The First Battle
With a gentle tug, Berserker knotted the last bandage over Blake's cuts. Patting the young woman's shoulder, she stood, turning to glance out at the garden through the ruined wall. The Faunus took her outstretched hand, and one tanned and muscled arm yanked her onto her feet. The motion put pressure on her wounds, but none were deep enough to cause more than a throbbing pain.
"So," the blonde grinned, eyes still locked on the petite assassin trying to drag herself out of the rubble. "Do I carry you to safety, or are we in the 'crack skulls and take names' portion of the evening?"
Jaw set, Blake stepped around the desk, one hand gripping the leather-backed chair for support. Careful not to put too much pressure on any of her wounds, she reached up, and took down the sword hanging from the mantle. It was long and straight in its jet-black sheath, broken only by an odd mechanism built into the hilt. Moving the scabbard to her left hand, she turned to meet Berserker's stare, golden eyes narrowed to angry slits.
"I don't particularly like getting stabbed." With a flick of her thumb, she clicked a small latch near the top of the grip, piercing the room with the unmistakable sound of a safety being set to 'off.'
Berserker looked her over, eyes lingering on the cuts decorating her torso and the defined muscles of her arms. An odd look crossed over the blonde's face, and Blake shifted slightly under her stare, standing tall and defiant as she waited for the larger woman's judgment.
With a shake of her head, the Servant smiled ruefully before turning back to the garden. "Should have known. Skulls it is."
Knuckles cracked as Berserker stepped through the Assassin-shaped hole she'd blown in the study wall, lilac eyes staring down at the short figure just now pulling herself free from the wreckage. One white and one brown iris met her own, and the two women stepped forward, gazes locked in mutual hostility. Blake stepped out behind her servant, a dark shadow behind Berserker in her gold-washed mail, her mentor's blade held loosely at her side. Assassin was already free, eyes narrowed with fury at having her kill taken from her, thin blade already swirling with shadow. The blond barely seemed to notice, sliding into a ready stance, balance on the balls of her feet, pulling her shield from her back and settling it on her left arm.
"Don't suppose you feel like talking?"
Assassin said nothing, her head merely kinking slightly to the side. In utter silence, she stared up at Berserker, a vicious, bloodthirsty smile spreading across her lips.
Without warning, Berserker lashed out, her right fist streaking towards Assassin's head. The short woman dodged aside, and the two began to dance around the garden, their feet tearing chunks of dirt and grass from the ground, Assassin's blade leaving deep gouges in the turf. Blake watched in awe at the sheer speed of the two fighters, their arms blurring as they stuck again and again ... not that it did either of them much good. Each punch from the blonde caught empty air, whipping by the short woman as she slid away from the blonde's attacks. Each blow, each swing, was dodged, pushed, or parried aside, Assassin's grin only growing wider at Berserker's obvious annoyance.
Finally, Assassin caught one ill-advised swing and twisted, using the larger woman's weight against her as she rolled and pulled, knocking the blonde off-balance before sweeping her legs out from under her. Too-white teeth flashing in the moonlight, she grinned and sank her blade deep into the golden woman's shoulder.
Heat rolled off the golden servant, driving Assassin back and turning the well-kept grass into short black shards, singed as the servant slipped into the state that gave her class its name. Blake watched, transfixed as purple eyes changed to red, narrowing in almost animal fury at the diminutive figure with the gall to injure her.
With a howl, Berserker flew across the garden, blow after blow slung at her opponent. Most missed, going wide as Assassin used her agility to dodge or twist aside, but the swordswoman wasn't faring much better. Each cut, each kick was knocked aside, either by the shield on Berserker's left or the bracer on her right. The few that connected were merely shrugged aside by the enraged woman, followed by devastating swings with the edge of her shield.
Blake watched in silence, golden eyes flashing between the two spirits as they dueled, Berserker's shield and bracers clashing again and again against the thin blade. What cuts Assassin managed to land didn't even slow Berserker down, but no matter how quickly she swung, Blake's Servant just couldn't manage to hit Assassin. It was an even fight, fury and rage countered with precision and agility. Neither warrior seemed willing to use their phantasms, not yet, not this early in the war, leaving the two in their supernaturally-powered slugging match.
Which left one valid strategy. Cheat.
Without thinking, Blake's hand tensed around her mentor's sword, her fingers tight around the mouth of the saya, her thumb already on the trigger. She would only get one shot at this, one chance while Assassin was focused on her fight with Berserker. At the moment, their enemy probably only saw Blake as yet another Master, some mage selected by the Holy Grail, another target to be finished off after the annoying blonde who just wouldn't go down.
That would change the second she fired. She had to wait for just the right moment, that perfect, clear shot that ...
There.
Right as Assassin lunged forward, trying to sink her oversized shiv into Berserker, Blake flicked the trigger with her thumb, her pommel aimed right at Assassin's skull.
She fired, the blade flying across the field to slam hilt-first into the Servant's head, catching her off guard and staggering the short woman. Blake ran forward, catching the blade as it rebounded to her, mouth open to order Yang to attack ... and realized she needn't have bothered. Even buried beneath the haze of her berserker rage, the blonde knew an opening when she saw one. One gauntleted hand slammed into Assassin's chest, the force of the blow slamming her opponent into the ground. Ribs cracked as the diminutive figure landed, the wind rushing out of her in a breathless cry as she slammed into the dirt.
Berserker didn't wait for her to recover. One hand wrapped around the smaller woman's leg and whipped her into the air, slamming Assassin once more into the ground before flinging her like a ragdoll against the opposite wall. She landed with a sickening thunk, falling to the ground in a crumpled heap, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle.
For a second, Blake dared to hope that it was over. That Berserker had wounded Assassin enough to keep her down, long enough to destroy the head and take the Servant out of the fight for good. Then the pink and brown-haired woman stirred, one hand clawing at the dirt until she pushed herself up onto her knees.
With undisguised fury, Assassin grabbed her arm and pulled, yanking it back into alignment. Forcing herself to her feet, she glowered at the pair, her injuries doing little more than slowing her down. Radiating pure, distilled hate, the small figure took a one, unsteady step forward and shifted her grip on her sword.
Blake blinked as she felt the air shift around them, Assassin's mana pulsing like a festering wound as moon-lit shadows crawled towards her blade. The few lights in the house promptly flickered and died, the pressure in the air building as if to herald an oncoming storm. Grimacing from her injuries, the silent woman drew back her blade until the hilt lay in line with her mismatched eyes, tip pointed forward, her shaking off-hand finally joining the other around the hilt of the demonic weapon.
The stance's name, te ura gasumi, came unbidden to Blake's mind, the term seared into her brain after hours upon hours of drills with Adam. Then again, from her footwork and her weapon, she doubted Assassin had ever seen – much less used – the kind of weapon that stance was meant for.
Ochs then, or Einhorn, she decided, settling into her own stance, both blade and sheath waiting in her grip. Beside her, Berserker raised her shield, conscious enough to place her body between her Master and their enemy. Assassin's sword gleamed with unholy shadow, devouring even the light of the moon, leaving her a humanoid figure made of darkness, hands steady, legs tense and ready to strike.
A streak of red flashed through the darkness, forcing Assassin to drop her stance and parry it aside. A figure in crimson and black descended from the sky like a demon, hilt returning to her sheath just long enough for another blade to attach, before she drew and fired again. Scarlet blades rained down on the surprised Servant, the pressure of her mana fading as her focus split between the woman firing death from the sky and the warrior bull-rushing her from the side. Yang swung, the edge of her shield arcing forward ... and cracking the stone wall, passing harmlessly through where Assassin had stood less than a second before.
Flipping backward, Assassin gave the three women one last furious glare, angry that her prey had been stolen from her time and time again, and stepped into the shadows. Then she was gone, flicker of pink and brown vanishing into the night.
Her eyes still a dull red, Berserker turned to the new arrival, her head cocked to the side as her legs braced beneath her. Blake settled in behind the warrior, her own blade at the ready as she stared up at the white-masked woman perched atop the garden wall. Black-and-crimson robes flicked in the breeze, held steady by the obi wrapped around her waist and the chitinous gauntlets she wore.
"Archer, did ... you catch ... her?" Weiss panted as she clambered through the gaping hole in the stone brick wall. Her breath came in short bursts, one hand clutching the stitch in her side from running all the way from the church to the estate. Blake watched as the other girl's eyes widened, flicking from the golden servant still spoiling for a fight, to the red-and-black clad warrior with her hand already on her hilt, and finally to the brunette with her teacher's blade in hand.
"You ..." she managed, fighting for breath as she stared in disbelief at the dark-haired Master. "Why are you-"
Sighing, Blake clipped the sword to her side, moving to her Servant and laying a hand on the taller woman's arm. Slowly, the blonde brawler relaxed, tension slipped reluctantly from muscled shoulders as her eyes changed back to their normal, violet hue. The other servant – Archer, Blake realized at a second glance – followed her example, her hand coming away from her hilt as she rose. Both women were still ready to fight, the way they kept the other in sight made that perfectly clear, but at least they no longer seemed actively hostile.
Turning to the Schnee magi, Blake looked the shorter girl up and down. Her eyes were wide with adrenaline, the run from the church obviously taking its toll, but she seemed mostly none the worse for wear. Her stockings were torn in a dozen places. Dirt was scuffed into her skirt and the arms of her sweater, and a tear by her shoulder had gone brown with dried blood. She must have come straight from the churchyard.
"You're wounded," she said, and turned towards the house.
"... it's fine," Weiss cut her off before she could leave, heedless to the two servants tensing as she stepped forward. "How are y-"
"You look like you'd pass out if you tried to heal this right now," the dark-haired woman spoke over her, fingers toying with one of the makeshift bandages covering her own souvenirs from Assassin's attack. "So either go home, or come in and wait until I have the chance to fix this."
The heiress looked like she was about to argue. Her eyes narrowed in a glare that fit her face all too well, her brows furrowed, tension building in her shoulders. Then to Blake's surprise, she frowned a little deeper and wordlessly followed the other woman inside the house. Berserker and Archer stayed close behind, each keeping the other at the corner of their eyes, hands never too far from their weapons.
Blake led them to the main room of the house, gesturing at the cushions while she rummaged in the cupboards, hunting for the first aid kit. When she turned, Weiss was already seated, looking so out of place that Blake almost laughed. She sat like a proper lady, legs tucked beneath her on the cushion, hands folded in her lap, appearing completely oblivious to the sword-marks decorating the entryway and the various scrapes and cuts both young women bore.
The first-aid kit was buried beneath the sink, and it as a matter of moments before Blake emerged, the little blue bag tucked under her arm. Laying out the equipment on the low table, Blake pulled a wet-wipe from its packet, ripping the plastic open before undoing the makeshift bandages decorating her arms.
Weiss stared down at the cotton swabs and the dark bottle of peroxide, face twisted in obvious disdain. "This would be much easier if you just used a simple healing spell."
"Yes, because people wielding blades covered with unholy shadow usually keep their swords disinfected. Same with old paving bricks she chopped up outside that run-down church." Blake rolled her eyes at the other girl's reluctance, and started dabbing one of the cotton swabs into the sharp-smelling liquid. "Now, let me clean this. Unless you'd like it to get infected."
Glaring beneath lowered brows, Weiss looked away as the taller girl began to clean her wounds. "We've never properly been introduced," she said after a moment, hold still as Blake switched to the scratches in the heiress' shoulder. "I'm-"
"I know who you are," Blake growled, wiping away more of the blood before applying the cotton swabs. "Weiss Schnee, from class 3-A. Heir to the Schnee clan and, as of ten years ago, the unofficial family head. Mostly practices jewel magic with manufactured crystals. You also have a habit of siting in to watch the Archery Club practice, although none of the members, including me, had any idea why."
Weiss did a decent job of covering her surprise; her eye widening just a little was all that gave away how badly Blake had caught her off guard. Resisting the urge to chuckle, Blake considered just letting her stew, wondering who exactly this 'other mage' really was. That's not entirely fair, she relented, after a moment. She did technically try to save my life – even if she didn't know it was me.
"I'm-"
"Blake Belladonna, Class 3-B," Weiss rattled off, eyes narrowed as she mimicked the woman cleaning her arm. "Former member of the archery club, until you injured your shoulder."
"And here I thought all us mere peasants were invisible to the great Weiss Schnee."
"Don't get cute," the heiress said, giving an annoyed little shake of her head. "You're a mage as well?"
"Nice deflection. Yes, I have magic circuits." Taking advantage of the lull in conversation, Blake pressed the disinfectant to the heiress' shoulder. A short breath was Weiss' only sign of discomfort, and before she knew it, the Faunus had finished, the angry red scratches disinfected and covered with one of the larger bandages in the pack.
"How did I not know about you?" she asked, rubbing at the Band-Aid. "The Association should have informed me if there were any other mages taking up residence within the city. Much less enrolled in my school."
"Simple enough. I'm not a registered mage."
That got a reaction, Weiss' brows popping as she stared at the Faunus. Unaffiliated mages were a rare sight. It was due in part to the Association's hoarding of magical knowledge, mandating registration if a mage wanted access to their resources. The other reason was simply that unregistered mages were dangerous. For all its faults, the Mage's Association at least provided some oversight, some restrictions against the worst offenses a mage could practice. It didn't stop the 'minor' offenses – mind-wipes, brainwashing, the odd human sacrifice or experimentation – but at least it kept a lid on any attempts at vampirism and kept the uninitiated from revealing their presence to the non-magical world.
For an unregistered mage to join something like the Holy Grail War ... it was unprecedented. Even worse, for Weiss to have missed her presence all this time, Blake had to either be very good at hiding her mana, or have so little power that it had escaped her notice.
The Faunus had no intention of telling her which was correct.
"So," Weiss said, floundering for a second before her chin came up, the haughtiness returning to her features. "Where do we go from here?"
Letting out a long breath, Blake stood, dropping the kit back on the kitchen counter. "We're injured, tired, and even if you thought I was just some innocent bystander, you did try to save my life." "We leave it alone. For now."
"And tomorrow?" Weiss left the real question unsaid, the same one Blake was asking herself. How far were they willing to go to win the Holy Grail? Were they willing to kill a classmate? If not, would the other person share their reluctance?
It was an odd feeling, Blake thought, looking down at someone she might have to kill. She'd known the violent history of the ritual before she'd even started working on adapting Adam's sigil for the summoning, but still ... She'd assumed the other Masters would be adults, full mages in their own right, arrogant and pompous and giving her every reason to take them out. Not ... this. She'd assumed Schnee was too young, that the grail would pass over her in favor of some uncle, a cousin.
"Go home, Miss Schnee," Blake sighed, finding herself suddenly tired. Exhaustion was creeping up on her, now that her adrenaline high was fading. "Get some sleep. We'll probably try to kill each other in the morning."
Writer's Note:
I know it's been a while. Sorry about that - got sucked into other projects. But the good news is that yes, this is getting updated.
Chapter 4 Preview:
"Are you sure about this?"
Long white hair whipped as the woman kneeling on the floor turned to look at Jaune, mercury dripping from the vial in her hand. Eyes like shards of ice glared at the blond boy, his hand tightening around the xiphos he carried, narrowing to slits as she stood to her full, if not particularly impressive, height. Whatever she lacked in stature, she more than made up for with the intensity of her gaze, leering like a hawk at the nervous young man standing outside the sigil.
Winter raised a thin brow as her arms folded over her chest, weight shifting onto one hip. "What did I tell you when you wanted to use reinforcement on your legs to make you run faster?"
"… that I didn't have enough mana to maintain it for over a minute."
"And how did that work out for you?" she asked, continuing in the same breath before Jaune could even think of answering. "You collapsed before you made it halfway around the track. And let's not forget the vomiting as your body tried to compensate for the sudden heat exhaustion and dehydration."
Jaune winced from the reminder. How could he forget? Especially after the bout of nausea had earned him the moniker 'Vomit Boy' among some of his less understanding classmates.
Please review, if you have the time.
Also, you have no idea how hard it was to resist finding an excuse for Yang to say "Puny God."