To No End
Happy endings did not come for those who worked for it.
Dedication and desire did not equate results. Blood and sweat did not justify success.
For the participants of the Fourth Holy Grail War, this was a lesson they all endured.
Assassin's worst fear came true, for there was no place to hide. Thousands of men, armored and screaming, raced toward them. The assassins were not prepared for this kind of warfare.
They were used to smoke screens and poison and needle-like knives. Spears and shields, crushing hooves, the entire army bearing down on them—this was a job they could not finish.
And yet . . . even one as dark and sullied as them retained hope. Half of them faced the oncoming horde, their talents for disappearing useless in the glaring sun and sand. The other half turned and ran, thinking that perhaps there was an end to this endless reality.
All of them were swallowed.
Ryuunosuke had been searching for something all his life.
He tried cutting open the delicate skin of a human to find it. Blood seeped from the wound, and it was close. But not quite it. He tried different methods, special techniques. He employed fine tools and fear tactics. Each encounter pushed him closer to his prey.
But it was not until the end that he realized where it was.
It was inside him all along.
Why was it only now that he could relish this beauty? Yet perhaps, because of this, the end wouldn't be so bad, now that he'd found it. He only hoped the Big Guy had accomplished what he wanted. Surely, after conjuring such a vision worthy of God, Caster would be as happy as his master.
Caster could not close his eyes.
The light was blinding, overwhelming, but it was so, so familiar.
He reached out, out.
He remembered a time, before, when this radiance was always with him. It took the form of a lovely young lady with golden hair and blue eyes. What was her name again? He could not—
Ah, ah. Pain burst forth through his chest, but he couldn't tell where it started, where it ended, when it started, when it ended, how it started, how it ended—it wrapped him inside a cocoon, much like the monster he had created.
Ah, what have I—
Lancer sometimes wanted to curse the love spot he was born with. He had never held close a woman who fell to its whims, never encouraged their simpering, lost desires. And yet, whenever a man saw another woman fall for Diarmuid, people saw only a disloyal servant.
Before, Diarmuid had one desire.
But now, as his body crumbled before him, destroyed by his own Gáe Dearg, he discarded that wish for another. Forgiveness . . . he would forsake that just as his masters did. Honor . . . that enviable chase, he would refute. Duty . . . taken forcibly, it lost all meaning.
And so he let out a curse, like the one marring his face. Rivers of pent-up anger and resentment poured from him, leaking out like the blood from his eyes.
One of the last things he saw was Saber's shocked face. He wanted to tell her—tell her that honor would get her nothing in this god-forsaken world. Honor was merely an illusion fed to them to ensure their obedience. A farce.
He would not make the same mistake again.
Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald held Sola-Ui close to him.
He loved Sola-Ui, but he knew she didn't return those feelings. A man like Lancer easily stole her affections. But still, it was Kayneth's duty as a man to protect her.
With Emiya's gun pointed at them, he knew he would give up his place in the war for their lives. All his ambitions, the power and prestige he sought . . . he would forget them.
Still, he never thought he'd be content again.
Which was why, maybe, when he felt the bullet tear through Sola-Ui and himself . . . desperation overtook him—but also relief. No one spoke ill of the dead. They would not speak of his mistakes and his cowardice, but of his bravery for participating in the war, his nobility in choosing his fiancée's life over his dreams.
But these thoughts held little comfort as he felt the blood leeching from him. His hands scrabbled against the concrete, nails tearing away. He couldn't breathe—he couldn't breathe—please—
A shadow. A flash like a mirror.
Then no more.
Tokiomi saw Rin's expression when he'd left, sorrow and delight mixed.
She would now be the Tohsaka family head.
She would be alone.
Aoi had no real knowledge about their inheritance. And Sakura . . . He'd only wanted what was best for both his children, yet now he recalled Matou Kariya's torn face and crazed eyes. What if there was a grain of truth in Kariya's words? What if Sakura had been enduring the same torture? He should never had trusted Zouken.
And he should never have trusted Kotomine Kirei.
Kirei, whom he'd fed all his knowledge and experience. Kirei, whom he'd trusted to take care of Rin should he be killed during the war. But Tokiomi had never imagined that it would be Kirei himself who would plunge the blade into his stomach.
How foolish he'd been.
All those years spent in the basement, ignoring Aoi's calls for dinner. Going to meetings when Rin had wanted to play. Turning from Sakura's tears as he sent her away.
Rin . . . Sakura . . .
I am sorry.
Rider let out a yell and the boy's weak voice mingled with his own as they raced through the desert. Before them, Archer lifted his twisting red weapon. A crack rent the ground and the heavens, widening into a deep void. Rider whipped Bucephalus's reins and soared over the chasm. His throat burned, and Waver's fingers dug into his skin. Behind them, his men's cries echoed as they experienced death once again. But Rider could not spare a moment to mourn them.
A flash of lightning—and the illusion disappeared, Bucephalus's hooves falling onto concrete. Gilgamesh still waited before them, not even a speck of sand on him.
If only he'd accepted Rider's invitation to conquer the world together! How much they could've done together. But Rider supposed this was another kind of gift; for it was not often he could fight someone of Gilgamesh's caliber.
Rider set Waver down on the ground and drew his blade, smiling against the boy's torn expression. His short sword was perhaps no match for Archer's gilded repository, but it was a blade that had served him well.
He could not fail.
Letting out another guttural yell, Rider leaped forward, the golden armor of his foe nearly blinding him. One step, then another, so close—
Ice cold chains wrapped around his skin. He strained against them, but it was too late. Gilgamesh's Ea entered his stomach. Rider coughed. He heard Waver's cries.
He thought, May you find okeanos, as I never did.
Waver tasted blood. He'd bitten down too hard on his tongue.
But the pain came as a welcome distraction.
Head bent, Waver trudged home—but really, where was home? The house he'd spent with the nice grandparents he'd duped, sharing a room with overbearing "Alexei"? Back in England, where he was tormented by both teachers and peers?
He had not emerged a victor, but a loser. That was all anyone would remember.
He should be happy he'd escaped with his life, but all he could think of was the empty space around him. The silence that would no longer be interrupted by a guffaw and a slap on the back.
All this time, he'd paraded about as Rider's master, when in reality, it was the other way around.
An explosion rocked the ground, throwing Waver forward. He swiveled to see the sky opening up, pouring forth a dark blood-like substance. Smoke and fire tore through the city.
He took a step toward it.
It was what Rider would do. Race forward without a thought.
But now, without Iskander, Waver had no sense of direction.
Berserker had once been a loyal, esteemed knight. He'd dined among the greatest warriors ruled by the greatest king. He'd attained the love of the most beautiful woman in the world. Once, he'd held it all.
Was his loyalty at fault? Was it his love for Guinevere? Or did none of these things matter at all?
He leaped at Saber and she dashed toward him. Blow after blow; her armor shone even in the dim lighting while his sucked at the shadows. He could see the emotions splayed across her face: regret, shock, and then a terrible, terrible resignation.
Her sword plunged into his body.
And finally, Lancelot's vision cleared. His life had never been what he'd desired, but it had been his, and now he knew no regrets.
Saber closed her eyes as the light of Excalibur enveloped her. It offered her a brief warmth as her body vanished, the theater being replaced by a scene she was intimately familiar with.
Saber stared down at the endless hill. Had it always been this big? There was no longer any grass. It was all mud, dirt slicked down with blood. It continued in waves, a polluted ocean. Dusk light flowed over the battleground, deceivingly soft. It reminded Saber of Irisviel, and the thought of the gentle woman sent another shot of pain through her heart.
It was all Kiritsugu's fault.
At first, she'd admired his single-minded purpose, but the longer she spent with him, the more she realized the two of them could never reconcile their differences.
The Grail had been destroyed. By her own hands.
Artoria would never get her wish.
She would be here until the end.
Kariya was together with Aoi and Rin and Sakura. They were smiling at him, tugging at his hands, his clothes. Their skin pressed against his, close and shivering.
Sakura's empty gaze stared down at him.
Wait. Down? Why was she all the way up there? Where did those stairs come from?
What . . .
The insects nuzzled against his earlobe, tickled the undersides of his bloody nails, slipped into the folds of his sagging, burnt skin. Their caress was strangely careful, even when he felt the first bite, even when one burrowed into an open wound, sipping on his blood and mana.
Aoi's face surfaced in his mind's eye, but it was not the beautiful, caring expression he loved. Her face was twisted in anger, spittle lining her lips, claws outstretched and reaching for his neck.
She squeezed and squeezed.
Ah. This is fate.
He sank, farther and farther until he could no longer see Sakura or Aoi or anything at all.
Kiritsugu slipped on an errant brick. His hands fumbled for purchase, his skin raw from digging through the broken buildings.
Why did it have to turn out like this? After all the things he'd sacrificed? Was it so hard to obtain happiness?
But you already had it, a voice said inside him. You had happiness, and you threw it away in pursuit of an even greater bliss.
Those small moments with Iri and Illya . . . he hadn't realized it, but he had been happy then. And yet, he was so focused on his goal that he dismissed them. His hero complex had overwhelmed him, making him believe only he could save the world. Making him believe that, in the end, when his wish had come true, his wife's death would be justified.
He had been wrong. So wrong.
This is hell, he thought, wandering around the destruction, his eyes barely seeing. He didn't know what he was looking for—a sign that perhaps it had been worth it? Something to redeem himself with?
But he didn't deserve redemption. If this was truly hell, then he had earned his way here. And he could not fault the gods for their decision.
A weak cry.
A cough.
Kiritsugu moved without thinking. He plunged into burning wood and melted buildings until he unearthed . . . a boy.
The boy's face was pale, and yet he was, for the most part, miraculously unharmed. His red hair mimicked the fires around him, but a gentler color.
Was this a sign?
Kiritsugu didn't know. But he held the boy close to him and wept.
Kirei reveled in the heat. Sweat poured down his face from the nearby fires.
Laughter bubbled within him. The impossibility and the irony of it. If only his father could see him now. Kotomine Risei's face would surely be a sight to behold. It was a pity Kirei hadn't witnessed his last moments.
Nearby, he felt Gilgamesh's gaze upon him. Gilgamesh may have been the one to spurn Kirei's desires, but Kirei did not find them all that similar. He was thankful to the king, but they would never be more than two people using the other.
But was that really different than anyone else in the world? People liked to pretend they were kind and generous, but Kirei had long since lost faith in the idea of altruism.
He laughed, the sound and feeling still foreign.
Finally, his life could begin.
Archer was not cruel. He did not derive pleasure from either man's delight or his pain. What intrigued him, however, was the mortals' struggles. The ways they justified their actions, how they clawed at happiness only to lose themselves in the search.
Emiya Kiritsugu appeared in the distance like a ghost, or perhaps an animated corpse. He stumbled across the ground, his long coat singed, dirt arching the curves of his face. Emiya's desire for peace was a foolish ideal, much like Saber's. But even Gilgamesh was momentarily arrested by the expression in Emiya's eyes: there was loss, pain, the look of the helpless. But there was also determination, a purpose to his languid movements as he wandered through the smoke.
Humans, truly, were fascinating.
Kirei watched Emiya—for longer than he was probably aware. Gilgamesh had planted the idea of Kirei's true source of pleasure in his mind, had guided his hand to this moment. But now that Kirei had taken his first step, perhaps it was time for Gilgamesh to become an observer once again.
He would see this world to its end, nurturing it as a faithful gardener would. He would prune and water as he saw fit, for there was only one who could be mankind's final witness, only one powerful enough to be its arbiter, and that was the golden ruler, the King of Kings: Gilgamesh.
For most, the war marked their physical end. But for others, it was death of another kind. Death of quivering ideals, chained pasts, and fleeting hopes.
A good heart, a strong body, an unbreakable will—in stories, these things always prevailed. And yet, for the participants of the Fourth Holy Grail War, there was no such thing as good and evil, strong or weak, unbroken and broken.
After all, happy endings did not come to those who deserved it.
A/N: This was originally written for the Fate/Zero fanzine! Fate/Zero is so good and my favorite anime out of the franchise. I'm happy to be able to contribute this piece! (Btw, the order of the segments is roughly in their death order.) Thanks for reading!
~ J. Dominique