SYOC, details on the profile page, so is form. Uhh enjoy this long-winded opener and I guess have fun? I've just been wanting to do this for forever man.

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Vatican City, Italy (Night)

It had been some time since Archbishop Elia had requested her presence. Almost years, his attention focused on his duties and the bishops under him, while she studied and familiarised herself with the vault containing the Vatican's relics. She was no more powerful than a deacon in these halls, no more influential, but she was kept around for reasons outside of her influence and rank.

Now, at the darkest hour of night, as soon as word spreads of the first mark on her body disappearing, Archbishop Elia called for her.

Flanked by bishops, she was led briskly to the underground sanctuary. How long had it been since she'd been brought here last? Since the Archbishop and his colleagues presented her before Cardinal Carmello and declared her in need of holy protection? Since the marks suddenly burned themselves onto her skin? She was surprised that she couldn't recall. It had become normal, this life—why count down to something you never even knew was happening? That was the mindset Beatrice held for a time.

Archbishop Elia was pacing back and forth when they entered the lobby of the sanctuary. Beatrice knew not to call out, the bishops announcing their presence for her, and the stress was evident on Archbishop Elia's face when he looked to them. He'd aged visibly since she last saw him. What was once just a barely noticeable pair of crow's feet had now become the wrinkled face of a shar pei. He was jittery where he used to be confident, shaky where he would once stand his ground.

"Thank goodness," he exhaled. The Archbishop hobbled over to the trio, and Beatrice took note of the cane in his hand. How long had he been using that, since she saw him last? "That wretched thing hasn't found you yet."

Beatrice was bewildered by the statement. She barely had a chance to get a word in as he spoke, mumbling to himself and occasionally glancing around as though watching the shadows.

"Archbishop?" she asked softly. He startled, hands gripping his cane so tightly she swore she heard his knuckles crack. Archbishop Elia was almost scared to death, paranoid to the point of concern. What was the wretched thing he was talking about? Was it the reason why she'd been called for after so many years of study? Related to the relics in the vault, even? "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, child, nothing. I'm glad you're safe. Has there been…" Archbishop Elia glanced around again. He turned around, ambling away as he gestured for the bishops to follow. Beatrice obeyed as well, eager to hear his question. "The markings—have the others left your flesh?"

"Oh. No, Archbishop. It's just the one," she reported. The Archbishop let out a slow breath. He muttered to himself again for a brief moment.

The underground of the Vatican was a place not many were permitted to enter, much less wander through the halls of. This was the first time Beatrice had seen this part of the holy structure. It amazed her, as their footsteps echoed through the tunnels, just how much was hidden from public view by the organisation. Cells in one hall, bedrooms and a library in another. A hall filled to the brim with reliquaries once thought to be lost, some of the relics recognisable from afar. The stairs they approached led to a thin opening above, leading to the next level, and Beatrice tugged at her habit from under her sleeves. Thanks to the garb provided to her to fit in with the other sisters, the marks were hidden near-perfectly from prying eyes.

She wondered if this place served as a bunker in times of emergency. Or if perhaps it would be too fragile to withstand something like an earthquake. Beatrice's mind wandered and wandered as she followed, practically on autopilot, and her feet carried her alongside the bishops. The more she thought about it, the more she noticed how far behind her peers she was in terms of the current situation. The secret coming and goings of magi and regular people alike, the members of the upper echelon who knew more than the others. She'd heard whispers of a rabbi from Israel having arrived to be given instructions, and a bhikkhunī from the Asia-Pacific region who had come with several monks in her wake. Beatrice had never seen so many different practitioners visiting the Pope at once, and as preparations continued following the marks disappearing from her body, she could only assume she would see more.

The oil lamps of the next floor illuminated the walls, and the structure was much more sound than below at a glance. Beatrice remained silent as she followed the men, Archbishop Elia muttering to himself once more, until finally they rounded a corner and were met with the familiar robes of a Cardinal. Elia bowed his head, as did the bishops, and Beatrice followed suit as they all extended a warm greeting to the older man. She hadn't met this Cardinal before. Was he sworn to the position while she studied in isolation? Possibly.

The Cardinal wiped at his face with a handkerchief and sighed with relief. His eyes strayed to a door further down the hall, gilded and tightly locked up with a plank of wood barring it shut. She wondered, briefly, what was behind the door, but it seemed she would find out soon regardless.

"It's inside," the Cardinal said. Archbishop Elia tensed and seemed to hold his head as he raised his head.

"W—With the candidates?" he croaked.

"Yes. We tried to stop it, but Greco was unfortunately slain in the attempt." All of them signed a cross over their torsos in respect for the dead. "It… claims that the one with the seals was among them. It wants to test its master."

"Of all the souls to summon…" Archbishop Elia shook his head and turned to Beatrice. "Sister Beatrice, your safety is of the utmost importance right now. Now that the first of the command seals have been distributed from your flesh, you must not let anyone know of your role in this upcoming war."

Ah, so that was what happened. The masters were finally summoning servants. She wasn't entirely familiar with it all, the terms as new as the magic she'd been taught for her own protection, but she knew enough. If anyone found out she was to be the Grail's vessel, there was a high possibility of being kidnapped or worse to monopolise the eventual wish she would grant.

Beatrice nodded and bowed her head again. "I understand, Archbishop. I vow to never reveal my role as anything other than a devout woman of the cloth."

"Good. Good girl. We're… going inside to see who the master of this wretched thing is. Can you handle it?"

"Handle it…?"

"It wanted a bloodsport to sate its wrath," the Cardinal said. "We were forced to agree to stop the violence from reaching the Pope. Lord knows what would happen if that thing decided to kill him on a whim."

"I know, historically, this was common among their people at the time," Archbishop Elia mumbled, "but this is excessive."

Beatrice nodded again. She was certain she would have to see a lot of blood when the World Grail War started, but being prepared for it was another matter. Better to get a taste of the carnage in the safety of home first, she thought. Better to see what kind of atrocities she would have to endure for the sake of the world's numerous wishes.

The doors were permitted to open for them. Beatrice peered through the entrance, beyond Archbishop Elia and the Cardinal—she wasn't sure what she wanted a peek of, to see within, but the silence inside was more surprising than anything else. A bloodsport was underway, and yet you could hear even the beats of a bird's wings. Beatrice was in awe as she saw the lamps illuminating the small opening within, the statues lining each and every wall made of marble and bronze alike. A circular setup, not unlike a colosseum, and elevated towards the far side of the room was another stranger. Not one dressed in holy clothing, she noticed, but in metal and leather and silk, his gauntlets curved to resemble claws and his red hair so striking that she couldn't help staring.

Under his feet, a corpse was crumpled up in a heap and left to dry. Once again the Archbishop and Cardinal made a sign of the cross, and when the bishops followed suit so did she. This must have been Greco, the one who had tried to stop the beast. So… the man lounging on a corpse like a cat in the sun was the servant?

The group moved along the outside of the ring designated for the fight. Within the expanse, pools of blood and discarded weapons were laid about as a testament to the events that had gone on in the room. Shoved aside to one corner, almost as though they'd been an afterthought, the bodies of younger people were on display and freshly deceased. Beatrice covered her mouth with her hand, averted her gaze, and focused instead on the two who still had life in them.

They'd been reduced to wrestling on the ground, visibly worn out from the fight already and bruised so badly that neither could see well out of one eye. Whatever weapons they had used were no longer held in their hands, the two young men only able to punch and kick and attempt to strangle the other whenever they got the chance. And the redhead was grinning the whole time, watching lazily as he appraised them both.

The Cardinal came to a halt just a short distance away from the man. He bowed his head, though it was hard to miss the grimace on his face as he did so.

"How does the fight meet your standards, Saber?" he asked, hesitant.

So he was the Saber class? Beatrice expected him to almost be a Caster or Berserker. Weren't the knight classes supposed to be more noble? She recalled the relics that could be used to summon a Saber, the legends attached to them—theoretically, she reminded herself—but she didn't recall a murderer being among them.

The redhead inclined his head towards the Cardinal. "Not nearly enough," he drawled. "It's quite pathetic, actually."

The Cardinal faltered. "Y—You seemed to be enjoying yourself?"

"Well," Saber went on, "sometimes it's the little things you appreciate." Saber pointed to Beatrice and the Archbishop, and they both bowed before him as well. "Who are these two?"

"Ah. Pardon me, Saber, but I invited Archbishop Elia and Sister Beatrice to assist in preparations for your master. You… will be representing the Vatican, I presume?"

A scoff. A snicker. Saber had an almost deranged smirk on his face as he looked back out at the fight. The young men—one blond and tall, the other dark-skinned and slender—were struggling to catch their breath. They were so obviously starved and dehydrated, forbidden to eat or drink until only one remained.

"What a joke," Saber muttered, loud enough that it seemed as though he wanted the Cardinal to hear. "Represent the Vatican? You, the apostates who abandoned the gods? Don't make me laugh. I'd sooner throw you to the dogs than represent you."

The Cardinal cleared his throat. "Emperor Theodosius declared—"

"Theodosius was a fool for making the Nicene Creed the official religion. A traitor and a coward." Saber sneered at the Cardinal. "Prithee, apostate, unless you have something useful to say, I advise you hold that tongue of yours before I cut it out myself."

The Cardinal blanched. He took a step back, bowing his head again, and their gazes all returned to the poor excuse for a fight happening in the background. Even with just this brief interaction, the threats lingering in the air, Beatrice could glean a few things about Saber—his potential origins, for one, and the mention of Emperor Theodosius helped the matter. It made sense that a Roman would be summoned in what was once their Empire. The issue now was which Roman. Too many of them were madmen for her liking, and it only served to fuel her anxieties as she watched the dark-skinned and blond young men fight.

The blond had picked up a sword again, slashing at the dark-skinned man, and she watched with growing concern as the dark-skinned man lost his two furthest fingers on his left hand. A long gash spread down his wrist, large dollops of blood dripping to the floor in thick puddles, and he stumbled back with a pained hiss. Saber was grinning as he watched, eyes darting from one man to the other, and Beatrice held her breath as she watched the blond advance on the other man.

In a desperate bid to escape one of the blows coming his way, the dark-skinned man threw one of the many weapons scattered about. It was swiftly knocked away, colliding with a loud twang against one of the statues nearby, and he scurried towards it like it was his last hope of life. The dark-skinned man, once again trying to escape from the advancing blond, flung his bleeding arm out towards him and splattered blood over his face—right in his eyes, blinding the blond for a brief moment. In that brief moment, the dark-skinned man seemed to notice what Saber, and even Beatrice, had already realised.

As the men scuffled once more, one blinded and the other bleeding out, Saber gestured to Beatrice and Archbishop Elia.

"Sister Beatrice, was it? Spectate with me, girl. You're the only one with a functioning brain, it seems."

The Cardinal and Archbishop Elia both paled and stared at her, terrified. Beatrice swallowed a lump in her throat and bowed her head, still watching the men wrestle once more.

"With all due respect, Saber, I must decline—"

"Don't make me repeat myself, apostate." He pointed to the ground beside Greco's corpse, snake-like eyes landing on her once again with renewed interest. Beatrice nodded, hurrying to stand by his side where he motioned. Saber seemed satisfied when she took her place, relaxing once more to watch the men fight.

The dark-skinned man was showing more fatigue than before, the blood loss clearly getting to him. The fingers still on his hand twitched, and Beatrice assumed his nerves had been badly damaged alongside the vein that had been severed. As they clashed, the blond more confident despite the blindness he was afflicted with, they moved closer to the statue that had taken a hit from the deflected weapon. It was the statue of Claudius as Jupiter, the late emperor's head plastered onto the young body of what was unmistakably the god of sky and thunder, standing in its nine and a half foot glory above them like a judge looming before prisoners.

Beatrice wasn't sure if it was the real statue or not. She couldn't recall if the Vatican had left the real one above, on display, or if this was the original piece that had been hidden from the public. So many replicas were made to preserve the imagery as best as possible, stored in the numerous vaults in case something happened, but she also had the feeling that Saber would never have approved of a fake being put on display in his presence.

"You see it, too."

She nodded quickly. It was hard to spot, but harder to lose once again after you found it. The ankles of Claudius had been cracked horribly, the abuse of the weapons wearing them down that even a butterfly could teeter the statue in any direction.

"Did you know," Saber went on, almost excited, "he did that with the others? Abused the luck he was blessed with?"

Saber's clawed finger pointed to the pile of bodies. "Tripped one, only for the fool to impale himself with the dagger he chose for combat. Jumped aside to dodge an axe, never even noticing that another from behind had charged with a spear and took the blow for him."

Beatrice glanced from the men to the bodies, and it was clearer now how some of them had died. The evidence was there now that she knew to look for it.

"He… truly is blessed," she said slowly.

"But blessings can only go so far, Sister," Saber continued. "Fortune only smiles on you for so long before you lose favour. I wonder how long his fortune will last."

The statue began to tilt. The dark-skinned man jumped forward, tackling the blond as best he could around the waist. He was almost too weak to push him, to knock him over, but his foot hooked around the blond's ankle and he slammed himself and the other man onto the ground beneath Claudius. Both were exhausted, but the fall had winded the blond more than the dark-skinned man.

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Sister." Saber gestured for her to lean down. She did so, anxiously watching as the statue began to fall—its shadow dwarfing the men. "Fortune is what allowed my master to summon me through the leylines."

Beatrice felt her heart stop. Through the leylines? Was that possible? No, a summoning circle and a chant was needed, there was no way Saber was telling the truth. But the wild look in his eye, the way he watched the men about to be crushed by the statue, there was no reason to lie there. He was enjoying himself far too much to need to spread tall tales. Not when he was so intrigued by the reality in front of him.

The statue toppled onto the men with a resounding shatter. There was a loud crunch, a pained scream, and when she looked back once more, she saw no sign of the blond. Only Claudius's statue where he'd been laying, and the dark-skinned man's arm trapped under the weight of the statue alongside the blond. He must've tried to roll out of the way, leaving it a second too late but certainly just in time to survive.

It was his right arm that had been crushed, and his left continued to soak the ground with blood.

Saber jumped up and began to applaud. He let out a satisfied sound, looking ready to burst into tears of joy.

"It's what Claudius would've wanted."

The Cardinal gawked at Saber. "To… To have the statue of his head upon the body of Jupiter… crush a man to death?"

Saber sniffed. "You wouldn't get it."

Something told her Emperor Claudius wouldn't get it either.

There was no further statement on the matter. Saber was skipping almost gleefully towards the dark-skinned man, already half-dead and sobbing in pain. The redhead squatted down next to the man, looming over him almost smugly, and the sinister smirk on his face said everything Beatrice needed to know about the dynamic to follow. Saber's master was nothing but a toy to the servant, and Saber wanted to see how long it would take that toy to break.

Poor man. Beatrice would pray for him in the coming days.

There was a brief exchange between the servant and master. The dark-skinned man slowed in his movements, fading from consciousness ever so slowly, and Saber could only smirk and reply softly each time, as though chiding someone affectionately. It was an almost sickening display, how he patted the man's head with a clawed hand, and then Saber drew his sword from its sheath.

The Cardinal and Archbishop Elia both panicked, sputtering at Saber and trying to run over in their robes as fast as they could to stop him. Saber kicked Claudius's statue off of his master's arm, revealing the mangled remains beneath.

"Another step," Saber shouted at them, "and I destroy your entire city."

The Cardinal skidded to a stop while Archbishop Elia fell to his knees, barely holding on to his cane.

Saber held the sword over his master, the tip grazing his skin, and Beatrice closed her eyes tightly. She couldn't bear to watch this part, not when the dark-skinned man had tried so hard to survive to this point. How could Saber make it all for nothing by just killing him—

"I will permit only Sister Beatrice to tend to my pusio. Any of you breathe in his direction, and your precious Pope ceases to."

Beatrice's eyes snapped open. The scene she had expected—an unfortunate execution, another body to clean up after—it wasn't there. Saber sheathed his sword once more, pleased with himself, and he grabbed the dark-skinned man by the scruff of his neck. One simple toss over Saber's shoulder, and Beatrice could see from the dangling, limp arms draped over Saber's back that something had changed. A glance at his left hand—two, three, four… five fingers. Had the pinkie and ring not been cut off? And the large spurts of blood, where had it gone? The blood on his fingers was already drying, and as Saber passed the holy men to approach her, she could see no sign of a wound along his wrist.

Saber handed the dark-skinned man to her, and he was barely conscious enough to try support his own weight as she grabbed onto him. His right arm wasn't the crushed mess it had been earlier. It was brand new, almost like nothing had even touched him, and if she'd been a bystander coming in long after the fight, she'd assume the blood all over him wasn't his own.

"Put him somewhere comfortable. If you must get help, at least have the decency to seek out the eunuchs."

And with that, Saber strode out of the makeshift colosseum. Beatrice stared after him. Before he so much as approached the doors, he vanished from sight entirely.

This was far from a blessing for the dark-skinned man, she told herself. Fortune wasn't smiling on him. Whatever served Saber, whatever he worshipped, it was not giving this man a boon.