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 under her nose, as she puffed up her chest and wrapped herself tighter in the heavy trench coat covering her light figure. She muttered under her breath about the close resemblance of this zone to the living world. However, the blistering cold air numbing her skin. It was a reminder she was no longer among the living..

Carefully meandering through the growing number of souls and strange, underworld creatures, she felt awkward and out of place when brushing against the unnatural normalcy of their bodies. They had 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 grizzly-looking bartender in all black; would the Underworld's refreshments do her any good? While she debated the likelihood, the tender gave her a sideways, analytical glance. She offered him a light nod in his direction, before her eyes ventured through the bulk of spirits gathered, deciding against interacting with anyone but whom she sought.

Where could he be? 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. Last she wanted was to be discovered, her life's essence stripped and utilized for the spirits' physical gain.

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 she'd teetered in to. The scar stretching a torn path from the corner of his lips to his eyelids made her shudder involuntarily. His crusted look was 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.

Why can't I find him?She'd been informed her that she would be dropped near her target. 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—were some booths. The man she was hunting is situated in the rear corner seat that brushed 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 was an awkward, pine-green color that complements his light skin tone. There was a faint red tinge in the background of the slits.

After inhaling a confidence-boosting breath, she 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 couldn't be infiltrated by curses, nor anything else cerebrally manipulative. Her consciousness was always clear.

She closed the distance between herself and the man seemingly lost in thoughts (of turmoil and angst, she sensed); here was the Servant from the Fourth Holy Grail War: Diarmuid ua Duibhne.

Fists propped under his chin, Diarmuid didn't grace the woman who approached an 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 that made a maiden's hearts flutter with love for him. 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 that left her fingertips exposed. She removed the trench coat he suspected she used as a disguise, revealing her pretty yet haggard face. The collar of her romper was unbuttoned from the waist up and sat lax around the neck. The upper cleavage of her meager 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 across from 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 sparked his interest.

"If you must, but I warn you... " He extracted his fingers from the sharp-cut 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. "That's not very Knightly of you," What could she comprehend of Knighthood? She didn't seem from his time.

Scooting in closer and wiggling her arms from her side to rest them on the table, the sketch Lady 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 hellish torture," he retorted, displeased.

What was with this woman? Hadn't she received the same speech as he did from the Judges of the Dead? Or was she freshly dead, managed to find a way past them and Cerberus? Her frail form suggested otherwise. He watched her warily, 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 was occupied by regulars in various otherworldly attire, their cunning gazes accompanied by hushed conversations and shifty dealings. 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 paid much heed to the status of his current profile. He turned his head and peered into the window glass for a glimpse of his gloomy face. There in his reflection; the former Hero observed the tint of red in his irises, the slit in his pupils, with the rest coated in crimson. He must look like a monster to her.

"I hadn't realized I'd been given this grotesque look after the curse." He grimaced. This conversation was quickly turning disastrous.

"Okay, so as I was trying to say—"

Diarmuid abruptly cut the woman off, "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 mole, or just as hell-bent as Grainne was to have her way?

The woman slid out from her chair and nearly crashed her leg into the table.

The woman slid out from her chair and nearly crashed her leg into the table. "I am not leaving until we talk." Just as Grainne, then. "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 Spearman hissed a breath before he replied, "Five minutes, then you'll leave me be?" He finally obliged, concluding that once he has listened to her useless rambling, he would 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 was to do anything that would 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. "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 that 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 the Realm of the Wicked. How someone could be so... subtly afraid was beyond him. The lady had 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 structure. 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, blue-black demonic rats scurried underfoot.

The woman took a deep breath. "You—along with others—have a chance to be spared from going to Tartarus." 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 assist you in a battle-royale for your freedom." 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 can aid you in the fight with my own abilities. 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. I'll be given a single command seal in place to 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 was like slurping that poison to its full extent.

How could he even contemplate putting himself through that sort of madness again? Though the thought of being released from his exile to the worst outcome for his Spirit tempted him. But to be under someone's control once again? Utterly unacceptable. His desire for a second chance to serve loyally under a new Lord had led him to this very place, and betrayed, once again. The idea was troublesome at every angle.

"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 as Celtic warrior would. But given his past, it was understandable that he was suspicious of her.

"My main goal is truly to save you; 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, your fate doesn't change. So why not take the risk? If you have a chance to prove and free yourself, why not do it?"

Diarmuid's fists clenched at his sides as his nails bit into his palms from 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...how? They were 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 saving a certain soul?" She said the last sentence softly, as if trying to lace comfort into her words. No, he mustn't be swayed by her seemingly altruistic persona.

This was not possible. It had to be some sort of trick or spell. However, 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 mere copies. Cold and useless. A reminder of what they used to be along with the few luxuries and temptations in the gates to the Underworld, and what they are. Dead.

But her hands 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 fidgeted, but the twitch of her lip had him believe she was not comfortable with his prodding. Which was unfathomable, considering she was a woman, and his spot should have lured her into acceptance despite him not willing it. Even if somehow it hadn't, he had to confirm his suspicion. Apologies would come later.

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, feigning interest in case this was some sort of deception. "I still don not quite understand the proposal. So I do battle in a Grail War, but instead of a wish, I am to be released from Hades' 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 had received the update. He was trapped, stuck in the Grail after his physical form disintegrated into ash in his rage, believed to become an evil spirit.. His lancer's copy lingered in the Grail being cursed by all the evils of world—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, unable to forgive them all; an ominous voice stated to him that his spirit core was tainted with the Evil's of the World. The Counter Force informed of Throne of Heroes damages from Angra Mainyu's corruption (the soul he was trapped within the Grail with). Upon the destruction of the Grail and the sealed 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 curse merged with his base existence in the Throne—the Counter Force thrusting 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. Once released from here, what happens to my soul?" he asked, exhaling in defeat.

The woman lifted her shoulders dolorously. "I will admit, it wasn't entirely explained if you're going to be revived, or returned to the Throne. But I would think so, where else could you go? Limbo? A ghost? 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 offering freedom to lost spirits... but my intentions are good. I came here to save you, Diarmuid," she brought her hands to brow, and gently brushed his forehead to move 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 this. 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!