Chapter10: The Passing Torch
She was lost in a world of unforgiving callousness, searching for a warmth that would thaw her heart. Finding none, envy and anger fostered inside her, turning a heart once innocent and full of life into one drenched completely with bitterness.
Trying to stop time at the point of their parting, she faced each new day under a guise of cheerfulness. She knew it was absurd to hope, but even a childish mind needed sustenance.
The years passed with broken promise and misplaced trust. Fearing the same betrayal, her heart closed down. Compassion and sympathy were left in her mental recess, where she was no longer willing to reach for them. Strengthened by the vow of vengeance, the pain could be forgotten temporarily. It instilled the broken girl with a purpose she would never dreamed of otherwise.
Even so, with all her farce and the imaginary joy of revenge, the void inside still remained...
He was lost in a world of unending pleasure. Wines and foods, music and fornications, his fame ensured that none would ever be in short supply. Queens and princesses threw themselves at his very feet like common harlots. Lavish feasts were thrown in his name where wines from far and wide were guzzled down without restraint.
But the lingering taste of delicacies and the fermented fragrance of wine soon turned tartly sour, and the softness and the odor of bodies he embraced soon turned repugnant. They were temporary refuges for his shattered heart, for he lacked the strength to carry on and face each new day.
The labors were for naught. The salvation was nothing pretty lies. Regret and nightmares were his sole company.
Doused by a hefty supply of wine and women, the wound inside no longer bled and festered. The years that passed made him grow callous to the pain.
Even so, through all of finest indulgence the world had to offer, a void inside still remained…
The full moon floated in the sky, just as it had during their first meeting. The faint light outlined the entrance hall with an eerie glow. Like a calm before a storm, all voices ceased in the dead of the night.
Half the night passed with Berserker standing before the mighty door that led further into the manor, the stone blade firmly grasped in both hand by the hilts, its sharp end pointed down toward the ground. The posture gave him the distinct look of a statue, albeit one that would spring to life as soon as an uninvited guest would so much as daring to venture deeper into the hall.
Basking in the lingering euphoria from the last evening, the absence of light and warmth in the entrance hall was of no concern to him. Still, the smell of burning firewood and the fireplace that radiated warmth inside did prove to be a tempting notion. He was grateful for this emotion, for the manor had provided him with a sense of home that he himself no longer deserved.
Ilya poked her sleepy head out of the gap between the doors. All the tossing and turning in her large Victorian bed was to blame for her ruffled hair and nightgown. Half asleep and half annoyed, she briefly observed Berserker before judging that he wouldn't budge from his position.
"You're not coming inside?"
Berserker shook his head. At least for tonight, there was no need to be keeping watch in Ilya's room.
Not for tonight.
"Fine…"
The small animal-like footsteps continued to approach, followed by a flop and some heavy breathing. It took Berserker a while to register the object that Ilya had just thrown to the ground as a blanket, one of those thick feathery ones from her bedroom.
"It's nothing…I just don't want you to be cold." Ilya quickly added when she saw his head tilted to the side in confusion. "Be grateful alright? It's not easy carrying all these here."
Berserker was pleasantly surprised. It seemed that time had changed it all, for a girl so bent on vengeance to be awakened to compassion…
They were similar, much more than either of them would have cared to admit. The world to them was a disappointment that had left them trudging with a gaping hole in place of their hearts.
But no more…
Their voids had been filled. More than any worldly pleasure, this small gesture was all that Berserker had ever wanted, just a little warmth of family. The tingles in his heart told him so. This happiness was neither false nor fleeting. It would be etched in his heart and remain for years to come. Indeed, this was a taste that he had long forgotten.
A strange happiness…simple, seemingly illogical, but undeniably real.
The incoming bloodshed of the Grail War might have been a poor setting to celebrate, but it would be foolish to not recognize the circumstance as worthy of celebration.
Many memories were made during the two months since their fateful meeting in the snowy forest. The bad ones made them grow stronger and the good ones were there to be cherished. So much had happened that made it seem like eternity, but the joy at the same time made it seem as if they had all passed in the blink of an eye. The realization seemed conflicting, but Berserker was satisfied nonetheless.
He had long since reconciled to the prospect that their time together was approaching its inevitable end, but the realization only served to strengthen his resolve. The time spent with her worth more to him than any treasures, and he was determined to repay even at the cost of his life.
"You are growing, Ilya…to be a fine lady that I never before anticipated." Slightly torn between the forlornness and pride of a father watching his once helpless daughter growing up, he praised her in earnest. "Even without my help, you can stand on her own."
"Berserker…What came over you today?" Baffled, Ilya raised an eyebrow at the seemingly random time for a heartfelt compliment. Berserker, after all, was rarely the type to employ verbal expression.
With one outstretched arm, he drew the girl close to his body and, for the first time, embraced her. Not just an affectionate pat on the head but a real hug, just like what he would give to his daughter. Her warmth seeped into him, giving him the courage he desperately needed in this moment.
"Berserker, seriously, what's wrong?" Squirming in his arms, Ilya gave a light-hearted complaint, but it was as apparent that she enjoyed the treatment. "You're…hugging too tight."
"Nothing, I just…"
"Saying farewell, father?"
Unfazed, Berserker scoffed at the phantom's mockery.
"This illusion of yours will not last for much longer…"
Berserker knew the phantom spoke the truth, but it did not matter. He had no intention to let this moment slip past. If only for a moment longer, he would grasp and latch onto this dream with all his might. As their time together was approaching its end, would it not be fine to cherish each other's warmth?
"Ilya, are you…happy?"
"W-What are you asking now?"
The question caught the girl off-guard, so simple and bluntly phrased that she couldn't manage a reply. It was a simple question to answer, but there was a serious edge to Berserker's tone that prevented a hasty answer on her side.
He did not want an answer
At least, not yet.
"Think, Ilya. Think hard then answer. I will wait as long as is needed."
Alas, just like the ebb and flow of tide, opportunities often vanish without a trace when it is most needed, and Berserker was out of his. A thundering crash shook the hallway, a wakening gong that tore both of them out of the pleasant dreams they were sharing.
"A bad show of bonding in a royal presence." A foreign voice invaded their sanctuary, coming from the golden king who leaned on the remains of oaken door to observe the pair. On his sharply refined face was a look of scorn. "Here I see a hero playing family in the middle of a war."
"I don't expect you to understand." Berserker showed no surprise toward the intruder. He had long since noticed the harbinger of war of that was creeping in. "For me, this is a treasure more worthy than even the grail itself."
"Distasteful spectacle…"
Only a fool or a champion of arms could afford the same frivolousness of the intruder. Berserker might have lacked the same sense for prana as an ordinary magi, but a lifetime of grueling war had done more than harden his body. By then, instinct had wakened him to a certain realization. This foe was no ordinary Servant. That much he could tell. The coming battle was a rare one in which he could not honestly declare himself a victor by assessment.
Even so, the flame of defiance burned in him ever more brightly under the ancient king's scornful gaze. All fear left his mind as Berserker rushed forth in defiance.
A single leap closed the distance between them, and the hoisted stone blade came crashing down in the full arc of an impressive overhead swing. Deafening noise, concrete dust, and rubble erupted from the area of impact and showered the area. The entire chunk of the balcony fell prey to his strength, stressed to the verge of collapse.
Through the shockwave that followed, the king remained steadfast. Three swords, one spear, and a pair of scythes blocked the path of Berserker's downward stroke. For a moment, their combined strength matched his ferocious blow as if held by chief retainers for the protection of their king.
It would be an insult for him to be bested in a contest of strength. Berserker roared and pressed on, determined to break through the defense of man and weapons alike.
But fate often proved to be cruelest to those who try to defy it. A single phrase uttered by the King of Heroes crushed his fleeting notion of hope.
"Enuma Elish…"
His arms would not budge, locked in place by mysterious force. A sideway glance showed strands of chains wrapped around his exposed limbs like vile serpents.
"…Enkidu." The' gods capturing chain and one of the few phantasms that spelled a tragic end for the son of Zeus.
Upon the command of its wielder, the unstrung chains tightened, stretching each entrapped limb to their extremities. Dangling a few feet above ground, the hero was now reduced to the appearance of a sacrificial victim, his torso fully exposed to line of fire.
With a snap of fingers, a barrage of weapons rained down, but each that struck him were harmlessly deflected. Their sharpened tips failed to even penetrate his skin.
The phantasm of the Twelve Labors turned him into the strongest bulwark that fended off the continuous waves of attack. Through the deluge of blades, the great hero resisted, yanking the small links of metal that had the impudence to bind him, but, against a phantasm designed for the sole purpose of capturing gods, his Olympian strength was of no use.
Just as the fight seemed to be progressing to a stalemate, Berserker's vision failed with the pain that erupted from both eye sockets. The two lengths of blade pierced through the two only weak spots in his anatomy and became lodged in the skull cavity. Death came by in an instant with the trauma to his grey matter.
Regeneration followed just as quick, and the pain only seemed to egg him on, but the hero, bounded arm and foot, only served as no more than an entertainment for the King of Babylonia. Before he could come to proper sense, another barrage of weapons was unleashed.
Out of the twelve lives he was bestowed, ten remained, but the stockpile turned out to be of no use to him.
His Noble Phantasm was a cruel one. Few could withstand the trauma of death; even bravest of heroes would cringe at the inevitable despair that followed. To lose many in tandem took a much heavier toll on mind than any sane man could bear. Even Heracles was no exception.
He struggled in vain against the blackness that threaten to overtake his vision. The scene of present battle was left behind as his mind wandered.
The beast looked down at the puny human that had dared to venture into its realm. The Lernaean Hydra, as the locals called it, seemed ripened with confidence at its weakening prey. It lumbered forth for the final glory of the kill and the fulfilling taste of flesh that it longed for.
The sun had moved halfway across the sky since his flaming arrows had goaded the beast out of its lair. Globules of toxin were smeared across the landscape, evaporating with furious sizzles into noxious mist. His lower face was covered, but the piece of rag proved to be grossly insufficient in filtering out the residues of poison that clogged the surrounding air.
The poison weakened him, shutting down his senses one by one. It was one of the few times that Heracles sensed fear. He would not be one of the rotting skeletons that scattered across the cavern entrance.
He couldn't afford to die before redemption was complete.
He just couldn't…
"Berserker!" A distant scream called him to his senses, a familiar voice tinged with horror.
Pain was all around, having once overloaded his senses to a blackout. The chains dangled from his limbs and left the great hero trapped like a livestock, but Heracles was no man's cattle to be slaughtered. A man of his caliber would refused to do anything less than going down fighting until the very last second. His struggle against the chain intensified, but only added to insult when it refused to budge.
Blood gushed from dozens of punctures that lined his torso. Some were starting to heal as his stockpile of lives replaced the lost ones, but the rest remained inert. The battle was already lost, when his limbs were trapped and bound.
"…Futile resistance."
True to the ancient king's words, Berserker's limit was approaching. The recoveries made to his flesh and skin were merely a façade. His insides were too damaged to be healed, leaving him as an inflated sack of mangled organs. Heaving motions to draw in breath disturbed these internal wounds, but his senses were by then numbed to the pain.
Despair seized his mind as death's footsteps crept closer. One hand drew a crimson blade. Another seized him by the hair. It mocked and laughed like a hunter gloating over a fallen prey. A sword hoisted high, ready to finish him off.
But the pain never came.
An invisible blade stilled the crimson sword from delivering the final blow. The glimpse of a fluttering blue dress and armor restored the spark of life within him; the final blaze before it would be put out completely.
All hope was not yet lost.
"Saber, protect her! Protect her!"
Fading senses made it difficult for Berserker to perceive whether she had heard his plea. He had no care about dishonor. Only the fear of Ilya's death was alive in his mind.
Near the very edge of his vision, Saber's Master stood next to Ilya, shielding the girl from falling chunks of glass and stone. Although Ilya seemed to be giving him a hard time, he persisted in the attempt to drag her to safety.
Berserker let out a breath of relief. For once, the gods were on his side.
A vicious fight raged on through the hallway in which he was forced to assume the spectator role. The knight danced and swayed through barrages of incoming weapons, parrying those that came disturbingly close with her invisible blade, but that was all she could manage. Her every attempt to advance was fended off with a volley swords soaring through the air like arrows.
Arrows…
The sight resonated with a memory that Heracles recalled with pride.
Their opponent treated Saber as no more than a play thing to exact entertainment from, but he wasn't about to let the real prey escape his clutches. The storm of weapons was turned to keep Saber at bay, but the king's eyes was set on the retreating pair and what more would he need to kill two mortals than flick of his wrist?
The realization drove Berserker mad with rage. Harming him could be condoned, but bringing harm to his daughter was a far graver offense. Wrathful roars erupted as his body was strained with fervor like never before. Twisting, turning, and tearing away, one right arm finally broke free of the bondage, followed by the left. So caught up in the crisis that he'd failed to even to notice that it was not the chain that broke, but rather his mutilated flesh, being pulled from the bones.
Even so, Berserker still remained under bondage, such that he couldn't even hope to be sacrificed as her living shield. Trapped in such a predicament, there was only one option. Ceding struggle, Berserker instead raised both arms perpendicular to the ground, his left fully stretched and his right bended closer to the body, the stance of an experienced archer.
The poison sent him into delirium, but Heracles was a man like no others. His purpose was to hunt, not to be hunted. The snake's confidence in his demise would soon be its downfall. All his hope betted on this final chance to defeat the odds.
Craggy rock surface received his back. Although both his legs were unsteadied by its venom, his hands had not slackened their grip. Long years of bending had melded the laminated surface of yew and horn into their shape.
His left hand gave the bow a resolute squeeze. His right dropped down to the quiver.
He was ready…
"Nine…"
"..Lives"
Berserker called the name of his greatest of his Noble Phantasm, a companion of long that had served him well even during the time of direst needs, a yew bow in his left hand and an arrow in his right. He knew that he would emerge victorious once the arrow was released, but the final obstacle was upon him. The phantom emerged from the recess of his mind to interfere.
"Why her, father?"
The war might be upon them, but Berserker was fighting his own battle. Hesitation gripped his arms, coiling like an icy snake. It dug deeper in attempting to seize away control, but Berserker remained impervious.
"You did not save me, so why her…?"
His senses were chipped away by blood lost and delirium. The phantom's features became sharpened as his awareness dimmed, its voice clearer, its face more vivid, growing in size as if to consume him. Skin and flesh distorted and fell out of its confines, twisting into a gruesome lump of gore that crawled all over his front.
"Why her and not me, Father…?"
Berserker was nevertheless stricken by a peculiar calmness.
He was taught since an early age that the battlefield was no place for sentiment. With the bow in hand, his courage was revived, his doubt shredded and tossed away. The phantom's voice, even as it took the monstrous form, was no more than a whisper in the wind.
Mistakes and sin did not matter. Guilt and remorse did not matter. All that remained in his mind was to save the girl that was still screaming in her brother's clutches, desperate to be by his side. Such was the final labor he had chosen for himself, and no amount of threats or coercing could make him lay down his arms.
He was Heracles, the champion of men and the subjugator of beasts. None that lived and roamed the earth should be able to strike fear into his heart, whether real or imaginary. Before him was the final foe to be subdued, another page to be added into the annals of his legend.
Countless experience of the movement guided him. His fingers bended into small hooks to pull the taut bowstring. The arrow squeezed in the gap between his index and middle finger was the only beacon for his failing senses.
His aim wavered and his grip slackened, but Berserker refused to fall. Sheer force of will alone managed to prop his legs to stand firm in their final moment. Berserker's very soul was channeled into the arrow for a single shot that would bring him victory.
"I will protect her…"
The simple phrase was chanted like a mantra to numb his pain with a sense of duty. Starting off as no more than an inaudible whisper, it began to grow in strength.
"…Protect her…Protect her."
Heracles had once before fired an arrow against daunting odds. His hands were quivering, but the weakness of flesh wasn't a foe that he could not overcome.
"I will protect her!" Berserker bellowed. All three fingers that rested on the fully stretched bowstring released simultaneously. "Be gone, foul beast!"
With a sharp 'twang,' nine arrows of concentrated prana emerged from his bow. Hallucinations and crafted irons were similarly deformed and swallowed in the ravenous vortex of energy. The bloody specter gave its final screech as it faded away like foul mist. Both the phantom's broken form and the ancient king's barrage of weapons were smote down with a power rivalling the gods themselves.
"…Why you?! Insolent maggot!"
The golden king reached for Ea, but his response was dulled by the false sense of security lent from having mankind's greatest hero captured. For the decision to defeat power with power, his movement was a tad too slow. Just as his crimson blade began to whir and scream, the upsurge of energy swallowed him whole.
Pride was a fitting downfall for a man of his arrogance. Only an undignified scream was produced as the waves after waves of prana assailed him, each ripping away layers of armor and flesh. Once the waves of onslaught left the scene, Berserker knew that his foe was no more. Such was the battle of Heroic Spirits, where the victors are decided in a split second and a mere moment of lapse in wariness can lead to severe consequences.
The atmosphere fizzled with sparks from the lingering waves of prana. Before the blast of turbulence subsided, Ilya clambered and crawled toward Berserker, ignoring the falling debris. She continued on even with failing legs, oblivious to even Shirou who came to her support. The sole thought on her mind was to be beside the dying man to cure and somehow make him return to life.
But there was but a single way in which a man's role as a father can be fulfilled. From the beginning until the very end, he took on the roles of a guardian, a teacher, the most faithful companion, a sacrifice…
It was only by surrendering his most precious to another and doing so with pride in his heart that a father could retire in peace. That torch of life must be entrusted to another hand, who will continued to carry her in his stead.
"Lad, she is in your hand…"
"Don't die…! I don't want you to die…" Ilya buried her face in his mangled chest, but death's icy grip would not release its grip on him. Before long, his warmth would dissipate and this dying man would be no more.
"Care for her…in my stead."
Only brief words were exchanged between the two men, but they came to a mutual understanding. Though pained and wearied, Berserker was merely steps away from the finish line. The next runner was there, eager to accept the torch in his hand.
With a nod from Shirou, Berserker's tense form softened with relief.
"Ilya…listen to me,"
"No…No! I'll listen when we get out of here!" The girl's instinct was sharp. She soon deduced the nature of what Berserker was about to say next. She knew that once his last words had been said, the great hero would leave his mortal coil. "We'll heal you and-"
A smile from Berserker interrupted Ilya's denial. It was her first time to see it, or anyone else for that matter; that a man with an ever stoic expression could break out into a smile on the verge of death. The expression contrasted with the steady stream of red that flowed from within him.
"Ilya…smile for me…even if sadness finds you." Each gentle caress stained her hair with patches of red, but, in this time of parting, they accepted each and every mark left upon her as a proof of his sacrifice. "… Promise…you will smile…"
Through the streaming tears and quivering sobs, upon Ilya's face was a smile, one so fleeting and fragile, like a patch of snow in the midst of spring. Though it would soon be subsumed by the sorrow that contorted her expression, it was a smile nonetheless.
"I will…For your sake..." She whispered, allowing Shirou to lead her away by the hand.
"Now go…And live…"
His gaze trailed longingly after the girl's retreating form. It took great effort for him to retain the rapidly fading consciousness and sear the last image of Ilya deep into his mind. Pain assailed his entire body, but his heart remained at peace.
If the brief span that they had come to share in one another's lives had all been a pleasant dream, then the horn of war had brought the time of the morn much too soon.
Too soon for every word they had left unsaid…
Too soon for the times of happiness yet to come…
Too cruel to let blood be shed on the account of their parting.
Still, the torch that he carried had been passed to another hand…a capable hand to protect and cherish her in his stead.
The grail reached for him, but, unlike before, he turned down its invitation. He had no more use of its miracle. His final labor was done and his redemption was completed.
"Live on, Ilya…"
The adventure of Heracles had reached its conclusion, with a smile to adorn its final page…a smile so radiant that it dispelled even the horror of approaching death.
"Live on…"
His heart was at peace, kept safe by the knowledge that his death was neither one of a warrior nor a hero.
"…My …Beloved…Daughter"
Here, beneath the collapsing manor, Heracles breathed his last as a father.
A/N: Sorry for the slow update, but things should be picking now that I finally have some time to write. There will be two more chapters as the conclusion on both Berserker's and Ilya's side, so stay tuned and enjoy! For those who are saddened by Berserker's death, I assure you there will be a happy ending for both of them.