he said, his breath slightly labored, "is for fools and cowards."
She hit him. His head whipped back and cracked against the unforgiving stone, and the violence of the blow made the blades in his arms cut deeper still. He grunted, but nothing more.
He opened his eyes and met her gaze, as if they were equals. "You were stronger than me." Even his voice was unemotional.
She hit him again.
"I'm in your power." Finally, he did smile, but it was a cruel, mocking one that almost blanked her mind with sheer hatred. His cheek was swelling, and blood poured from his nose, the cartilage shattered into a twisted pulp.
This time, she drove a heel into his gut, and he doubled over as much as he could with his arms pinned and bleeding. Blood dribbled from his lips.
"You're blinded by your passion, Queen Medb," he choked out, head hanging heavily, blood and sweat plastering his hair to his scalp. "You came here for a purpose. Do you intend to simply let me bleed to death, to return to your master empty handed?" How a person impaled four times and dismembered could look so in-control of a situation, she didn't understand. He laughed, then. Laughed in her face. Laughed at her.
With a roar of wordless anger, she formed a complex sign in the air. Runes were not her forté, but she knew a little. Not enough to be useful in combat, but enough for this. Precision was out of the question, of course, though to be precise would be to show mercy, and the very idea of showing him mercy was funny. The wild blast of fire that filled the air in a barely-controlled jet cauterized the priest's stump in an instant, but she didn't let up until the end of his arm crackled and burned black, until the smell of charred meat filled the air, until the priest actually screamed at this fresh agony. There wasn't much in this world that hurt more than flame. The sleeve of his robe caught fire almost instantly, burning and fusing to his skin, and she did not immediately move to put it out.
The fire went out on its own. She stood before him, panting (but not with effort), forcing composure onto herself. Calm descended upon her like smothering night over a desolate field. She shivered, not unpleasantly.
Medb smiled a sweet, blood-drenched smile. "We only need you alive," she said. "The old man said the ritual would take care of the rest." The priest's face had gone as grey as the stone he was skewered to, and she ran her fingers gingerly over his face. He'd composed himself, but if he cracked once, he could crack again. She snapped her fingers, and moments later, her beasts of burden crashed through the doorway that was too small for them, showering the far end of the church with broken stone and shattered wood as they dragged her carriage indoors. "We'll see what it takes to make you afraid. It'll be fun." Like an old lover, she pressed her bloody forehead to his, smearing their commingled blood on his face as she did, and he didn't have the strength to twist away. "We'll learn your limits together."
Once more, impossibly, the priest began to laugh.
Sometimes I worry that people will think I write Medb the way I do because I don't like her. I LOVE her, and somehow she ended up being the scariest character in the whole damn fic.
Thanks to all the readers and reviewers! C:
Next chapter: Can't Go Home Again