(A/N):
I don't own anything.
Here I am back on my bullshit. After weeks of deliberating on this on discord, I finally decided to get this out of my system and see where it takes me. It turns out what really motivates people to write is the feeling you should be working on something else.
Big thanks to fallacies, hecturnus and fluflesnufaluphagus for beta reading!
"If I had a penny for every master that mistook me for the devil, I'd have two pence, which isn't much, but it's odd that it happened twice."
- Archer (possibly apocryphal)
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that it never bodes well to be greeted with Gregorian chants.
However off-key or uncoordinated such chanting may be, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of many that when this disharmony arrested his ears, the man known as Archer wanted nothing more than to return into his previous state of non-existence once more than deal with whatever circumstances brought him here.
But a job was a job, and as the motes of light vanished and the smoke cleared, with a deep-seated sense of weariness and resignation, Archer squared his shoulders and asked.
"I ask of you, are you my-"
The chanting subsided to titters and small shrieks, as Archer paused, having finally registered his surroundings.
The dungeon was cavernous, lit with a full chandelier and designed to resemble a lecture hall; the walls of yellowing limestone and the circular benches were masoned with black marble with streaks of gold. Upon which stood the proverbial peanut gallery; robed, donning masks you'd find at a masquerade ball, and gazing upon Archer as one would upon a smoking chimpanzee holding a loaded blunderbuss: a healthy cocktail of fear, amusement and a deep fascination, rooted in watching something that made a mockery of the laws of nature.
Distantly, Archer remembered something he had read about anatomy theatres in the 16th century and wondered – not for the first time – if Alaya was centuries off in supplying him information about Victorian England.
Though there was something else, something in the air that felt familiar…
Archer spun on his heels and nearly reeled at the sight. Ah, he thought faintly, of course it was blood.
Before him was an altar, upon it laid the body. Even in its emaciated state the body was effeminate, its grayish-blue locks parted to reveal deep blue eyes that leaked tears. The mouth was open, a rictus of pain and horror, and Archer did not need to see the knife firmly embedded in the corpse's bloody chest to deduce what had happened.
Suddenly the Gregorian chants seemed a lot more appropriate.
"It happened, it happened!"
"This must be a dream!"
"He walks among us in garbs of red! Write that down, write that down!"
"… not Gremory, Gremory was described as a woman in- "
He tuned out the meaningless chatter – frowning in consternation at the last one – even as the one closest to him gathered enough courage to approach him.
"O great one, we welcome you, please grant us the powers you-"
Archer raised a single finger, and the man fell silent, as if struck. He gazed critically at the floor he stood upon. A summoning circle, he noted, though the pentagram's a bit much. He hadn't really amassed that terrible of a reputation already, had he?
His gaze rose to the grimoire the portly man was carrying and Archer nearly laughed despite himself.
The Ars Goetia. These imbeciles somehow summoned me with the Lesser Key of Solomon. Never mind the first 72 demons, he thought somewhat hysterically, today we've proven there exists 73!
If it weren't for the fact that the entire formalcraft ritual was by all counts a fluke, Archer would have been impressed. In the grand list of achievements in ignorance, this was right up there with Columbus discovering America on his doomed expedition to India.
As impressive as the entire farce was, he couldn't help but wonder what on earth he was here to do.
"I beseech you, O great one, speak plainly in our tongue!"
Sighing, Archer finally turned his attention to the man.
"I take it you summoned me?" Archer asked, despite a feeling he knew the correct answer already.
"Y-yes, great one!" The man nearly tripped over himself in his excitement and haste to genuflect. "We thank you for gracing us with your presence! Please, we beg of you, enlighten us with the secrets to eternal life! Guide us to the wells of riches! Please, grant us your wisdom!"
No, I do not feel the bond with this man, Archer noted dully, and he scanned the gallery – now watching transfixed at it all – with a critical eye. I can't detect it amongst them either.
"Yeah... about that," he finally said, still looking amongst the crowd, "I'll be honest with you and say I can't help you with any of that beyond-"
"If it's a matter of the sacrifice not being enough," the man hurriedly interrupted, "we assure you we have another one prepared, O great one! One just as pure, just as defiled as the one we just sent your way. The ritual was interrupted when you, in your boundless generosity, appeared before us with only one sacrifice made, but we can continue right away if it is what you desire, and from then on we can- "
There was only one thing that Archer picked up amongst the man's babble.
Another one.
He drew his attention behind him once more, to the cages in the back and it was then that he finally noticed him.
The boy in the cage kneeling in a puddle of his own sick was the spitting image of the one on the altar, and in a similarly torrid state. Eyes that moments ago burned with anger and brimmed with tears widened with wonder and fear as the boy took in every detail of Archer's being.
For the first time, Master and Servant regarded one another in desperation and quiet curiosity.
"Please." Archer blinked as he heard a quavering voice in his head, "Please help me."
And with that, the man known as Archer felt a familiar impulse welling within him. Whatever feelings left dormant in his time as a counter guardian began allowing themselves to be felt again. Storms come and go, boats beat on against the current, but it seemed some things never changed.
Emiya Shirou would always strive to be a hero of justice.
Sighing, Archer turned to the portly man once more, decision made.
Slowly, he allowed his face to contort in what could only be described as a shit-eating grin.
"Rejoice, young one. Your wishes will finally come true." Archer suppressed a shudder as the man nearly wet himself in excitement. "Now listen to me… carefully."
And as one, the crowd leaned closer in their seats. A man opened an ink bottle in the far-right corner as another quickly sharpened the nib of his quill. The room was balanced on a knife's edge as the crowd waited for Archer's wisdom.
"The secret to eternal life," Archer began, utterly serious, "lies in eating your vegetables, exercising and avoiding cigars."
The room fell silent. Someone in the rafters stopped picking their nose.
"The wells of riches lie in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait," Archer continued, "3500 feet into the depths of the earth. Find what lies underneath and you shall be rich beyond your wildest dreams."
At this revelation there were murmurs and scratchings of quills on paper, Archer noted, even as the portly man began to look bemused.
"And as for wisdom, this is what I can offer you." With an audience still hooked on his every word, Archer paused for a moment to consider how to best express himself.
"Tell me, have you ever consorted with criminals before?"
There was no hiding it now, the portly man was confused. "I beg your pardon?"
"Murderers. Charlatans. Thieves." Archer elaborated slowly. "Have you ever had the opportunity to observe them?"
Nonplussed, the man shook his head. Archer made a show of pacing.
"In my times dealing with humanity, I've dealt and worked with my thousands. And despite the lawlessness of their various professions, you'd be surprised how many of these criminals observe a creed, how many of the most wretched scum to ever scour the face of the earth have a compunction to follow a 'code' of their own making instead of the law. Of course, most of their creeds are merely an exercise in sophistry," Archer waved a hand dismissively to the crowd, "merely a means of rationalizing their own actions and making themselves feel better about the crimes they committed. Following this logic, however, indulge me," he returned his attention to the portly man, "what do you think's the most common rule these criminals set for themselves?"
"I-If I were to hazard a guess," his beady eyes narrowed, "it's to never renege on a deal once made?"
"... An astute answer, and indeed one followed by those who hope to engage in a long criminal career, but wrong all the same." Archer shook his head. "You see, the most common rule these criminals set for themselves in their 'code' is to never involve children."
Far above them, the candles flickered.
"When you think about it, it's really no wonder." Archer went on, as if unaware of the sudden sense of unease that befell the room. "I mean really, how often does one encounter children in the middle of their criminal activities? You wouldn't need to bother a girl playing with her doll in the middle of a robbery. There's nothing to swindle out of a boy beyond his pride and dignity. There's hardly a reason for a violent man to have a bone to pick with children. For hardened criminals, reasons to involve children are few and far between."
It was at this point several in the peanut gallery could swear they saw things in the corners unilluminated by the chandelier, only to be shushed as the rest hung onto Archer's every word.
"These people give themselves an easy goal to follow, the lowest bar to leap across-" Archer paused, looking almost chagrined for a moment before continuing: "… the barest minimum of ethics to adhere to, and they congratulate themselves for even deigning to stick to them. Such sophistry and rationalization can only be described as rather… desperate, wouldn't you agree?"
The portly man nodded, and as the breeze in the room grew stronger, Archer approached him, beckoning him to rise. He firmly placed his hand on the man's shoulder and leaned down to murmur.
"So, having considered what I just explained, what does that make all of you, if not worse than the lowest of scum?"
The man grew still. For a single moment the silence was funerary in its finality.
"… G-great one," he stammered, "I don't understand- "
A sword sprouted out of the man's lower black.
SQUELCH
And then pandemonium.
As Archer felt the man gargle blood down his back, screams rent through the air. Archer pushed the man off and refocused his attention as a mad dash began for the exit. Fifty nameless swords were summoned, and as they pushed and shoved bunches came crashing down two at a time, rending spectators' heads from their necks. Limbs were dismembered as people tripped in their haste up the stairs. Fountains of aortic spray forced the hysterical to whip off their butterfly masks. The few nimble enough to manage reaching the great oaken door pulled and pulled to no avail: swords had barricaded the door firmly shut.
He watched the remaining ten crowd around the door. Some were banging the door calling for help. Some were trying to remove the swords to little effect. A good three or four had simply collapsed in despair, cowering with their hands over their head amidst the madness and hysteria.
For a single moment, Archer considered if what he was doing was overkill.
"… I am the bone of my sword."
A large black bow appeared in his left hand. Further tapping into his reserves, he made up his mind.
"Trace on."
A spiral blade materialized in his free hand, before it altered itself to match something more closely resembling an arrow.
Archer looked up, considered the scope of the task in question and altered it further, notching this thinner, sleeker blade onto the bow. And as the bow was drawn, aimed towards their feet, several took notice of their impending doom behind them and pleaded hysterically for mercy and forgiveness.
"… Caladbolg."
Archer fired, and in an instant the heavy oaken door was splattered top to bottom in a geyser of red mist.
The room grew still, punctuated by the pitter-patter of red as blood pooled and dripped from where it splattered the walls, the benches, and what remained of the steps. Behind him, he could hear the portly man gasping for breath, desperately trying to cease the dribble of blood from his lips. The bow dissolved into motes of light, and Archer sighed.
I may have overdone it.
His ears perked up to the sound of someone retching,
Ah, he thought numbly, I probably should have warned him.
He turned behind him. Sure enough, the child was bent on all fours, seized into hacking out spittle onto a fresh puddle of vomit. Feeling more than a little abashed, he traced and flung a black key onto the portly man's shadow, and slowly made his way into the cage.
In an instant, the boy was wide-eyed and alert, backing away as far as the bars allowed. Archer stopped in his tracks, raising both hands – the universal sign of bearing no harm – as he took a knee, beckoning him to approach him.
Slowly, the boy stood up, collecting himself and with more dignity than could be expected of a ten-year-old, stepped as far as the bars allowed him into the light.
Those blue eyes still shone with anger and grief, but for the first time since Archer saw him, he observed something new.
If Archer was younger, he'd go so far as to call it 'hope'.
But Archer wasn't some idealistic fool. Archer had walked through countless battlefields. Archer had seen people in the depths of despair. Archer recognized hope when he saw it.
And Archer knew hope never looked so malevolent in its triumph.
This was something else entirely.
For a moment, they simply regarded one another coolly. Finally, Archer spoke.
"I ask of you, are you my master?"