Genesis 7: Macabre
The world remained white around Shirou even after the burst of light had receded. Blinking vigorously did nothing to help his eyes recover and adjust, and yet the stunned Shirou fought furiously to reclaim his vision. The air was suddenly thick and unwelcoming, and his lungs grasped for anything familiar, to no avail. Collapsing to his knees, Shirou struggled for air, barely able to keep himself conscious with his injuries alone. The ground seemed to have taken an uneven, irregular surface, and it was difficult for him to maintain his balance.
Nearby, Shirou heard Christie coughing; evidently, he wasn't alone in this affliction. Struggling to find his way, he resorted to crawling on all fours, trying to look for any indication of his location. As his vision began to return, he felt a peculiar moistness on the bumpy floor. Clarity returned to him, and an unfamiliar face materialized before him, staring at him relentlessly with wide, bloodshot eyes. The soldier's crimson-painted face gazed lifelessly into him from a rusty sallet, as if to call him to the other side. Shirou sat perplexed for a moment before realizing he had been crawling over the man's corpse this whole time. Shoving himself off of the bloodstained suit of armor, Shirou struggled to stand.
As his vision fixed on what lay before him, Shirou was brought to a daunting and eerily familiar picture. A sea of bodies extended towards the horizon, bathed in a magnificent coat of maroon that seemed to shimmer under the setting sun. A seemingly limitless number of corpses littered the ground, some scattered in various positions that seemed to portray their last moments. Most bore a good amount of gashes to their body, but there were a few here and there mutilated beyond belief – virtually unrecognizable. Scarlet hues rose from the fallen warriors like steam, dissipating into the air as they made their ascent. As Christie rose to her feet nearby, Shirou caught Rider in his usual patient stance; the knight was seemingly unaffected by the change in surroundings. The stoic Servant emitted a strange golden aura Shirou had never noticed before; such a brilliant hue seemed uncharacteristic when contrasted with Rider's sinister blacks and greys. The unfaltering glow seemed to push away any strands of red vapor that strayed too close.
"An endless supply of mana," a man's voice bellowed from a distance behind, prompting the trio to turn around alertly. "It's a shame it's of no use to you."
"The air's thick with it, that's for sure, but it's a pretty bad imitation of mana," Christie muttered to herself weakly before breaking into another fit of coughing.
Mordred and his master came into view, carelessly stepping over corpses as they advanced slowly. The wisps from the fallen soldiers surrounding the smug-faced Servant seemed to recognize him and jump gleefully over and into him in what Shirou could only describe as a waterfall running in reverse. The Perilous Rings failed to hinder Mordred in the least bit; the golden bangles were seemingly forgettable amidst the fortitude the mists seemed to grant him. The Master showed no visible traces of any affliction as he treaded through the bodies, taking long strides alongside his Servant with an unusual confidence.
"I am Reaper of this land, knight. 'Tis time for the Harvest."
The Servant sprung forth with such staggering speed and vigor that Rider barely had time to raise his blade in defense before the distance between the two was closed. The force of impact between the two broke Rider's stance with ease, sending him flying backwards as he tried to muster the strength to force back Mordred's blade. The Saber's cold steel pressed against the stiff golden aura, sharp and unrelenting. As Rider noticed the aura begin to bend at the contact point, he felt his back strike the ground.
As the dust cleared, Rider climbed out of the rubble created by his collision with the side of the hill. It became readily apparent that the Servant's strange radiance commanded somewhat of a sturdy physical component. Any stray debris simply slid off of the shimmering cushion, crumbling towards the base of the hill. Noting his opponent was nowhere in sight, the knight made his ascent up the slope. Mordred's increase in strength and speed was palpable, and Rider found it necessary to claim higher ground.
The hill was no different from the remainder of the battlefield; it was decorated with corpses – soaked in slaughter. As he neared the crest of the hill, he raised his blade attentively, noticing Mordred's blood-soaked figure lying amidst the fallen soldiers, coughing and virtually motionless. The situation perplexed Rider. He seemed on the brink of death – with no perceptible cause, for that matter. Was this a trap? Advancing cautiously across the corpses with his blade drawn, he noticed the figure lying alongside Mordred's.
Faint clangs echoed across the hill as Rider's sword danced upon the ground frivolously before coming to a halt. The knight's armor shuffled as he plunged to his knees, his aura dispersing nearly instantaneously. His gaze refused to depart from the figure's face, and a sense of disbelief overwhelmed him.
"My King…"
Rider hadn't noticed Mordred's form descending upon him until it was too late. He was barely able to flinch before the blade fell from his shoulder to his waist, granting him a clean, diagonal slice across his chest. The impact was enough to shatter his breastplate and fling him down the slope of the hill. Struggling to regain his senses and withstand the pain, Rider tumbled downwards over the stiff bodies, feeling each bump chastise him with a stinging sensation across his body. When he finally came to a halt, it was by aid of a boot clothed in white steel.
"One of Arthur's knights, are we?" Mordred grinned as he pressed down upon Rider's chest, eliciting a flurry of violent coughs from the felled knight.
As he toyed with his prey, Mordred smiled menacingly. "I wonder which one."
The wicked knight's pleasure was interrupted by his Master's call, which served to irritate him to no end. The businessman stumbled towards him, panting heavily. His expression was extremely disconcerted; his confidence had seemingly fleeted as soon as Mordred had left his side, and his breaths seemed to grow more labored by the second.
"Saber," he managed. "I can't take it anymore. It's too much."
Mordred was much too proud to let his moment of glory slip away. Ignoring his Master's plea, he delivered a swift kick to Rider's head, taking pleasure in the clash of metal upon metal as the Servant turned to his side, groaning painfully.
"This is the glory of Arthur's knights? This is the best you can do? You're pitiful."
Planting his foot on his victim's chest, Mordred reached down and grasped the knight's visor with his free hand. Tearing the helm from his head violently, he let triumphant smile begin to fade as he looked upon the face of his opponent.
A resplendent array of golden hair flourished as its veil was robbed from it, falling upon the man's pure face. Even through his vulnerability and weakness, there was some untouchable air about the knight. His fair skin glistened beneath the sunlight that tricked through the holes in the ceiling. As he opened his eyes, Mordred found himself wincing, as if by some unseen force. His irises were gray – no, they were clear. Untainted by color. At that moment, Rider was calm. He simply stared at his assailant, as if waiting for something.
"You," Mordred muttered. "How is this possible?"
He dropped the helm at once. As it hit the floor and rolled to the side, he began stepping backwards slowly, disbelief and distress materializing upon his face. His sudden change of emotion seemed to beckon the collapse of the Reality Marble, and the world slowly faded to its original surroundings. At once they all returned to the entranceway of the castle, and Shirou's and Christie's near-lifeless bodies lay in the corner. The businessman fell to his knees, coughing and struggling for air. As Mordred stumbled over stray debris from the castle, Rider slowly rose to his feet, grasping his wound with one hand. His voice resounded, clear and resolute.
"Well, Sir Mordred? You've seen what you wanted to see. Come at me, then."
But Mordred would not come. As if he'd seen a ghost, he backed away for a few more moments before shaking off the shock. For the first time, the Servant seemed uncharacteristically patient, seemingly torn between fighting and retreating. His expression showed nothing but troubled indecision. At last, he lifted his blade and became poised to strike.
"Saber! Retreat for now," the Master managed with a cough, much to Mordred's frustration. After shooting the businessman a curious glance, he abided and stepped back, his form suddenly becoming transparent. Now aware of the fact that arguing against the order was unwise at the moment, the Servant took mere seconds to fade into the air, and soon, there was no visible trace of the knight.
A gust of air flew by the entranceway, and the sound of footsteps scurrying out echoed through the chambers. His Master followed shortly after, seemingly revitalized by his utter fear and survival instinct. Within moments the pair was gone, and Rider wasted no time in replacing his sinister armor. Mana flowed out of his body and took a life of its own, constructing itself into formidable black steel contours. Redirecting his attention to Christie, Rider spoke in his low, indeterminable voice.
"We should follow. They may lose us."
Having regained consciousness and being more than happy to breathe fresh air, Christie simply lay there on her back with arms outstretched and eyes closed. Blowing a tuft of hair from her face, she nodded.
"Nn. Give me five more minutes."