A/N

Sorry for such a long gap between update, but my real life had just become so busy as of late. Still, things have begin to settle down a bit, so I should be able to resume normal writing schedule soon. Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter

Chapter 3 – Penance

As with other Heroic Spirits, regret was the major force that drafted Berserker's tormented soul into being a part of the Grail War.

The temptation was indeed great for all those involved. The Grail's limitless power drove wild the imagination of all those who sought it. However, in contrast to kings who sought grandiose or the warriors who sought glory, Berserker held on to but a simple wish in his heart.

He wished for the Grail to erase his pained existence. If it would mean that the atrocity against his family never took place, the world could just revolve on without the heroic feats of Heracles to embellish one of its pages.

This wish of his was Berserker's most tightly guarded secret, shrouded in secrecy to all including Ilya. Partly due to her foreseeable objection, he found no will to impart this secret to her, despite the extent of their trust which ran deeper than any ordinary pair of Master and Servant.

On the contrary, the girl seemed to feel no hesitation even when confiding in him the most intimate of her secrets and he reciprocated, although not with a glimpse of his inner thought, but with patience and understanding. Not being one for many words, Berserker found it easy to still his tongue from handing out early judgment and his advice, although blunt, was spoken with sincerity.

Initially, from an offhanded comment and later from a heartfelt talk, he came to know of her plight as a daughter and as an Einzbern. He sympathized with the sudden loss of her parents and her fate to serve as the pinnacle for the Grail. However, he expressed his doubt toward her desire for revenge.

For that reason alone, Berserker found himself enchained by hesitation. The night breeze tempered this emotion somewhat, but the turmoil was rooted too deeply in his heart to be blown away. From his vantage point atop the crest of this sloping street, his gaze drooped toward the two magi who seemed inevitably intimidated by his presence.

A brief glance at their Servants seemed to tell him another story, however.

The woman stood her ground and returned his gaze without fear. Not even a strand of her muscle or sinew did tremble in fright by his presence

The sight made the warrior inside him tremble in delight. The Holy Grail War would end up as no more than a sharp disappointment if he was forced to cut down an intimidated foe.

Indeed, she was a rare specimen among the womankind…

Once sufficiently stripped of all weaponry, they were led into a dimly lit hallway. The stonework of crude craftsmanship was rendered even more hideous with the wear and tear of time and the salty sea breeze.

Quite uncharacteristically, his crews were reduced to meekness before the crowd of women that served as their escort, keeping their heads low and their gaze averted. In any other circumstances, they would have wasted no time before indulging themselves in so luscious a sight after being deprived of female presence during weeks of sea voyage. None, however, seemed to have the heart to observe this band of grizzled warriors with lecherous eyes.

These women were not ones to be cowed under the shadow of a patriarch. When war was upon them, seldom did they huddled the under legion of shields, but set forth with bow and arrow after the head of the enemy general instead. Even the sailors who braved Poseidon's dominion had no need for more reasons to be afraid.

A brief command from their escort forced his crews to their knee. It had been said that inside every Amazonian burned an intense hatred of every feeble man and they were not too keen on putting the saying to test. Dishonor was but a remote notion compared to the apparent threat of receiving the cold merciless tip of an arrow in the middle of one's back.

Once they were goaded into proper position of respect, a female figure emerged and reclined on the lofty throne. Breaths were held in awe of her presence, which seemed to command the very air of reverence and poise, a wise leader in the time of peace and a valiant commander in the time of war. Long years of leadership wore down the beauty in her face, leaving only sharp hawk-like feature to scrutinize them.

"…State your intention, outsider. What is it that you wish of us?"

Nevertheless, she seemed intrigued by his presence. Her voice softened into a mellow feminine tone and the stern mask that covered her visage faltered for a brief moment. In him she had found the noblest specimen of the opposite gender.

Ignoring the demure look in her eyes, Heracles knelt down and bellowed.

"O brave queen of the Amazonians…"

Against his better judgment and the force of instinct that warned against the coming battle, Berserker's right arm stiffened. Before a warrior or even a Servant, he spared greater significance toward his status as Ilya's guardian and, thus, this fight was one that he would rather avoid if at all possible.

This situation…

"Get them, Berserker!"

…is there no alternative to it…

Lamenting his inability to come up with any better solutions, Berserker resigned himself to the unavoidable duty of a Servant. Despite the rapport they had nurtured, he was inherently no more than a Servant to Ilya. It was not his place to meddle in her personal affairs.

"…Come then, it is the wish of my Master for our blades to clash, as it is my own to fulfill her."

"Well said, Berserker, then we shall converse with blade instead of words…"

Determination, however, was often more honest than words. Despite what had been uttered to Saber, this mental shackle still remained tightly clasped on his arms. Hesitation hindered his strike and Saber was keen enough to exploit it in full. The knight countered his attack, drawing her sword along the length of his.

Impressive…

Berserker was forced to retract his blade in defense. Considering the effect of God Hand, it was perhaps an unnecessary move, but he was not about to break the usual pattern he had fought with for so long. With one fluid motion, his blade was turned from defense to offense as he pushed forth with a savage swing, albeit weighted down by hesitation all the same.

Why should a man's heart be laden by guilt in doing what was commanded by his duty?

…Madness it might be, but the reason wasn't so difficult to fathom. The female knight was all that stood between him and Ilya's surrogate brother. Among all of her selfish desires that he'd accommodated, he couldn't justify the horror of this particular act of killing.

Not because his heart held affection for the boy, but because he knew full well the consequence that the decision would inflict on Ilya. Indeed, her youthful mind seemed to have yet to grasp the horror of murdering another human being, much less a family member.

Her advance rid his mind of reason. Her passionate whispers drove him wild with desire and guilt. It had been too long since he had been deprived of a woman's sensual touch. The beast, once enchained, was now freed from its bonds and destruction was all that its simplistic mind could be concerned with.

Cleansing water poured down from the sky as he laid her to rest on the desolate ground of the dock. The flowing torrent washed all blemishes from her flesh. The tiny red puddle that pooled below his feet was soon diluted into nothingness, but the mark of sins on his left hand could not be washed away with the same ease.

His feet carried him away from the scene, one heavy step after another. His heart was laden with guilt and his feet with shame. His voice bellowed to rouse the crew from their slumber. With a strong right hand, the mast was lowered and anchor lifted.

As the wind and oarsmen's toil carried them away, Heracles was left to remain frozen at the stern of the galley and watched as the port was eventually reduced into a distant speck of light.

It was a futile endeavor for the pursuers to be chasing them through the storm, but he was certain that they would try nonetheless…The offense he had inflicted upon them was far too severe to be forgiven.

Questions echoed in his mind, spurred by his conscience.

What man could stand to soil his hand with not only the blood of the innocent, but the blood of a gracious host? What coward wouldn't have the courage to face their cries of lament and roars of anger?

…Yet, for all this time, tightly clutched in his left hand was her bloodied girdle. His left hand had robbed and plundered like a wretched thief. Though numbed by the storm and guilt, it refused to be pried from its prized loot…

Being a child, Ilya had yet to wrap her mind around the would-be consequences of her action. To be causing death of other human beings, no matter how insignificant, was a loathsome affair.

Without the experience to tell her so, Ilya lacked both the foresight and restraint in fulfilling her desire. Such immaturity was not so much a cause for concern to be found in a child had it not been for the fact that she possessed the power to physically turn her gruesome fantasy a reality with no more than a single word of command.

A dangerous combination, Berserker hadn't failed to notice, for it was a foolish venture to rejoice in the demise of others. Before long, the brief pleasure would recede, leaving only a bitter aftertaste on one's tongue…

Alas, the skirmish was before him and it offer him little time for reprieve. He was forced to counter as the knight rebounded from her first strike and resumed her offensive stance.

Clang!

Steel and stone clashed once again, leaving no clear victor as they parted. An annoyed grunt from the giant and a feral war cry were exchanged as their duel raged on. Countless blows were traded in the span of a few seconds, leaving only sparks and faint outlines to be perceived by ordinary eyes.

Slicing through the air with the knight's graceful swordplay was the broadsword. Alas, it was matched at least in speed by the massive stone axe, handled by it user with same ease he would a much more wieldy xiphos.

Nevertheless, the knight seemed to be holding a marginal advantage over her foe. Though her arms lacked the same strength, her lithe frame ensured superior agility. Her offensive didn't falter in the least even as she leapt backward to reduce the impact of their clashing weapons. Bending her knee to receive the impact, her legs found an impeccable tempo to utilize the recoil and launched herself forward like a turbulent gale. Sword raised up high as she advanced for another strike.

A pair of untrained eyes might deem the knight to be in a position of advantage, as the giant seemed to have retreated into a protective shell when faced her incessant attacks.

The truth, however, did not take such a simplistic form.

Years of experience convinced Berserker it was a fool's errand to be heading toward the offensive with such uncertainty. The lack of visual judgment on the length of her invisible blade could lead to lapses in his movement, potentially fatal when taking the opponent's skill into consideration. Nevertheless, the brief period of passivity was soon to pass. With the final exchange to confirm his estimate, the giant was ready to act.

Alas, the knight still remained confident, fooled by the notion that she'd advanced past the effective range of his oversized blade. The assault had her fair complexion creased with the ferocity of a lioness. Two gauntleted hands tightened their grip on the sword hilt as a burst of prana propelled a downward swing…

Clang!

However, Berserker was not vulnerable to the weakness of range and the mighty blade never quite had the chance to complete its arc. The sound of impact that reverberated through the area signified that her attack path was blocked mid swing.

With the length of invisible blade duly approximated, it was not beyond Berserker's ability to strategically position the carved stone that formed the hand guard of his blade to intercept the swing. Ordinarily not a plausible strategy as the weaker end of the weapon would break upon impact, but a conceptual weapon left no distinction between the strength of its blade and hilt. From there it was simple matter for Berserker to tip the weapon lock in his favor, a twist to shift her weight balance and a slight upward movement to break her stance. With clearly the advantage of strength on his side, what seemed to Berserker like a small maneuver did generate enough torque to nearly tear the weapon out of her hands.

A small click of metal against metal could be heard as the knight tightened her grip and clung on the weapon with all her might. Still, with her blade pointing harmlessly toward the sky, she was rendered defenseless, a prime opportunity for him to exact the hefty price of her offensive in full.

Berserker similarly tightened his grip around his weapon, albeit for a different purpose. Against plated armor, it was conventional wisdom to be utilizing blunt weaponry where cleaving or slashing blows were virtually ineffectual. However, his weapon choice left no room for such weakness. Despite possessing only one bladed end, the sheer mass of the stone blade was not to be underestimated.

Without recovering from his earlier parrying move, the opposite end of the blade was brought down on his opponent. Without the madness to hamper his concentration, the blow struck the knight's chest with pinpoint accuracy. Though protected, her magic-imbued armor alone was far from sufficient as it crumpled inward against her torso like a small tin can. Sure enough, the impact did not die down from simply crushing her protective gear, but proceeded forth to shear vulnerable flesh beneath.

The impact delivered by the demigod far surpassed anything the knight had experienced during both her time as a king and a servant. The sheer ferocity of it knocked the wind out of her lungs, rendering even the simple act of screaming to be beyond her ability. Helpless, her form was flung further along the street, where it continued to lay limply after a few involuntary rolls that broke the momentum.

The sensation transmitted through his arm gave Berserker insight to his opponent's condition. With the plate of steel crumpled by his sheer strength, the knight was in no condition to struggle against his coup de grace. As such, he pursued her fallen form with a casual stride and a tinge of regret.

The weapon grip grated his hand like sandpaper, forcing Berserker into a struggle to even maintain a decent hold. The truth of the matter wasn't that he loathed the act of delivering the final blow itself, for it merely was just another ritual to be completed upon the end of a duel. Upon drawing their weapons, both warriors had conceded to prospect of having their life forfeited, thus there was to be no shame in acting upon tacit agreement that bound them.

But the Holy Grail War demanded more than simply besting the other Servants in a duel. One could barely declare themselves a true victor without ensuring the demise of the remaining Masters. It was this very act that induced a sense of chilling dread within him.

As if his whole self had been transformed into an automaton, it seemed that his senses were dulled to shut off the gruesome implication of the act itself. Berserker marched onward, retaining only partial awareness of his immediate action. Following pre-programmed movement that had been done countless times before, the axe was hoisted above his head and promptly dropped down upon its target.

However, the suddenness of the movement left him with no opportunity to observe that something was amiss.

Perhaps with unmatched valor or sheer foolishness, the boy had switched place with his Servant and thrown himself into a path of grisly death. A foolish decision, seeing that there seemed to be no remotest hope of survival and also a greatly troubling one for Berserker for it hastened his most dreaded outcome.

With the foresight to scream out in sheer disgust at the complacent approach, Heracles' determination was rekindled. His child, in youthfulness and ignorance, desired to stain her hand with the blood of a family. As a father, how could he turn a blind eye to such offense?

But, the stubborn axe, once set on its course, remained deaf to his determination, clinging faithfully to its path…

Hours had passed after their escape before the weary crew conceded to a minor prospect of relief. With no distant speck of light or looming shadow of the Amazonian fleet to pursue them, they all retired for the night.

…Perhaps, all but one.

Sleep was a prize unworthy for one so tainted by sin. It was a penance that he had not intended to offer, but was nonetheless taken away.

Unlike any other men, Heracles' own mental plane was no place of rest. It was during the dead silence of the night that his mind became withdrawn to a desolate land prowled by beasts of conscience that aimed to tear his flesh on sight, a realm that was no kinder to him than the harsh world waiting outside.

The agitation prevented sleep from reaching him. Before long, a sense of discomfort grew as the ship was tossed from the crest of one wave to another, but there was no grievance to be uttered even if Poseidon should to unleash his fury upon their dainty vessel.

…A vessel containing a grave sinner who deserved no safe haven.

Another wave tossed away the remaining prospect of a peaceful rest from his mind and convinced Heracles to scramble beyond the confines of his quarters. Balancing himself through the dark creaking passage, he emerged alone on the deck. Surrounded with high waves from all sides, the darkened body of water mirrored the emotional turmoil that threatened to consume him.

… Guilt was an indeed a peculiar thing. For every flesh wound he'd escaped from, it struck his conscience with twice the force. Alas, he had little choice but to bear the weight of this anguish. It was the righteous torment to be borne by those who'd unjustly taken the life of others.

A wrathful roar and uncontrollable sobbing mixed to form gurgles that emerged from his throat. His malicious glare was directed toward the left hand that had brought about her demise.

"Uwarrgghhh!"

In a moment of rage, an aspis was seized from the row that lined the side of the ship. Although the shield was meant to keep the oarsmen safe from projectiles, its purpose doubled well as a weapon. With the jagged edge of the shield, his left hand was struck down as if it belonged to a nemesis.

Though reinforced with bronze, the wooden plate cracked under his strength and his hand soon followed suit. Bone shattered and flesh mangled from the raw display of force, but Heracles was impervious to the pain, for it paled in comparison to the agony that was lodged deep in his heart.

It was the only fitting punishment to those who have cause the demise of others.

A short breathless moment ensued, marked by a scream. Blood splattered the ground, but a keener observation would reveal that all the apprehension had been for naught, for it was Berserker's left hand that stood to receive the weapons in the boy's stead.

With his knees buckled and his mouth agape, Shirou's dumbstruck form fell flat to the ground but otherwise he was unscathed. Although not the exact recipient of the blow, the small whirlwind generated with the sheer of the attack still reverberated through his body. The turn of events must have caught the lad by surprise. The incoming juggernaut would have been enough to convince any man of a prospect of certain death.

Berserker produced another stifled grunt as he extracted the blade from his own flesh. Blood gushed out in a steady rhythm of his heartbeat, trickling down toward the ground in tiny rivulets. Although afflicted with severe damage, the steel grey hide had proven to be an equivalent match to the stubborn axe and prevented his arm from being severed.

In complete disregard of those bewildered by his unfathomable action, Berserker turned his back to the opponent and the duel itself. Marching steadily, he came to stop before his master.

Although wondering what could have induced such a madness in him, the mutual respect that they shared made Ilya reluctant in using her command spell to force Berserker against his will. The determination in his eyes cemented this decision.

"We are leaving…"

"But-"

"Hush, this is no time for debate…" His right hand lowered to pat her head patronizingly. Without an opportunity to let Illya register any complaint, Berserker's right arm was outstretched before her. His determined gaze eventually convinced her to clamber onto it and ready herself for their departure, albeit not without much annoyed grumbles.

However, there seemed to be one more who was displeased by what appeared to be the premature end of the duel.

"Wait, Berserker!" Staggering, Saber returned to her feet, never noticing that her once impressive blade had been reduced to walking stick. Yet, with indignation on her lips, she bellowed, "do you mean to be walking away from our duel?"

Berserker couldn't blame her for the outburst. Saber was protected by her lord and spared by her foe. While the chivalric code of knight was beyond his understanding, as a fellow man of honor, he could only imagine the shame that she was going through.

"The outcome is evident to all whose eyes are not blinded. My last strike would have claimed your life had it not been for your Master's intervention. Is it not so, Saber?"

His words produced a profound effect on the King of Knights. By the time that she uttered her reply, no trace of indignation remained on her lips.

"…It is so." In such a way expected of those who had reached her status, Saber accepted defeat in a manner befitting a true warrior. Biting her lower lips to endure the pain of indignity, she uttered weakly, "My gratitude for sparing Shirou…I am in your debt."

"There is no debt to be paid. It would sully the name of our duel to have the blood of your Master spilt on my account. Even I dare not bring so great a shame upon us. Let us depart for the night, Saber. I pray that we do not meet again." Lowering his head to form a small bow as a gesture of respect to the fellow warrior, Berserker's form lumbered away from the battlefield. With her as an opponent, he knew that it would be excessively vigilant to be for the prospect that she would resume her offensive on an unwary foe.

Still, he had one more problem to deal with. Ilya's disposition caused her to be quick in voicing out the displeasure with his decision, which she did so as soon as the shroud of darkness fell to hide their forms.

"Just a little bit more…" The girl muttered under her breath.

"Are you not satisfied?" Berserker's inquiry seemed to have provoked the girl into a fit of acute displeasure. Flinging both arms and legs about, she screamed in protest.

"You were this close to finishing him off! This close!"

"Careful, girl. You will fall should you struggle so fiercely."

"Unngh, it'll be fine if you just catch me!"

Unable to wipe off his contented smile, Berserker remained unfazed by her scream. The girl's tantrum would cease once she grew weary.

There was much to be done. The children's differences were yet to be reconciled, but, at least for the moment, Berserker was satisfied with his initiative. It was an otherwise unimaginable scenario that the left hand could be the source of this fleeting pride. Though dyed in a crimson shade, he was saved by the knowledge that the blood was his own, paid as a small price for the life of others.

Perhaps, it merely was a delusion or a folly of his mind, but, like a primal baptism, it appeared to Berserker that the sinful stain on his left arm was finally being washed away.

Now that things have settled down a bit, I should be able to resume normal writing schedule, so hopefully I will be able to finish the next chapter faster than this.

Meanwhile, please leave a review of the story, if it isn't too much of a trouble. Thank you in advance.