The steady sound of metal upon asphalt echoed in the chilly winter night. A relentless staccato that echoed against the road and buildings surrounding the road.
One that said I come. I am.
A notion and conceit worthy of the heroic mount that could only belong to the King of Conquerors. Both horse and rider were larger than life. Beyond mere physical prowess, they bore a majestic presence. A mien not seen in the modern day, one lost over the ages with the lessening of man as cold hard science and logic replaced the fantastical wonder that came of beholding the world as it was.
Iskander truly belonged to an era before the world had moved on, as the age of the gods ended.
Still, in the monochrome landscape painted white, black and gray by the light of the uncaring moon high above as it shed its light. A brilliant and stark silver luminance that mingled with the washed out light from the blinking lamps poles that lined the streets, side by side.
A forest of steel amidst hills of wood and concrete, with globes of light floating beneath branches of steel. With the chilly breeze sharp from the heart of winter that yet still gripped Fuyuki city, it was possible to close one's eyes to imagine that one was across the world. Perhaps campaigning in the hinterlands, of what would become Europe, in Iskander's era.
At least, Waver Velvet imagined it so, as he sat before his servant, cross-saddle. A soft part of his mind murmured that this was how maidens in ages past sat upon their mounts. The strong arms of their lords surrounding them, the scent of well-cared leather armor heavy around them while the creaking of the armor with the motion of their wearers filled their ears.
Had mankind truly fallen that far in the long ages, as they praised the false gods of science and technology? Where men like him were as soft maidens to the hard masculinity of the heroes of antiquity?
Would future generations yet to come become nothing more than soft pale slugs that sat fatly before illuminated screens; laughing, raging, weeping upon command and offering their worship and love to false tawdry imagery that were nothing more than electrical pulses given shape and form?
Such idle thoughts were not worthy, and indeed, surrounded by the silent and overflowing presence of his Rider, Waver found himself drinking in the world around him as if he was a man long trapped in a desert who now found himself in an oasis.
The divide between life and death, where one's soul is shriven and exposed to the truth of the world with no self-deceptions, embellishments, nor a mind that strove to explain things with labels and conceits of his upbringing.
A sense of wonder rose in his heart to blossom in his soul, the world simply was.
An eternal moment of white, black, and soft velvety darkness. Shrouded by the world's mysteries and paradoxes, Waver accepted it all and found himself at peace. Perhaps, this was what eastern bodhisattvas meant when they spoke of peace being a singular moment without judgment, without conception or thinking that things could be better or worse or some other way.
The noble warhorse with its rider and his passenger moved out of the city, leisurely venturing towards the boundaries set for the Heaven's Feel; a border of darkness that neatly delineate what was Fuyuki city and what wasn't, Miongawa river.
The soft lapping of the water on the bank echoed softly in a pale shadow of Oceania that lay within Iskander's heart and simultaneously at the edge of the world.
Spanning above the darkness that served as the boundary was the Fuyuki bridge; a construct of steel, painted white by the brilliance of hollow mercury lamps. The light cast were sufficient to drown out the light of the moon and stars above. A modern bridge that bore an aura of light and which lay over perdition, between life and death.
"Rider, that's..." It wasn't necessary for Waver to complete his statement, as Rider responded with a slow nod. He, too, had seen him.
Illuminated by the brilliance of the man-made light as if cast in the light of day, the golden armour shone as if a fragment of the glory of the sun had been made manifest and deigned to step upon the filthy world of mud. The lamps' light were mocked and rejected as if the very presence of the armour said that it only bore the light forged of man's artifice because the sun itself had yet to rise to illuminate it as was right and proper.
The cruel gaze gracing the noble visage. Remorseless, haughty as only a king could be. The rich ruby hue of the eyes was enough to pressure Waver into stillness, pushing him against Iskander with nothing more than the mere presence of the king of antiquity.
Servant Archer, the King of Heroes, Gilgamesh.
As he sat upon Bucephalas, Velvet Waver carved each and every moment upon his mind and soul; that no matter what happened, as long as he existed, this would be remembered. To do any less would be an insult to Rider and Archer.
Thus, did he observe his Servant speaking to the Golden King of Heroes.
Watched the look of surprise and the rebuke from Gilgamesh be responded with and transformed into polite discourse.
Followed by shared laughter and one last drink.
And yet, that aura. That killing intent from the ancient kind of Babylonia did not waver in the slightest, even in laughter.
A killing intent matched, perhaps, by the overflowing aura of prana and power from Waver's Rider.
At the return of Iskander to the bridgehead where Waver waited, the magus could only sigh as an unspoken tension rested in his heart.
"Did the two of you actually get along?"
"Well, we'll be killing each other now. Or he could be the last opponent in my entire life that I will exchange glances with. I can't be ungrateful," The wishful look on Rider's face spoke of how few challenges the modern world had for him. Still, it was only in the here and now that he could meet his equals and peers from history to face in words, deeds and combat.
"..." Waver's words were stiff and stifled with unspoken emotions. "Don't be stupid. There's no way you can be killed. I won't accept that. Did you forget my Command Seals?"
"Ah... that's right," With a smile, Iskander once more straddled the back of his waiting mount, before unsheathing his blade. "Gather, my brethren! Tonight, we shall mark our gallant figures into legend once more! The strongest of legends!"
A burning wind blew upon the bridge, surging from the city behind them, dispersing the mist from the river below.
The thoughts, the hopes, the countless brave warriors and soldiers who had once shared the same dream as their king, formed around the upraised sword of the Cypriots.
Drawn forth from the Throne of Heroes, outside of space and time, to march once more with their beloved king.
Unbound heavens that was of a pure blue hue than the purest of sapphires. A horizon that spanned further than mortal eyes could see lay concealed behind the haze of the great heat from the sun above head, that all could gaze at as one with a great heart that they may ascertain its reality.
The thoughts, the dreams, the hopes of those valient warriors called forth were of such purity and puissant that they eroded the reality of the world. That the world was denied, and thus was the uninhabited steel bridge into a great plain within a raging whirlwind.
One by one, the countless Heroic Spirits marched to their appointed stations and places in the stage of the decisive battle that they had been summoned to.
This was but the second time that Waver Velvet witnessed the spectacle of the arrayed Ionion Hetairoi in their all of their magnificence. A countless formation of Heroic Spirits was something to view with respect, certainly. But now that he had learnt of the heart, the very soul, of Alexander the Great's kingship, his awe was all the greater. Even if the original shock was no longer a thing that existed, the sense of awe could only grow in its absence.
The bond, the contract, that lay between noble lord and servant. That was what the shining elite warriors had formed with the King of Conquerors. A bond that not even the barrier between life in the human world and the afterlife in the Throne of Heroes could sever. Nay, it was a bond that transcended distance, time, and even existance.
There was nowhere where they would not march to battle. No plane of existance beyond their king and his comrades. If Iskander, the King of Conquerors would set forth in his tyranny, in his ursupation and conquest, they would follow.
How could they not?
That was their pride as companions of their king.
Of being one with their lord.
Their blood boiled and surged as one. Of being able to raise their weapons, to march and ride with him. To battle alongside him.
"Our enemy stands there! The king of Heroes! Greater than hundreds of thousands of heroes! An opponent worthier than any. Who lacks in no regard! Come! My companions! Let us show the First Heroic Spirit the way of our tyranny!" Iskander's gesture at Gilgamesh was one of true confidence.
An aura of absolute certainty that what they faced was something that could only be magnificent.
And that they would prove its equal and triumph over it.
"Ooooh!" The responding cheer from the countless arrayed heroes of the Ionion Hetairoi filled the air in equal to their king's roar and declaration.
A single figure clad in gold stood before them in silence.
A solitary figure that stood much like a lone mountain before the host of heroes that boiled in excitment much like the roaring high seas. An existance in singularity that showed not a speck of dismay, not a fragment of despair.
Archer simply existed.
Much like the very world, he simply was.
Imposing, his demeanor. He barred their path much like a mountain in majesty. His aura was one filled with killing intent and pure unrelenting power, a presence that pushed low all that dared to approach him. The intimidation, absolute intimidation, that flowed from him much like rivers would from a mountain fed snow peaks, was inimitable and unmistakable; one could expect no less from a demi-god who had ascended to the ranks of the Heroic Spirits gathered in the Throne of Heroes.
The First.
And, quite possibly even, the Original Hero who ventured forth on to that Throne of Heroes outside of existance.
"Come, Lord of Vanquishers. Come and be enlightened. For in the here and now, I shall show you the true form of a King..." The cruel smile that graced the face of Gilgamesh was of one who delighted in battle, as he gestured for those who dared to stand before him to come.
To the boast from the King of Heroes, there was but one response.
The only response, in truth.
War.
Conflict.
And thus the host of Heroic Spirits charged as one, led by the heroic horse Bucephalus, in a wedge formation. A calvary charge not seen since the Age of the Gods.
A bellow from Rider was responded to by a battle cry from his valient knights and warriors. To the surging waves of shouts and harsh thungering songs that came from the throats of the Heroic Spirits and from the hooves of their mount, Velvet Waver found that even his quiet voice rose with all its might in a cry from his heart.
"AAAALaLaLaLaie!"
The rumbling and shaking of earth, as the air filled with clouds of dust and sand, was the truth that lay in what surged towards Gilgamesh.
An unrelenting force of nature that came of men and their mounts being as one, their hearts beating to the pulse of their king's heart and hot blood.
Before this overwhelming magnificence, lesser men would have broken, would have quailed. Gilgamesh did not move.
His only response was the shining of fierce joy in his ruby red eyes. A joy that could only come from one who had completely exhausted all the pleasures that the world could hold, and yet now... now had found something worthy to be called a challenge.
An equal.
A peer to match his arm against.
A sublime joy that none could truly say to possess before now.
All this was clear to Waver Velvet as he gazed upon Gilgamesh, from where he rode with Iskander. That the Servant Archer was pleased by Rider's assault was an immutable fact.
That the challenge essayed by and from Rider was worth pitting the entirety of his full strength against.
Surrounded by the fellow companions who rode with Rider, Waver Velvet could not hear the words uttered by Archer. But he could see what that Heroic Spirit did as the otherworld vault of his was once more unlocked by the key sword in his hand.
A single weapon drawn forth.
The noble phantasm that defined him. Or, at least, best defined his legend.
A singular honor that the Golden King would never give to any that he did not respect in truth. That he would battle them with the sword that was his and his alone, in place of the rain of noble phantasms that he threw away carelessly.
Still, the shape wasn't what one would call a sword. At least in any normal conventional sense. It possessed a basket hand guard, a grip for one's hand to hold it with. But where the blade would be, a stone pillar of onyx emerged, formed of three sections that lined up and a tip that spun restlessly in a spiral.
Like a series of querns, millstones that spun, the "blade" could not in truth be called a blade. It wasn't truly a sword.
The aura it bore was of an incalculable age, beyond conceptualization. Waver Velvet wouldn't have been surprised if informed that the priceless artifact came from an age before the notion of a "sword" was conceived, or even perhaps... before history. Before the birth of the world, itself.
Slowly the triple sections spun... but, moving ever faster. The prana that spilled forth from the weapon beyond measure; in comparison to the prana that poured forth from Rider, the prana from the weapon was an ocean that threatened to drown the word to Rider's roaring torrent of a river that flowed into the ocean.
It seemed an eternity as Archer lifted his weapon over his head. The spinning sections brought forth ever greater amounts of prana, raw and unrefined, but oh so potent in its heaviness and purity.
"It's coming!" The roar from Rider solidified the sensation of absolute danger that Waver felt within his heart, within his very fabric of existance. That the crimson tornado of prana around Archer's weapon was something that could not be stopped, that should only be dodged if possible.
Where Saber's Excalibur had been pure and cold in its absolute, Archer's noble phantasm was heavy and hot with primeval vigor. One that would thrust forward, ignoring any and all defense.
That was what Waver felt.
The sensation of death from the lonely golden shadow standing before the pounding army of Heroic Spirits did not flicker, only increase.
There was a moment of silence as the mighty King of Heroes declared the power of his Noble Phantasm, the crystalized legend that he bore in his hands. "Come now and look up and gaze. Upon Enuma Elish!"
And then the world BURNED and screamed as the heavens was sundered with the release of the enormous collection of prana was allowed to release and shoot forth. Space, time, reality... such things were as weak illusions before its power. Crude filiment that it ground thru, crushing and gnashing.
Archer hadn't aimed his noble phantasm.
He didn't need to.
For of what need did he have to aim, when his target was the world?
The entire world before Archer was his target.
Waver's eyes widened and his heart jumped at the chasm forming from the mere existance of the attack. A chasm that darted straight at Bucephalas and those who sat upon his noble back.
A fracture within the world that would swallow them and those who followed.
"Heyyy~!" The command from Iskander accompannied the scream that filled Waver's world. A scream that he realized was coming from him.
But the horse he sat upon, and the rider who controlled it, to imagine that they would be daunted by the dangers of fissures with infinite depths forming beneath them would be to laugh and insult them.
There was a reason that Iskander had been summoned as the servant class Rider.
Thus at his command, Bucephalas kicked off from the crumbling ground and... flew.
Before slamming down once more upon solid ground upon the far side of the chasm after an eternal moment of weightlessness.
Those who followed... Waver paled and forced himself to look as those who had ridden alongside Rider and him attempt to follow alongside their king; the keyword was attempt.
They tumbled one by one into the darkness.
An ever expanding void of Nothingness.
It was clear to Waver's sight that the chasm that Bucephalas had leapt was growing as it consumed those at the rear who had stopped their charge.
But the fissure wasn't simply a parting of earth. It was, literally, a zone of nothingness that warped the air, distorting the fabric of space.
Twisting and sucking inwards everything around it; air, earth, dust, and heroic spirits alike.
To such a thing, neither Waver nor Rider had words to describe.
That such a weapon existed, that set forth in motion the consumption and destruction of the world around it.
That it existed was beyond the notions of man and heroic spirit alike.
The dark void that spun, twisting ever inwards as it consumed everything, grew only stronger the more it consumed.
Like a mirror that was warped inwards by an unknowable hole in reality, the great plain of hot sand woven by the presence of the Ionian Hetairoi, by their distortion upon the world, splittered and shattered... consumed by the dark void unleased by Archer's noble phantasm.
A weapon that could not be distinguished with such terms as "anti-personnel", "anti-unit", "anti-army", or even "anti-fortress". If there were such a thing, the noble phantasm could only be called "anti-world", for it broke the world.
Leaving nothing but a shining star shining upon a primordial void that burned and twisted with raw potential.
And the world was unmade.
The world was an illusion. A conceptual dream cast forth by Gaia as she danced around the warm and glowing sun. A notion that she wasn't alone, that her children could exist upon her mantle and do homage to her by living.
A fine illusion. The finest distortion upon reality by an entity who simply existed. Who could not fail to exist.
Reality was defined by her. It took great madness and power beyond mortal men to distort that dream of hers and replace it with a tiny pearl, a miniscule marble, that she would crush in time.
The weapon unleashed by Archer broke reality as surely as if its dreamer had awoken. That it was a reality marble, a world smaller in scope and created by the dreams of men, was a pointless fact. It was the same as that of Gaia's dream.
All that differed was a matter of scale. And if it was just a degree of power, then... all that was needed was greater amounts of prana to shatter the reality of the world and reveal what lay beneath it. Lay beneath, before and after it. Dreams had an ending too when the dreamer awoken.
And Prana was something that Archer was never in need of.
For such was the strength of that servant Archer.
Nay, the strength of Gilgamesh, the golden King of Heroes.
Peerless was he as he stood upon the pinancle of might. His existance was, as he had claimed, peerless.
Swallowing dryly, Waver had to admit to himself that Tohsaka had truly summoned a monstrous servant of a Heroic Spirit.
One who still stood at the bridge head with the destruction of the reality marble that the Ionian Hetairoi had brought with them. With his sword in hand and a smile upon his face, while Rider was quite without his companions.
"Rider..." Waver looked up at his servant, seeing his far too pallid face reflected in Iskander's eyes.
"Come to think of it, there's one thing that I have been meaning to ask you," At this statement from Rider, Waver blinked in puzzlement.
"Ah?"
"Waver Velvet. Would you serve me? To be mine and mine alone as my servant?"
The question. Ah, that was the question that Waver Velvet had always desired deep within his heart as he was drawn into Iskander's world. Desired, but knowing that he would never be asked, that it would be beyond his reach much like an ever distant distant utopia.
He didn't need to think, or search within himself for an answer to such a question. It was perhaps like a woman being asked by her beloved to be with him, the answer was so blindingly obvious that it need not be thought of or even spoken.
It simply was.
Still, in an imperfect world such as the one that they dwelt in, Waver had to struggle to speak. To give voice to the overwhelming emotions that surged from the bottom of his heart at being asked that.
To be part of something greater.
To belong to Iskander the Great, the King of Conquerors.
To serve him.
"You..."
For someone who finally acknowledged him, to call his name at last, Waver Velvet could blink as tears formed in his eyes and flowed to chest. Threwing his chest wide, the boy... no, the man responded with a steady voice.
"You are my king. And I will serve you. I will give the entirety of my mind, body and soul to you. Please share your dream with me." A delicate hand rested upon his chest as he looked up at his king, his Iskander. "Show me the way forward and guide me."
At the response with its solemn tearful oath, Iskander could only smile. To Waver, that smile was all the reward he could ever desire now. Far greater than the simple dream he once held of achieving by winning the Holy Grail War.
"Very well."
Two words, and yet they were so much more than just words. The simple acceptance in them brought a warmth and joy to his heart. Along with being lifted up before being set down beside the great presence of Iskander and Bucephalas.
"Ah?" The coldness of the world without the comforting presence of Iskander and the trembling warmth between his legs brought a look of... uncertainty to Waver's face. Followed by confusion as Iskander laid his mantle upon the young magus' shoulders.
The very same mantle that had been used as a catalyst, once upon a time, to summon the great King of Conquerors.
"It is my duty as a king to examplify the dream that we share. As it is yours as my servant to witness the dream of his king. That it may be transmitted down the generations, so that the deeds of his king are never forgotten."
A warm smile graced Iskander's face as he gazed down on Waver from where he sat upon Bucephalas. Trembling with unspoken emotions and words, Waver gazed upwards with tear filled eyes and listened to the royal command from his king.
The certainty was there that this would perhaps be the last time they would hold concourse as master and servant in this world. A farewell that was suited for a king to his servant, or perhaps the last words from a manly man to those he leaves behind.
But perhaps, in the Throne of Heroes... they would be reunited.
"Live, Waver Velvet. Live and witness everything to its conclusion. Live long, be fruitful, and tell your children and their children of me. Let them hear of our deeds together, of your king. Of this Iskander and his last charge."
Waver could only hung his head wordlessly, as Iskander smiled and thumped his chest with a fist. Words were not necessary.
A king's commands are simply that, absolutes.
There are those who would ignore such. But down that path walks the traitors.
For a servant who loves his king? For one who is loyal to the spirit that shines from within the one they serve?
To do nothing less than what is asked or commanded of them is unthinkable.
With the oath given freely by Waver, the bond between king and servant was eternal, beyond all boundaries and time. The king had merely to ask, to call for him... and the servant shall surely come.
And thus Waver nodded silently before looking up at Iskander, eyes filled with tears but blazing with emotion unspoken. "Iskander... you... you are strong. You will win."
"To conquest! Bucephalas!" With that, Iskander thundered forward. Sword in hand. Charging at his enemy who stood waiting for him. A war-cry filling his lungs as his steed's hooves trampled upon the asphalt like a machine gun firing thunder bolts in rapid sequence.
"AAAALaLaLaLaie!"
Waver could only watch as his king rode forward, the narrow path to death and destruction. The prospects of victory low to none. Sword in hand, bravado and spirits strong in heart, a loud cry upon his lips.
"To Philotimo!" The challenge from the noble figure against the shining glorious golden shadow with eyes crimson as blood brought a smile to Waver's lips before it faded away.
For the stars rained down upon Iskander.
Ten.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Hundreds.
Hundreds upon hundreds of noble phantasms rained upon Iskander from where Gilgamesh stood. Each shooting forth with sufficient speed and power to transform into streaks of light, into shooting stars.
While not all of them struck Iskander or Bucephalas. More and more did.
The young magus could only weep at the sight. Blood flowed freely from both rider and mount.
Eventually, the noble horse that was itself a heroic spirit fell.
And Iskander charged on.
Step after step.
Unyielding.
Relentless.
Ever moving forward.
One step taken after another, each reflecting another injury.
The look of surprise upon the face of Iskander's enemy brought a soaring hope into Waver's heart even as it winced as each new noble phantasm embedded itself in noble and kingly flesh.
The spinning chains that struck as serpents to bind the King of Conquerors wasn't enough to stop him. Not nearly enough.
Another step.
And the down-swing of a sword.
Blood splattered.
And Waver broke from where he stood to run forward.
To his king.
To his king where he stood victorious beyond the fallen form of his enemy.
Puella Magi Schuetze Aurulent
Part 4 : War and victory are like fire, they consume everything.
"This expedition has certainly been... exciting and invigorating," The young magus could only weep as his king, his Iskander, turned to look at him with weary eyes.
Eyes that held only joy at having found what he sought. Eyes covered by his noble and princely blood.
As if the slaying of Gilgamesh had allowed Iskander to fulfill his dream.
Bloodstained lips curved upwards in a smile as Gilgamesh's body faded away into motes of light.
"Remember well this last charge. This last victory. Waver," A blood speckled cough as one by one the noble phantasms shot by Archer vanished. And with it, servant Rider faded into motes of prana. "And thank you... for summoning me."
"Is... Iskander?" Disbelief filled his voice at the sight of his King vanishing into light. There would be those who would say that he had been abandoned once more. But there lay the command laid upon him.
To live.
To be fruitful.
To speak of his Iskander.
The battle had taken the span of mere moments, but it was an eternity. And even should his sight fade, Waver would always remember that last charge.
Of Rider.
Of Iskander, the King of Conquerors.
Of his final charge upon the original Heroic Spirit, Gilgamesh and his unthinkable victory.
And beyond the magus, in the distance before him... a black sun ascended into the heavens above the city of Fuyuki.