Chapter 2
The city alight, a full moon looming above her, after lying in wait the entire day, Lancer finally had the opportunity to let loose. Caster, worn-out and weary from a "surprise" bout with Saber and exposed like a siabhra in the twilight, was several skyscrapers away. Stretching back her forearm, muscles taut to their maximum, she pinpointed the exact moment her aim was to be the truest then, seizing it, hurled her spear swift and powerful. It tore through the sky with a speed so great the wind ignited, turquoise flames licking the air and reaching its mark in the time it took the average person to blink. Expecting it to skewer, Lancer's smirk shrank in disappointment.
She clicked her teeth. Her arm hung at her side, shoulder dislocated.
"Damn. Missed."
She popped it back into place with a grunt, already on the move when she caught her spear as it returned to her and continued after Caster, now a miniscule speck in the distance and nearly impossible for even a Servant of her visual prowess to see anymore. Assuming a low, aggressive stance like she used to charge the lines of Connacht—one reserved for only the most desperate and dire of occasions—her prey was getting away.
Reciting the ancient verses of the now long dead tongue of her ancestors, she rushed forward, decimating everything in a half-mile radius behind her; catapulting herself straight at Caster like a sling to the bullseye. Tackling her mid-air, slamming and grinding her elbow into Caster's throat, there was a crack and snap, a bloody gasp of shock and pain and something... else … as the two of them fell back down to Earth blazing bright.
They crashed far out in the countryside with the impact of a meteorite, laying waste to some unfortunate farmer's crop field in the process.
Rising to her feet as steam billowed from her body, crimson-red curling toward the sky, Lancer placed an armored boot on Caster's broken neck. Shrugging off the pain rippling down her shoulder—the consequence for using the strength of her gods albeit only one-tenth—she prepared a rune that would finish Caster off and pressed down, making sure the damage was done.
If only she hadn't missed.
Watching as shadows enveloped Caster's body, she realized too late that they came not from her rune, but, tails lashing out at a speed incomprehensible from somewhere behind. Speeding out of their path, she cursed her carelessness, clutching a grisly swipe wound to her abdomen. It bubbled and boiled, maimed flesh replaced anew as a blood gurgled chortle came from Caster's crushed throat; the whistling of the devil, a fomóir rising from the Otherworld. She began chanting something in a foreign tongue and the final word was already spoken long before it took her to hold two crooked fingers to the night sky or Lancer to get away.
Snap.
And everything, changed.
Lancer suddenly found herself in a pit of many colored snakes, the land around them deformed into a muddy, blood-filled marshland of charred, rotting flesh and bleach-white bone. Slicing apart any that tried to sink their fangs into her, she glared at the tower of jade and pearl which carried Caster high above touching the heavens themselves.
"When I get up there, all your gods combined won't be able to stop me from skinning your hide!" she shouted.
"Oh, will you now?" Caster purred in her sultry voice, appearing at the balcony, whole again. Pushing off the floor with a tail and lounging on its ledge, the fox demon laid a slender hand under her chin. "Then I shall expect a pleasurable spectacle. Do not disappoint me, girl."
"Yeah… well…" Lancer started climbing. "What I'm going to enjoy, is pilling your blood and…!" Planting her spear in black soil, she hoisted herself up and out. Prying snakes from her legs, squeezing them to death, she drew her spear-arm back yet again. "I'll send your tower of jewels…" Taking aim, she hurled the mighty weapon. "Crashing down!"
It found its mark this time, searing through the fox demon's shoulder, her spear having taken the whole of it.
Caster held the wound. "That's it, girl." The words rolled off her tongue breathlessly. Cutting the few remaining strings of muscle which were keeping the dangling arm attached, the useless limb disappeared in a wisp shortly thereafter. "More pain."
Knocking down the doors to the tower, Lancer came into a grand hall of marble. She sneered at the spiraling staircase of gold and its railing encrusted in pearls.
"Such luxurious trappings, I must be in the hall of a great queen!" she mocked.
Caster's laughter reverberated down. "Indeed! A queen I am, and a queen I was!"
Muddy water flooded in from outside with the shameful remains of Caster's countless victims—unrecognizable, pulverized bones; scorched, torn bits of skin; bashed in, mutilated brains; and vermin-eaten, putrid intestines—and waist-deep in them Lancer waded through the young and old, small and large, child and adult and elderly alike, unfazed. Crunching, mashing, and stomping her way to the staircase, she pulled her arm back for the third time and sent it flying straight through the ceiling.
Caster howled.
Lancer grinned.
The Reality Marble disappeared.
Back in the farmer's crop field, standing over her once again, Lancer sighed as Caster pathetically tried to crawl away with exposed spine, leaving a gruesome trail of blood. Her spear traveling back to her hand, Lancer casually twirled it beneath an armpit and pointed its poisonous tip downward.
The hunt, was over.
All her enthusiasm vanished in that instant.
She struck the final blow.
"And here I thought you'd put up more of fight than—ah?!"
Her eyes widened, seeing what was truly before her for the first time: nothing.
It was an illusion.
Before she could react, a mass of scathing fire came down on top of her from the sky, smothering the crop field in a sea of molten bronze.
Protecting herself from the worst of it as its intense heat liquefied everything in the vicinity, Lancer reached a broiling hand for her spear—only to be swept aside like a ragdoll as Caster proceeded to fling her into a nearby village.
Sent colliding into one of the many burning huts, she grit her teeth from scalding three-degrees, unable to move because of the magecraft-infused bronze hardening against her skin, as a triumphant Caster slowly approached.
"How upsetting. You forced my hand. My Master won't be pleased. Though, blessedly, who better to deserve it than you?" Caster's hand caressed her face and then drew back to cup her loosely contained breasts, nipples hard and areola slipping from their low cut folds. "And how blessed am I to receive such from you in kind?" Then, she backed away and in a beautiful display of orange sparkles shaped like lotus petals, her parting words were carried away by the wind as she bid farewell.
"Until the next, girl."
Spitting her disgust, Lancer managed to shed enough of the bronze hindering her movements, she used another rune to create a gate between herself and the golden wasteland flowing her way.
Stumbling through it onto higher ground and falling flat on her face, Lancer rolled over on her backside atop a hill overlooking both the village and the farmer's crop field. Farther away, the city she'd chased Caster to from the mountains illuminated the night, its inhabitants oblivious to the destruction heading their way and lying there just watching it upside down, she debated whether to do something or not.
Spinning to her feet with a twirling of her spear, she leaned against it to stay steady. From the spear's point, a dark green liquid trickled down its barbed tip and rolled further down its riveted shaft over her calloused fingers, eating away at the skin of her hand, whereupon it then dripped to the ground, melting away. Sizzling wisps of poisonous steam wafted back up to her. Regardless, the spearwielder paid it no mind, even as her bone became visible.
Throwing up her hood, she gripped it tighter—the harm done to her fingers simply vanishing with the dark vapors that shed from her body, healed pink and fresh—and started down the hill.
That night, the whole of China, and eventually, hours later, the whole world knew about the landslide that'd almost wiped out an entire city only for its course to have somehow veered away in the end, much to relief of the people living there.
And so ended the second battle of the War.
And its first day.
—§•δ•§—
Wide-awake in her flat overlooking the Clock Tower in London, England, jetlagged from the flight back, those images looping in her head, Médée thought of the serpentine dagger and her mood soured further. Lying beside her bed on the nightstand, unwrapped and out of its golden, leather-bound sheath, its iridescent blade was still ever changing colors; from sickening shades of scrapes, cuts, welts, and bruises to the fields of sunflower, hues of evening sun—these beautiful colors were the only thing left of her Holy Grail War.
She sat up and took it, hair falling in front of her eyes.
A finger tracing its thin surface, it was the only one she hadn't destroyed or handed over to the Faculty of Law to do what they pleased with, an ancient, ceremonial weapon embellished with a single violet jewel on the hilt, once belonging to a witch from the Age of Gods.
She held it to the light.
Thinking of how, even though she'd won and proven her worth, that her mentor had yet to recognize her. How, despite winning, she'd been saved and spared by Saber whom disappeared shortly thereafter. Of what transpired because of her actions, a city on fire, the country an uproar, and being barred from ever entering another.
It'd been several months since then.
Setting the dagger back down on her nightstand, Médée got out of bed, buttoned her shirt, and went into the kitchen. Pouring a glass of water, there was a reflection of her collarbone; deep scars from where Assassin's knives shaved her skin when she'd miscalculated and would've died if Saber hadn't been there to stop that fourth knife.
—A person like you, who throws lives away like they serve no meaning, has no right to have their wish granted—
Now scouring her fridge for something to go with it, blending an assortment of leftover fruits and vegetables into a smoothie, she drank them and set the empty glasses in the sink before taking stripping down and entering the shower. Warm water running, she could still hear Saber's words echoing in her head, feel the cold bite of her golden blade upon the nape of her neck. The Servant that got away. Her left hand throbbed.
—From here on, you will learn humiliation. If, in time, you come to know it as I have, then that is more than anything death could ever grant you—
Honestly, she could do without anymore Holy Grail Wars.
—§•δ•§—
Arriving by horse-drawn stagecoach at the Archibald mansion in the outskirts of London, Médée peered out its curtained window at the family's crest that hung proudly above the mansion's main gate.
As punishment for leveling an entire city, letting a rogue Servant run loose unabated, and costing both the Magus Association and Holy Church an innumerable amount of joint resources to cover up, ever since, and oh so much to her great joy, she'd been stuck in her new position as an "official liaison" between them and her mentor about the Holy Grail Wars. Specifically, the man who'd inherited one of Clock Tower's most prestigious titles in a Holy Grail War of his own.
Last she heard, he was still tracking down leads and researching the false claims of a supposed "Great Holy Grail War" whether they be right here in London, a channel and several rolling hills away in Ireland, or such volatile places as Africa, the Middle East, and even America to source them. Though many turned out to be squabbles between the local populace where a significant amount of magecraft happened to be involved, or petty pockets of rogue magi, or the whisperings of something long ago left forgotten and of no use in this current, modern age, a few were actual Holy Grail Wars, like the one she'd just returned from.
The one that was supposed to be it.
Except it wasn't, and walking up to the mansion, Lord El-Melloi II, hardly the tall, dreary, intimidating figured half the female student body painted his as, was little more than a lanky, slobbering, chip and cigar craving fool. A dreamer severely in need of a haircut. Great Big Ben London Star—as befitting an alternative title as any of the man.
The Barthomeloi had left him far too long to his own devices with that apprentice of his, but to convince her mentor that she still held some value as a proper apprentice herself, she had to keep up these appearances. Had to keep going to these pointless meetings.
Sucking in her disgust and disappointment through her teeth, tapping on the mansion's front doors, at least the situation had improved from the first time around.
They swung wide and Trimmau, the mercury golem that functioned as Reines's maid and bodyguard, beckoned her inside with a curt, if awkwardly mechanical, bow. It'd been practicing...
"Lady Veilleux, the Lord awaits you in his study."
The doors shutting with a gentle, well-oiled creak behind them, Médée ignored the opaque, silver construct's explanations of her master's most recent additions to his master's collection of paintings and other fancy tapestries as they passed them by, following it through the main hall and up the stairs.
Another thing she couldn't stand: Reines's heartwarming favoritism of her.
While not having many face-to-face interactions with each other, Reines always made it a habit to be kind to her. Always having her maid escort her around the mansion when she visited, always telling her such things as "not to put up with the imbeciles who would do her wrong", and silencing any rumors about her person, it'd grown to become an annoyance. She'd already gotten a hold of Flatt for the red-ribboned gift basket full of expensive chocolates that would be waiting in front of her door after today's visit.
Upon reaching the study, Reines was nonchalantly sipping tea.
"It's wonderful to see you again! How are you?" the girl greeted. She set her teacup down on the tabletop beside her chair with a welcoming smile then snapped at Lord El-Melloi II.
At the least two heads shorter than her, behind that gentle, princess allure was very much a lioness and her pride. Having fought without rest to secure her title as head of the Archibald family upon being chosen for the position after the first Lord El-Melloi's untimely departure, Reines was someone who would do anything to keep her standing within Clock Tower. It was partially the reason the current Lord El-Melloi was serving her.
"Fine," Médée answered back.
For that, she admired her ruthlessness more than her kindness, and when Reines turned to the Lord in question, who was already looking drained and defeated, commanding him to pour her a cup with another snap of her fingers, she would admire her and accept her kindness further if she dropped the façade of "the caring auntie"—as Flatt put it—altogether.
"And how was your—"
"Uneventful."
"Oh, I see." Reines frowned.
Lord El-Melloi waved her away. "Yes, yes." He gave the formalities a wave as well. His brow wrinkled. "Right, well..." He sighed, bringing a hand to his face. "So, it—"
Reines took an obnoxiously loud sip of her tea, seated in her chair again.
"... To start—"
Slurp.
Lord El-Melloi glanced in her direction with a pained smiled.
"Did you find any leads?"
"No."
His gaze traveled to the shelves of books behind him briefly. He rubbed his chin. "Hm. I see… How disappointing…" he said, reaching into his coat pocket. His fumbled around, face darkening when something that should've been there, wasn't. "... Fuck! Where…?" Pacing back and forth between Reines, the shelf, and his desk, after a few minutes, he picked up a cigar from the floor near Reines's foot. "There it is…" He shot her a nasty look.
She didn't seem to notice. "Nobody wants to hear about another celebration in America which turned out to be just some little girl's private costume party. Or those kids in Africa who saw one too many Monty Python skits. Get on with the one you neglected to tell her because you were being overly critical of the costumes at the party. Rambling on and on..."
Lord El-Melloi took a seat at his desk. "Yes, well, I wanted to make sure of that one before sharing it, and after some more looking into it, I can say this one might be worth our attention." He leaned back in his chair, linking his hands together, cigar between his teeth. "The MENA branch of the Association is up to something. The Director of the Academy has reported strange rituals being performed around the ruins of Babylon that were similar in nature to those in Fuyuki rituals 70 years prior. Of course, you already knew this part."
"Oh, get on—!"
"Let's skip to the end, then." He cleared his throat. "Gray went to investigate shortly after you left. She's already on her way back, but, in her search found a water source running underneath what remains of the city. Multiple, in fact. Moreover, she discovered what appears to be an entrance in the heart of the ruins, but that's not what's significant about this one." Snuffing out his cigar, he snorted. "What is, is that Gray discovered signs of incantation circles, like those used to summon Servants. Though, whether or not they were successful is anybody's guess."
"Like the catacombs."
"Yes."
While she hadn't bothered to read the findings in full, something to do with an armored shadow entity which was reminiscent of the ghost-liners in these Holy Grail Wars, the Servants, and that its name was supposedly Kay.
"And Hephaestion."
Lord El-Melloi gripped the armrest of his chair, knuckles white. "Yes." He slowly relaxed. "Also, while you were away, another has already began in a small mountain village in China. It wasn't one of those I'd been following any leads on. A representative was sent over, but, we lost contact with them recently..." he trailed off.
"You're still upset about not being able to go instead? Honestly." Reines closed her eyes and scowled as she took a third sip. Dozens of empty boxes in a corner of the chambers read Yerba Mate. "Quit being a baby about it."
"At least I have an interest in something besides sucking up to the Vice Director through her apprentice and drowning myself in tea all day," he countered with an exasperated sigh.
Médée broke the accompanying tension between the two. "Is that everything?"
He broke eye contact with Reines and nodded.
"Then I'll make sure the Vice Director hears of this," she concluded.
Then she left the Lord's study, hearing shouting and something as it shattered as soon as the door closed.
Trimmau escorted her out.
And getting back into the stagecoach for the ride back, regarding these strange rituals, last she heard, their new Director was working diligently to organize the branch into something of a higher discipline, but clearly Atlas was still lax and its members even moreso. It came as no surprise something like that would've slipped under their noises. Of those Dead Apostles that they knew by name, Sumire was only one of her kin to overcome the traditional weakness of water, able to submerse herself without consequence. The ruins of Babylon had no running sources of water, having all dried up an Age ago. Seeing as how Sumire could also manifest water and live in it, it wouldn't be far-fetched to say she might be hiding there, as well. If anything, she knew her mentor would be elated at this news… in addition to what she'd found in Japan.
… Or, rather, who.