The dragon had wings that could break a village, and breath that would scour a forge's fires. It could lift the castle from the ground and bear upon the guilt of a man with sight alone. For any beast that carried itself from the bowels of hell, it was to be expected. It was what George knew to be true of any beast.
And yet the monster before him was far more than that of the demon he slew for the sacrificial princess. It was one whose name was legend as well. Where his was lifted up as a sign of strength of God against adversity, this monster was one that promised invulnerability against the struggles of man.
As they fought, his great sword scrapped down its scales, the might of heaven's purity only scalding its scales. The blow forced the beast to bend, but the beat of its wings sent the light away and tilled the clouds in the sky. Its breath pulled back in a rage to match its talons, scrapping down to tear him apart. The mount of George was no mythical beast, but he was one famed for slaying the dragon on horseback, and so he would not let himself fall against the beast.
Nevertheless, the talons swept though the ground as his blade would water and send many of the French army flying helplessly with it. More of the wyverns of the air were felled by the passing blow alone. George could not retaliate against it, as the tale of Fafnir came down to strike at him again. It clubbed at him, and he knew it was a monster like dragon he had fought.
Vicious in spirit, heartless in body, and cruel in mind. Be it born from the fallen angels or birthed in Tartarus himself, St. George did not know. He only knew it made to devour humanity with its destruction and thirstless greed.
It, therefore, was his duty to slay it.
"RAGH!" The cry came out as he sent his blade down, aiming to chop the tale from the monster's body. With intelligence befitting its size, it pulled it away, spinning on the ground to ravage him with its hind legs. The mount of the knight jumped, and George directed it to take perch on that same limb.
It took only two full strides before the leg was righted, and the horse fell with George atop it. His face never wavered in the air, even as the dragon turned with smoldering breath again. The Saint pulled the reigns of the mount and had it land well. It cried out, pained and in a panic, but the saint bore his will onto the creature, as God would all who served him.
His sword reached up and was brought down again, bearing through the fire. The light of Ascalon tore through the fires again, hitting the beast's head and attempting to take it. A horn was ravaged for the attack. He thought it almost certain to take the beast, but then as before, it spun its head, and the endless greed of the beast deflected the pure light of heaven. Deflected, no… redirected.
It had it crashing into the ground, making the wyverns above scatter and the soldiers behind him let out a dazed cry, but the fury returned quickly, and the steed he rode charged on. The dragon pulled its head back to glower at him from a castle's height above him.
"Burn me with as much of your gaze as you may," George spoke in a breath, lost to the wind. "You will have better chance than the fires of your breath." It wasn't a taunt the beast could hear.
Nevertheless, it let out a roaring cry that shook its brethren in the air, even as they were felled by arrows, and more still descending on the army behind the Saint. His gaze cast to them momentarily, unused to facing such a giant of an enemy with the unanointed behind him. It was one he would have preferred against, were it not for his Lord's directions.
The direction that had him witnessing an army of the French, taking back the land and skies from monsters birthed by the rule of Satan below. Though they were not as vile as the dragon he faced, they had equal amounts of mercy, measurable amounts of greed, and comparable parts wrath. The men fought in kind with rage of heaven against them.
None so much as the last man he would have thought his Lord would turn to.
WHAM! WHAM! The tentacles of an imposing beast beat the ground, weaker but longer than the whipping tail and scoring talons of the dragon. It writhed like a fish's tail, aiming to take up what it nearly struck at. Horses and men were flung by its made writhing form. A form that, alone, was damnable enough. But the figure atop it even more so.
"Foolish mirror of my past! Pond of deceit! Fall as you claim I should! FALL AND DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!" The infamous Blue Beard raged from atop his unholy mount. A book of name the knight did not know glowed in his hand, and long spindly fingers made motions for what to attack next. The monstrocity of the deep groaned and writhed at its command, with bulging limbs to match the mad man's bulging eyes. "Be crushed in the immortal name of MY beloved JEANNE!"
"Do not sour her name!" The man that George did not expect roared back in defiance. Roared, as his blade cried to match. "Do NOT turn your deceitful ways into her history. Jeanne rose above horrors. You cannot create them IN HER NAME!" The blade he held fell, and much like Ascalon, it cleaved with a blinding light.
Unlike the dreadful dragon, the beast Gilles fought against had its limbs severed by the blow. The groan it let out, a writhing cry of hate and malice tied into a form to match, was punctuated by the limb flopping about beneath it. The creature retreated as the monster atop him frothed. The saint pushed the hair from his gaze as he looked back at Fafnir.
The dragon's eyes beheld him, and its grand chest labored with fiery breath. Breathing, waiting, for what only the vilest of all souls could know.
"I will not mistake your patience for honor," George spoke up to the beast. "I know of your greed, and even time is something you will cling to." He held the point of his blade forward. "All that you have taken and claimed, I will have returned."
The head of the beast pulled back, and with a shuddering twitch of its jaw, it ripped forward.
George saw the bowels of hell rise as the monster approached, but his steed was already in fully gallop, and his blade alight with the honor of heaven. It struck at the teeth of the monster, forcing it to bend to match the blow. No more damage was done to it, the innards as touch as it scales, and with a fire greater than before. But it grasped and chomped at nothing, the embers it let loose falling away as George ran underneath them.
"Foul beast of the pits, monster of unholy creation!" He roared as he ran forward. The reigns of the horse were pulled to and fro, weaving the mount between the slapping claw of the dragon. It attempted to squash him as if he were a maggot fleeing moist ground, only for the knight of the Crimson Cross to leap between the edge of its talons, letting his blade rise up and scratch the monster again. "You may create fear with sight and horror with your breath, but beneath the light of the Lord, your purpose is nought but to FALL!"
The blade carved upwards again. This time, it caught on the horn of the dragon.
Fafnir raged as its head was held by the light of Ascalon. It force the beast to writhe and let out a sky shaking cry, whipping his head back and forth as it pushed against the earth, but Saint George did not let it tetter him. He pulled the mount to a still, angling the blade to lock it against the horns of the monster. Like a fish pulled from the lake, he felt the monster fight him, and for something that would not be a fatal blow.
Not fatal, but the beginning of the end for the beast. Enough that George would move from its horn to its head, and down its neck, until the infamous heart of Fafnir was pierced once again, and like the warriors before him, would bleed out to the earth. George sought no wisdom or immortality of the beast, only its life.
He put two hands to the blade, ready to drag it down with a vicious snarl.
"NO!" Only to be stopped as a tentacle slashed out him.
He was embarrassed to note he was hit by the beast of Blue Beard's creation, forced to tumble and nearly be crushed by his own mount. The stallion cried out as it came to rest, and nearly breaking its legs for the tumble, but a quick inspection by George, matched by a kick of his own to help the mount rise, showed it was in fair health. Fair, but not perfect. The markings of the tentacle slashed out on the hide of his ride, and red bleed into the brown fur.
"Do not HARM nor THREATEN Jeanne's immaculate BEAST!" The mad man raged as his own twisted ride slathered itself upon the earth, separating him from the dragon. "It was made as she saw fit, and you shall not desecrate it with a light from a UNWORTHY CREATURE!"
"He speaks too lightly of God's light… and too high of monsters born from madness." George looked to see the silver-armored copy of the mad man next to him. Eyes thin, not bulging, but lips pulled into an equal snarl. His eyes trailed down to the blade he held, one he did not think a man destined for madness would be graced to hold.
Even if it was under the breath and command of the Lord God.
"For what he has done, in the name of the beloved Jeanne… I cannot forgive."
"You are not meant to," George followed. "His sins are to be judged by the one who watches us all, and we are here to ensure that his madness does not touch those who worship the Lord above." The two horses began to trot aside one another, and the knight of the Crimson Cross continued on. "Follow me then, Gilles De Rais, and face against these monsters as Jeanne would have!"
"I shall! I shall!" The knight agreed with great fervor. "As she would have let herself be tormented in fire to purify the souls of the unworthy, I shall let myself be crushed by the demons below to keep her name pure! For she fought with God's love, and I will fight to keep her love whole!" It was love of woman, not God.
But it was love pure, at this time. Pure enough to have his blade rise up to nearly match Ascalon, and force the dragon and mad man to bellow against them.
Fire bloomed in the air as Fafnir roared, and its tail made to swipe out from them in the same moment. George brought his blade down, slipping through the fire, and slamming into the set claws of the great beast. It twisted as the blow struck, though no blood from the monster was hade. Gilles did much the same against the monster Blue Beard rode, and with more effect. The tentacle of the beast coming undone, and another slashing at them.
"GRRRR!" Gilles let out, as his horse's path was forced to divert under the force of the monster. George watched the man be pushed for only a moment.
SHINK! And then he raised his blade off of Fafnir, striking at a limb himself. It cleaved through it like smoke, and the monster bellowed like a stirred flame. The mad man atop it let loose with curses he could not care to repeat, but he gave no mind to them. Not when he saw Gilles recovering, pulling his blade back and thrusting it forward.
George watched as it struck at the middle joint of Fafnir, forcing the dragon to bend, as if bowed. It clearly know the horror of what it had done, and pulled a snarl from even scaled lips. It opened its jaw and let loose with the flames of hell again. This time, Gilles had no way to keep them off of him.
His howl of pain was like the chanting madness of his vile future, but one that had his steed neighing in horror. George did not hesitate to swipe again, swinging forth up the column of fire until Ascalon made to cleave the jaw from the dragon. The beast knew what the intent was, and was quick to shut its mouth before the light of heaven could permeate its depths.
The saint turned to see Gilles holding still on his charred mount. His armor of silver still shone, but his face was pulled into a painful sneer. The mount, though nearly broiled in color, still managed to take steps, akin to a fowl's new trot.
"Vile… monsters…" the man hissed out. "Desecration upon… upon all that you have seen. You are… are not… fit for the beauty of Heaven. Therefore, unworthy of the love… of JEANNE!" It was not the name George would have cried in the man's place, but the strength in the man was to be commended. He would not spite one who saw evil and raged.
"You praise what she was killed for! I love her for what she has remade herself to BE!" the man atop the tentacled monstrosity raged. "She was all that we could ever love! But she was so for listening to a false and deceitful God that made her die for his whims! I used the Grail to make her WHOLE!" The grail?
Ah, that was what he meant. George understood now.
"Then it is as Master said. She is not Jeanne D'Arc." Gilles turned to him, and the beast quivered as the mad man looked at him, bulging eyes righting themselves long enough to gaze at him. "For what Saint of heaven would need your assistance? What soldier of God would desire to be remade as a vile counterpart to her self?"
"Those who witnessed the horrors that God made!" The mad man showed his face with the frothing words. "YOU! You were celebrated. LOVED! She was tortured! You know not of love! You know nothing of the cruelty the blessed Jeanne endured!"
"I do not." He agreed. "I have no need to hear of the horrors of war from a Saint who fought them. No more than I need to hear corruption from a man who sold his heart to lose his own pain." The silver armored Gilles gazed at him, hand to his chest, steadying his breathing.
"Cur! Scoundrel! Hypocrite!" The twisted future Gilles raged atop his mount. The book he held flipped and twisted about as his gangly fingers. "You who were loved by God cannot proclaim that love on those beaten by his endless cruelty! I have witnessed such horrors, and committed many more to show the MINDLESS of this land the TRUTH!" His arms were held out as he screeched to the heavens, as if the monster beneath him was meant to reach below and pull from it the bowels. "I will show you as well!"
The roar that followed was not from him, but the great dragon beside him. Fafnir beating his wings, and rising. The wyverns in the air were flung under the force it rose with, and were felled as they hit the ground aside French soldiers. Those same soldiers that shook under the force of the rising tyrant.
George twisted on and pulled the holds of his horse as he rode on. The bleeding at his steed's side wasn't severe, but it slowed his trot. He did not focus on it, trusting the Lord Jesus in strength. The mount carried him well as he could.
Even as Fafnir pulled his head back and with a great bellow, sent down the flames of hell. The rains of heaven were the only thing comparable to the gout.
But were it such, then he was gifted with a great ceiling by his Lord, to hold and protect those around him.
Ascalon rose, in challenge to the dragon, the same as he had to save the Princess before, and let its light challenge the flames. It crashed into it so much like its own roar of flame, but let it flow about and dissipate in the air. It had the clouds above dissipating as the heat rolled into the air, but the good knight did not let the boiling air challenge him. He let his light continue on, and his horse took challenge to the flight of the monster.
The hooves beat at the dead ground, horse raging like the fires through the pain. George cried himself as hell rained on him, and he ran forth to keep it from burning those around them. The French army saw his approach and the beast riding above him. Few looked and did not shiver. None gazed and saw it as an impassive mass.
All were in awe.
George rode on, carrying the fury of the dragon above his head, and protecting the French army as they raged against the aggressors of heaven.
Longinus, in life, did not care to the territories of Rome nor the people that it ruled upon. He cared only for the service to his Master, and for the manner in which to do well for the empire. What it ruled and where it did mattered little to him, and never had the ambition to spread the might of Rome beyond the powers that commanded him.
To scout ahead for enemies that threatened his people, to slay those who were criminals within the lands, to serve those above him in the name of the great Caesar. Those were his ambitions in life.
Until he was bathed in the blood of Christ. And then his eyes were open, and he came to know him.
Longinus had spent his days following the Lord's resurrection in deep meditation, desperate to find his way to the light he was blessed to see. His did away with his thoughts of crimes being forgiven in death, and saw instead the need to serve the Lord in life. He knew the beauty of heaven, and he was not against being its scout upon the earth. Damned as his lance was, he knew he was not, for the Lord blessed him.
He often wondered what would have become of him if he had not put a lance to Christ on that fateful day.
TWANG! TWANG! He could not help the thought that it would be something similar to the Lancer he fought now.
"Cur! Damnable soldier!" The tall count threw his lance so much like arrow, shooting past him. "You face a man far greater than you and all you do is keep me at bay! Face me so I may make an example of you!"
"I do not run and instead called to you." Longinus calmly replied. "I will call to you to face me, but I will not revere you as above me." He twisted his hand and let the pole of his lance strike up. It beat away a pair of rising spikes, preventing them from impaling him. "Between you and I, we stand on the same ground, and are of the same worth."
"Let me guess, the same worth beneath God?" The man's face twisted. "A God that would burn the innocent that revere him, and then let a kingdom that held him up be put to ruin? That God?"
"Yes, that same Lord." His honesty did nothing to quell the Count's growing rage. "The Lord that never promised peace in this life, but only in the next. I saw this truth when I bathed in his blood. I will speak of it to any who ask."
"I ask not for your word or peace!" The Count threw his lance down. The few spires that he made before turned into a wall. "I made one for my kingdom with cruelty! I built my land up from the damnation it faced with the blood of others who challenged me. I may be a monster in name, but none can deny the power I held or the good that I did."
"The power you had on this Earth may not be denied, but I will declare the 'good' you did short and meaningless." Through the Roman helm, Longinus stared at the cold blue eyes of Vlad Tepes. "All is meaningless before the plans and peace of our Lord."
"Your Lord. He is not mine." Lancer held his hand out. "But fear not, I will raise you to him." Fangs were shown as he grinned.
Longinus, a soldier and scout, retreated with lunging jumps. In time that he did, the black lances of the ruler jutted upwards, aiming to take him. Each one came closer than the next, until he felt the soles of his sandals being scratched at. His quick retreat turned into a dash sideways, before he lifted up and started to slash at the growing field of weapons with his own spear.
He broke them with ease, the spires of impalement meaning nothing to a weapon bathed in the blood of God's only son. The shattered so much like glass, and he ran through the debris without fear. His footing was sure as he swung, but in contrast to the still and stiff form of the roman lines, he was quick and fluid.
He was no hoplite. He was a scout. He charged at the count as if he were a ballista's bolt.
When the silver-haired man clenched his fist, he carved a rut in the ground to stop himself.
Longinus found the black lances around him growing, but not skywards. No, they rushed at him like the branches of trees, and he was being thrown forwards in time. He ducked the stab of one, breaking it with the butt of his lance and retreating into it. The spear-head tore through half a dozen more, his arms flexing to endure the blow.
For the many he took out with the swift swings, it still left him with a dozen more growing about him. They rose to grab at him, dark hands with bloodied tips. He narrowed his gaze at them, tightening the hold on his own lance. Many of his fellow Catholics were skewered on weapons such as these, by men such like Vlad.
He was among their number in his first life. The Lord needed him to do more in his second.
The end of his lance hit the ground, shooting him into the air. The crack it formed was dust that had Vlad covering his gaze, even as his multitude of spears rose to find him. Longinus did not deter. He slashed at the few that approached him, letting his body spin until it found perch on the only thing he expected to.
The underside of a passing wyvern.
It screeched at him in annoyance, but when Longinus kicked off of it, it yelped in horror. He knew not if the lances of the Impaler did so to the monster, but he did not care to watch. It was not his business to care for beasts that mocked the rule of God. He was here to serve his Lord.
That meant aiming the very lance that slew Jesus at a man who declared the Son of God a fake.
The bleu eyes of the count realized it, staring up at him and drawing another dark bloodied lance into his hand. Apart from those birthed from the grounds, this one endured the grip of a servant. The man swung it like a club at the descending Longinus, and the impact was more than either man expected.
BOOM!
It shattered the many protrusions made in the ground, turning the forested wall of lances into dust and glass, earning cries from the beasts in the air and the army that challenged them. The ground beneath them was just as ailed by the blow, cracking and splintering without a direction or sight. The two men, locked with lances against one another, gave none of them sight or thought.
Worse for Longinus, enduring the strength of a man famed for strength to challenge two armies rule, and then be made the worst monster in all of history.
"You are a remarkable soldier." Vlad spoke to him, even as his force overwhelmed the Roman Soldier, sending him to his knee. "Were you of any other army, your name would be revered. But you keep yourself to a God that would not speak of you without praising himself. You serve a deity that loves none but his own!"
"You are… correct. In part." Longinus forced out. His words trembled as his arms did. One knee hit the ground, but he refused to let his elbows give. "Where I a soldier of… another man. My name may be… better known. Were God to speak… my name would not… be uttered. And God… loves only his own."
"My, that was a quick turn," Vlad loomed over him. "I thought the piety of a saint would hold-"
"But I wish for none of it!" Longinus roared as he pushed back.
The Count gave a blink at the sudden effort, jumping back as he saw the Spear of Longinus glow. Glow with, perhaps even create, a new light. One that had his own lance, warble. He was too wise and too hardened in battle to challenge such a thing stupidly. It was why he threw his arm to the side, creating a copious number of spear heads to swallow Longinus.
The killer of Christ swung his own lance, and it turned the lances to glass and ash. Vlad did not blink.
"I will serve no man before my Lord, for no army of this world compares to the Kingdom of Heaven."
Vlad stuck his lance into the ground, drawing up lances again. They quickly began to climb towards the Lancer Saint, but the man did not retreat as he did before. He only aimed the head of the infamous spear down, and let its glow pierce the darkness that encroached on him. Instead of the bamboo like stalks with their speed of growth, they turned into wilted grass, staining the ruined earth, but doing little more.
"I do not need God's worship of my name, for private praise is enough to make me weep."
Vlad twisted his lips at the opposing Lancer, weighing his options carefully. A foolish move against a soldier of God was as sure a way to commit damnation as any. Taking his sharp nails, he pushed them against his own chest, forcing his will forward.
For like the magic that was made before, he had the strength of a concept. A concept of impalement that would be forced onto any he deemed worthy of impalement, and were close enough for him to reach. He focused that same concept forward, the idea of the saint before him being skewered through and then lifted through the air.
Longinus jerked for only a moment, but then dragged his own lance to his chest, and hugged it. Light enveloped him like the sun. No dark spears came from him or rushed to him. He was protected.
"And all who are of this Earth are God's people. So say you, he loves us all."
The light around the soldier made Vlad grimace. It wasn't a damning or blinding light, but he could see it cast no shadow, and so the man within it free of any taint or suffering. His lances, meant to impale and cause the brutal suffering equivalent to those of his past, did nothing. He was the one to raise his own people before the armies that made to roast them, making a monster so great the generals fled.
But this man walked with a light to his lance, one that was bloodied and meant to carry nothing but damnation. It was enough to make him scowl. Deep and hard until his fangs rubbed at the edges of his lips.
"Cur, your mind is as twisted as the end of your weapon." His pointed towards the prong of Longinus. "You dare to speak so well of a Lord that lets those suffer? Those who worship him and those who cannot hear him? Where is he when his people suffer? I will stand with my people!"
"He carries them when their suffering ends." Longinus spoke easily. "For he never leaves us."
The Count struck forth again, bringing down the lance atop Longinus. The soldier twisted his weapon and caught the blow.
"And I will follow him, wherever he wishes to guide me."
"Then watch," Vlad whispered over him. "As he drags you to hell!" He kicked out, landing a brutal blow against the chest of the Roman soldier. Longinus let out breath as he spun over, but corrected his stance swiftly. His swung out his lance again, shattering the spears that rose at him, forcing Vlad to drag his hand back.
"Where he to jump into those bowels?" Longinus grinned from under his helm. "I would ask only that I go first."
Ritsuka had never spent time in castles before. Ever. He had heard of them in the tales of Saints or in telling of what heaven would be like, but he'd never actually been through one before. Everything he knew was either alliterative or descriptive. It was never through his own senses he was able to observe or enjoy it.
Even still, looking through the halls of the ruined castle made him feel a sense of greatness… but also remorse.
It was hard to not feel remorse when halls that were tall enough to challenge the steeple of cathedrals, etched with molding, art, and gold to give one pause, were now burned, torn, or crumbling under the weight of the war and sin commited within its walls. Large arcs that carried chandeliers or lights, torn and scorched until it made him almost nervous to walk under them. Colors that would have attracted the eyes much like the finest reliefs of Christ, now reduced to burnt arrays of brown, red, and black.
It was remorseful, because he could tell that at one time, it had stood in a grand state. It was hard to not think of it as if it were a cathedral, and it made him feel all the more pitiable for it.
"This is common for when an enemy lays siege to a castle," Solomon spoke ahead of him, as if knowing what he was thinking. A glint in his gold eyes said so. "They plunder what they wish and burn what they do not, leaving behind nothing for their newly conquered foes to take advantage of. In war, it is a common and wis trait."
"This isn't a war," Ritsuka found himself saying. "This is just… a waste." He put his hand over the remains of what had once been a picture's frame. Only curled paper lay within it, and the nails of its wooden caste were charred as well.
"War through and through, at least you see it now." The Wise King did his best to smile. "At least these fires are out. Better than walking through Fuyuki and seeing nothing but fire, right?" He laughed, but Ritsuka didn't join him.
"The fires that wasted this building are no more, but the rage of the one who cast them remain." Jesus spoke at the head.
They followed behind him, careful and slow to match the pace of the Lord. Ritsuka could see Solomon licking his lips, doubtlessly believing that it would be faster to run, or at least jog. As a Servant, he knew that he would be able to reach Kadoc much faster, but Jesus was patient. And so, Ritsuka followed him.
"If that is true, my Lord, then should we not start to run?"
"Why would we run?" He asked in return. "Do you believe we are short on time?" Solomon didn't answer. He avoided Jesus's gaze. Ritsuka knew why, and it wasn't from agreement. "Do not put haste upon your decisions, and do not have faith in failure without it. I say we must walk, for there is time to be had."
"We have time to observe them?" He didn't believe the words. "No… you are saying that we are waiting for something." The wisdom showed through.
"It is as you say, Solomon," Jesus smiled upon him. "The speed of one man does not mean others are destined to follow. To rush forward is to ask another to fall." Ritsuka looked at the Lord's feet, seeing the sureness of each step, and slow temp he kept. "No man who calls to me shall be ignored, and no man who waits for me is to be forgotten. The time for action approaches, but that is not a call to rush ahead."
"A clever way to say you are afraid."
The voice that spoke echoed along the ruined halls.
Ritsuka found himself pushed back behind Solomon, the king standing before him and beside the Lord. Ahead, a woman approached with the clicking of heels, echoing like her voice through the castle. He recognized her from before, the one who had attempted to kill him and Solomon while Sasaki and Longinus had run ahead. The staff at her hand was raised and slapped against her palm while a cruel smile was framed beneath a golden mask.
"Trepidation in your step, a copious number of thoughts, like a cacophony of fears melding within your head." She laughed, and it was so opposite the laughter that RItsuka had heard from Solomon, Sasaki, Mozart, or Marie he thought it more akin to a cry. It scratched at his soul like one. Cruel and painful. "It reminds me of the maidens who saw my approach, and could not hide without the shadow of the Lord."
"For what reason why I have to hide?" Jesus asked, voice stronger than her own. "By what means do you intend to harm me?"
"Means? You are already so sure of my intent?" She laughed again and Ritsuka squirmed. "I thought you were one to approach the poor and chafe. Do you not see me as such?"
"Only if you have desire to hear me, but you have spoken nothing of it." Jesus held out his arms. "If you wish to hear me, I will speak. But for what reason would one approach basking in fears if not to inflict them?"
"Haa haa haa," the sound came again. "Wise as I was promised, but unfortunately too… strong for my taste. It is a pity that Peter had to take the life of that girl. She would have been far easier for me to handle." He didn't know half of what she said. The other half made Ritsuka's mind spin.
"Peter? Archer." Solomon caught on faster than he did. "That means… my Lord!" His rings clicked as he reached forward, and the young Master prepared himself for what that would mean.
Jesus, however, raised his hand. Ritsuka thought it meant for him to stop.
Instead, in the fist of his lord, he saw the fletching of an arrow being held out. The shock was evident on the woman's features.
"How…" the woman's voice was one of shock, and her features matched.
"HOW!?" The voice that echoed down the hall was far from the same. Ritsuka heard it for only a moment, then something else stole his attention.
The woman raising and dropping her staff, and making the castle shake with the fall. The hand of the king gripped him hard than before with the tremble. Eyes looked at her, then around them. He saw no reason for the halls to shake. Her laughter that followed bade no more reason, only worry.
"You are the one who gave power to split seas and walk on the oceans!" The woman called. "But those were of water! What will you do against the blood of others!"
Ritsuka was terrified to remember he had forgotten what she had attacked with before.
"I have shed my own blood for them, Elizabeth. You cannot have me shudder at the stained life of another."
He was, however, unburdened to hear the peace in his Lord's voice, especially as he called her name.
Not even the crimson river that rose behind her made him sweat. It did, however make the hand that gripped his shirt much tighter. Even as the Lord raised his own. Unlike when Solomon moved like that, he saw no twinkling of light.
All Ritsuka saw was the river approaching them suddenly split down the center, then rush past both their flanks.
He stared up as the red was parted on both sides, yet not even a drizzle of the thick liquid coated him or stained Solomon. It was dark and overcast, the roar of its passing shaking his ears as it did the walls, but it did little more than that. Boast with sound and display, yet unable to touch him, all by the will of his Lord.
His Lord, with a still hand raised above him, let the torrent pass without effort.
As it settled, and the woman responsible stood tall yet shaken as the castle. Her staff was clenched in a pale hand as well, that trembling as the rest of her. The blood she had called dripped from the charred wall and stained the flooring beneath them, but it was now little more than a reminder. It had not even lay a hint of color on the white robes of his Lord, hair unblemished as his wishes and words.
"You cannot lay your sins upon me without knowing me," Jesus spoke to her. "You must hear me to know of me, Elizabeth."
"Shut up!" That made Ritsuka tremble more than the display of the river of blood. "I have not committed sins, because I did not know!" Her eyes were alight with the immaturity of her words. "I was damned for things I was never told. You cannot call me to you when I did no wrong!"
"You have sinned, as those before you before I spoke to them. But just as they were able to come to me, you can as well." His hand reached out towards her. "You are not free from sin, but approach me, and let me wash you of the stain to your souls. Only I may cleanse you."
"I will not bathe in those waters!" She screamed. "You cannot lather me in that… that scentless bath!" Ritsuka felt his own hands clench. "Mine is that of the rich blood of Maidens, to be enjoyed and spread! Beauty and wisdom comes from my nourishment, but yours is but the removal of filth. What can you gain from removing the efforts of life!?" He question came as a howl, and twisted with a manic grin.
One that split her features as she raised her staff. It glowed, and a figure of milled gold rose behind her. The light of eyes beneath the long mask did the same.
"I am more for what I rest within! What do you offer for those who rest in you!?"
"A return to the peace my father made for them." Jesus was undeterred. "The same peace I may speak to you of. Will you not hear me?"
"I'll hear you." Her grin promised nothing. "I will hear you scream!" She howled with a manic joy as she threw down her staff. "Scream in the confines of the Iron Maiden!"
The golden figure behind the woman dragged itself forward. Dragged was the operative word, as Ritsuka felt the ground rumble as the figurine scratched and tore at the ground. Cracks littered the tiles and shot up the wall. A looming obelisk of gold, a figure of a false idol, was ominous enough.
But then it opened, and he beheld the layers of thorns and spikes. It contrasted with the brilliant exterior, instead of blackened blood and shadows. The doors boomed as they opened, and for a moment, he swore the thorns were reaching forth for the Lord. A quiver slipped through Ritsuka's heart, terrified for what it could mean.
"I will accept the embrace of no Maiden who does not heed my father, Elizabeth." Jesus was calm. Ritsuka wished he could say the same.
A sudden pang of pain ran through him, robbing him of breath. He grasped at his chest, wobbling for a moment and only held aloft as Solomon's hand gripped him. He looked up, seeing the golden eyes of the Wise King, seeing his ringed hand aiming forward. Ritsuka saw more than felt the ceiling above them shake.
BOOOM! And then, it as punctured with light.
An arc of brilliant light cascading forward, as if a stream of water controlled in reverse. It forced him to shield his eyes, the sight too brilliant to behold, as it raptured the figures of the golden figure and the woman behind it. Surrounded them, and then, took them. Ritsuka heard no cries of denial or argument, only the boom of the beam's bent power.
And then, with another flash, it was over.
It was over faster than Ritsuka had thought it possible. He had seen the attack before, the efforts before, and even the plans for it. But it was so swift… he was almost afraid to think that the woman was gone so quickly. But she was gone. Two holes, above them, and down the hall beyond where the woman stood, and the remnants of the bloody river that had torn through the castle.
But red-dressed and alabaster faced woman, no obelisk of gold. Nothing but Jesus Christ, looking back at them both with blue eyes, brilliant robe, and calm face.
"I am sorry, my Lord, for taking her like that." Solomon waved at the holes his light had made. "I believe you wished to speak to her more."
"Then why did you attack?" The question was sharp, but there was no heat behind him. Jesus only watched Solomon, and the Wise King did not blink.
"Because she wished to take the young Master's life, and she had no desire to hear you or us speak." Jesus hummed at him.
"You think that enough reason?"
"In times of war, I do." He was honest. "We have no time to entertain her. That I am sure of."
"Then you should not ask for my mercy." The words were as honest as they were confusing. Enough for Solomon to look at Ritsuka, as if asking for their meaning. That had a lot of meaning as well. "Do not wonder on my words, for they mean as I say. You have no need to ask for forgiveness in deeds you have thought and committed to. Had you thought them unnecessary or unwise, you would not have made them." His piece said and peace offered, Jesus turned. "Then let us continue on."
"Just… like that?" Ritsuka asked.
"Yes, proceeding as so." Jesus's smile was king and free of mockery. "What else is there to say in response to the word?" Ritsuka had no answer, and Solomon only smiled in turn. "Now follow me. We have no reason more to wait." Solomon followed Jesus, but Ritsuka did not so quickly.
He looked back at where the woman had once stood. She stood, the ceiling opened up, and the ruin of the attack remained. He remembered what she had done before, how it had taken Sasaki and Longinus to hold off her, while Solomon had kept back her blood and the Count's dark lightning. To see nothing remaining of her, as if she were pushed aside from existence… it reminded him of the power the king carried. He swallowed lightly, saying a prayer for the woman's vanquished soul.
Then, he carried on to follow his Lord, sure that if Solomon could so easily deal with a woman like her, Sasaki would be able to best the Count as well.
He was curious if the act of killing would be so quickly dismissed as well.
The man was faster than Sasaki would like to give him credit for, and that was a something no oft to happen for the warrior in eternal search for the blade. To battle with another was to credit them with their skill, for in the field of battle, you could not test your strength with another's blade, as you did not have the strength to carry it.
Through the Japan he rode through and journeyed upon, that was true. No matter how grand the blade an ronin or Samurai carried, it was the metal of their will and soul that was tested. Greater blades loss to greater men. So it was not for him to blame any man for his loss, not when he was the one who was felled. Rather, so far the opposite. What was there to hate in a man who showered you with praise as he tested himself against you? Nothing.
"AHAHAH! Is this what you are capable of? Fleeting flicks of your wrist? You'll be shivering on the ground by the time I am through, laughing upon your flayed corpse!"
But in that same breath, what was there to love in a man who wished for misery in battle? The same.
Nothing.
Sasaki had his blade bent more than he wished to in a proper duel. Rarely was he given the opportunity to aim it at the shadow-cloaked man charging at him. Too often he had to pull back, turn parallel to his own body, and the push against the blows that struck at him. A defensive hold, a necessary one for any of the blade to learn. But, it was meant to be fleeting, in the change of the exchange of blades.
Each time Sasaki was able to push back against the lightning swift attacks of the cruel-man's laughter, and he aimed to counter attack, the man was gone in another dull thrum of thunder, and twist of shadow, leaving him pointing at empty hair. The first it had happened, it was an annoyance that showed the man was more than a larger swallow. The second time, it showed he was sneakier than the patient vipers. On the third times and then through on, it demonstrated the man's true nature.
This count was either a coward or a ruler. Neither befitting the field of battle.
TWANG! TWANG! Sasaki adjusted his footing as he swung up and down, beating away the dark claws of the man aiming to take his head. Both of them were pushed away, but a foot, coated in the same crackling energy, ran for his head. Like the tall bamboo, he bent carefully, letting it run up his neck and avoid all that it could do.
His feet repositioned, extending his arms out, and aimed to stab at the man's position. But like all the times before, he found only cloaked air, and mocking laughter, returning to him.
"AHAHAH! Again! Again you miss. How terrible it is to be a hair's breadth short of me. Does it make you anguish over time lost? Seeing one faster than you?"
"I would need to see you to judge that properly," he replied. "I feel I am facing more a man hiding in reeds, then a master of the field of combat."
"You feel that way because you do. How would I be able to enact my grand plans if they needed of me to face all my foes?" Even without laughter or sight, Sasaki could hear the smile in the man's sharp voice. "To live as I did and gather what I needed, I learned how to torment those without facing them. What can you do to me?"
"Very little, I imagine." Sasaki's words drew laughter from the man. "But I do not care to think of what I could be able to do. If I need them, I will work upon it later. It serves nothing for the battle I'm engaged with now."
"AHAHAH! The mindset of a tactician! I knew few who didn't lament what they lacked while I plotted beside them." Sasaki's eyes roamed as the man continued to boast. He saw the men fighting wyverns, Saints facing demons, and far away in the castle, a fire spout forth and blood running from the halls. He put it all aside, not related to what he needed. "Too many wished for money, for gold, for men, for guns, for tools that they couldn't hope to grasp. And even more, for the power they wished to possess. Never knowing that to gain power, they needed to suffer."
There.
Sasaki stepped forward, slicing his blade down. Half-way through the swing, he knew it would not connect, but he followed through, letting the dark cloaked man step out of the way and into a more predictable spot. It was a necessary motion, as the distance gave him the time necessary to, unfortunately, raise his blade again. He twisted his shoulders to let him draw up his blade faster, letting the man's claws rack down the laundry pole.
The Ronin dared to push back at the same time, succeeding in driving the man away, but a step forward and the lightning took the count again. He was gone in another flit of laughter, and he was aiming the tip of his long blade at the dust. His lips screwed with disappointment. Not impatience, as that would be the death sentence for himself.
"Suffer loss of money, family, wealth, or pride. Suffer those to make room for the power and desire for me. Desire without loss is greed. Desire with torment is motivation. AHAHA! What kind of man hopes to become stronger without the grandest of motivation!"
"From what little I was told of you, it appears you used motivation for more than self." His long hair billowed in the wind. "You aimed for the life of others, more than the improvement of self."
"AHAHAH! Close! I improved self to gain power over others. No different than any Lord of any nation. And no different than you!" The man's scream was a sign. Sasaki bent low as if to admire the roots of dead grass. Lightning crackled up his back.
He twisted, in an unorthodox spin, hoping to slice the man to-fro. For a moment he even dared to think he may have caught him, but the other hand of the Count pushed on his blade, and it sent the pair, suspended in the air, careening apart. It truly showed that great speed could easily make for great power. Thankfully, Sasaki learned from nature, and the wind could be as vicious as it was kind.
It allowed him to twist in the air and let his sandals glide over the ground, blade swiping about him. It would have looked foolish to the untrained, but for any one of the sword, it was known to keep the trespassing enemies at bay. When friction won out, and his body stilled, he was rewarded with the sight of the Count some unfortunate distance away. A boon for his health, but a detriment for taking the man's own.
"Did you not die seeking the death of another? Does that not show your lack of motivation lead to your demise! For that, Mushashi of the dual-sword showed grander desire for strength than you!" The Count's body was stuck like a pompous ronin challenging the Lord of a castle.
Sasaki knew better than to charge at him, aware of the deceit in the stance. Stance and words.
"I lost to a man who had greater talent than I, but neither of us were loathed to one another. He sought to change how the blade was used, and I intended to Master it." The memory alone brought a long smile to Sasaki's blade. One to rival his blade. "Improvement through the known against the unknown, and I was the lesser of the two."
"And your name was stolen for it!" The Count of Monte Cristo finally had feet visible as he walked on the dirt. For the boon it was, Sasaki couldn't enjoy it. The man was wise, or perhaps still cowardice enough, to not be close enough to allow him to approach. He was too fast still. "I know that you are a figment of the challenge to Musashi. You who stands before me is not the man who held that blade. The name used to challenge the dual-wielding swordsman is not the same who held that blade. Your legend is twisted, and your name forgotten for it."
Sasaki did not answer him. It let the man laugh again, cackling like the crackle of the lightning around him. Even the burning of his eyes matched the shine of his sharp teeth.
"Such is the fate of those such as you. No name to carry and no blade your own. Defeated by a man with more motivation than your own. Is it not shameful!" The Count gnashed his teeth. "Such was the fate of the man I once was, famous now only to remember what I have grown from."
"There is no shame in being weak, only remaining weak. Weaker is not weakness."
"It is! It is the beginning of torment!" The mad man continued to cackle. Sasaki was sure he was no one a drink could be enjoyed with. He was already souring the feeling of steel. "My strength and power came from the tearing of those who once lorded over me, until nothing but their pitiful selves remained. I destroyed that part of myself, and for it, I became a Count to whom revenge is synonymous! To me, whom none shall hear and not think the devil is biting at their heels!"
"So none approach you, and none care to learn of you, only know you." Sasaki adjusted his footing again, sure the man was about to strike. "What care is there in living then? I traveled to fight and learn, not to Lord."
"AHAHA! I am sure it is more than that! What man does not wish to lord over others. You traveled with one so high upon his throne, he declares himself Lord!" He raised his hands into the air and slapped them to the dried earth. Sasaki was watching, and so saw the lightning chain like jittered wires.
He stepped back, slashing at pillars that rose from the damnable force. He beat at lightning with a swift blade, and then the columns of darkness that followed its trail. His own sword twanged with the cry of metal, but his grip was sure through years of training. He did not waver, but his eyes were forced to be taken from the Count. It was not a mistake, just another clever cowardly ruse of the man.
So it was that Sasaki finished beating of the attack, turning back towards the Count of Monte Cristo, only to see him hovering the barest of breaths away. The ronin stepped back and bent to let him travel over, as any one would for an approaching strike, but the man of deceit knew that. It was why as his leg sailed over, his clawed hand caught Sasaki's foot. Footing meant nothing if the ground was taken from you.
Sasaki was then forced to feel his body be handled head over heels, as his back and chest were slammed into the ground front and back. Air drove from him with each bounce, and each time he made to cut at the limb holding him, only to feel the grip twist and pull him away. Each time he was off by the barest amount, and each time he was greeted with laughter along with whipping wind.
It rattled his head, threw his balance, but none more so than when the man spun him like a top. His hair flew out and he was sure he was about to have his ears pop, being relieved of the force only when the man released him, and sent him flying like the infamous shurikens of the shadow warriors. Sasaki, through legend and practice knew how to handle this. Like birds caught in a storm's thrall, he knew how to resist it.
Extending his limbs out to slow his spin, driving his blade to catch the ground, and letting himself tumble. He could not resist the force, or else risk a limb breaking or tearing. Not until the friction slowed him, and he was able to twist again on his spot. His clothes ruined from the slamming and tumbling, and hair undone. It left him looking worse for wear, staring at the dark cloaked man again
The same count who had arms extended out, lightning crackling at the edges of his digits, and a grin that would make the oni toast with fine sake. That was something he may have enjoyed at the moment. But only with a fellow he would wish to die to.
This Count was not one of them. And he disgraced another man he would like to die to.
"You speak of Jesus Christ, the Son of God to whom my Master serves." He adjusted his elbows and shoulders. They were sore, but not damaged. "A fair number of my fellow Servants also worship him. You call him a false Lord?"
"A Lord who demands to be above or else other suffer? Of course! No man who works in such way is a true Lord. He has not suffered!"
"From what I heard of my master, and Longinus, he was slain following torture. Little different from you, far worse than I." Sasaki grinned as he finally saw a twitch in the Count's smile. "I enjoyed my death, you defied yours. This Lord, Jesus Christ, willingly suffered one that brought him to hell."
The darkness billowed under the man's cloak, but Sasaki waited. He had to, letting his blade settle into a defensive position. Just again, more defense… but perhaps with a bit more luck. That was all he could ask for against a strong, yet unworthy, opponent.
"I have not spent any longer than a moon with that man. It'd be a debate if the few days I heard of him would be enough to pass judgement." Sasaki twisted his neck, hearing the bones crack. He relished it. "Many of the judges of my land would say for a Lord such as he, a week's time would be haste, and a moon's enough to see how the stars above may see him."
"AHA! Did you not hear how he is the ruler of the moon, sea, and stars?"
"I heard of the heavens being his kingdom, but not the sea." His blade straightened itself, at the ground. The dark cloaked man watched him with burning eyes, and a sharp grin. "But for me, that is the least of what I saw. I did not judge him, but I observed him."
"Fearful of the man?"
"Careful, for I saw many great warriors calling him Lord."
Grand warriors indeed. A man who was fame for killing, and yet never expressed anything less than remorse for the deed, and another who came far before him, established a kingdom hailed to the modern day, and yet looked to him as Lord as well. There were even those who did not fall at his feet, but saw his word as superior to theirs, both a musician who saw his craft as grand from the word of the Lord, and a princess who exuded the love that she claimed was due from the lord. And even still, a knight who was famed enough to be the source of fear for the beasts roaming the sky, was grand only because he acted in the name of this Lord.
"The Lord, Jesus Christ," Sasaki whispered as he moved his footing. "It is clear that though he speaks of his greatness and worth, he does not damn those who do not understand him. He speaks before action, and converses before accusations. Such is a wise Lord."
"AHAHA! Then you do not know him! You do not know of the damnation he gives to his own!" The Count threw out his hand, darkness crawled up it like the fire fell from the flying dragon. "I was taught by a man who called God his own, until he was thrown in a prison for nameless crimes! Those who worship him the greatest find at their end they were betrayed the most!"
"Hmm hmm hmm," Sasaki chuckled. "It's odd. I heard of peace he has offered, but recall that even after you assisted in the killing of a princess and her musician, he only made to remind us that he never promised prosperity on Earth, but in heaven, his kingdom. What a wise Lord he must be, to know the limits of his promises, so those who worship him do not cast false claims. Much like the smith who knows the strength of his blades, and knows better than to falsely promise their worth."
He stepped forward, twisting his blade until its edge was aimed at the man. Finally, the Count only stared at him, not moving as the weapon was leveled.
"To follow a wise Lord, fair and just with suffering and reward, is the only master a samurai may desire to stand beneath. To suffer if I turn from his words, and to be rewarded as I act as he commands."
"You'll suffer regardless. Till your bitter unremembered end!" The Count leaned forward, until bending back and bellowing into the air. "AHAHAH! You do not even realize it! You think he will truly reward you with all that you ask!"
"No." Sasaki spoke with a soft smile. "Not unless I do as he requests."
His blade sang as he charged at the Count once more. The man of darkness, coating in lightning, dissipated as he did before. It was about to turn into another moment of defense, but Sasaki stilled his nerves, and let the wind guide him. Instincts were honed through battle, but Longinus and George both acted out of Word for the Lord above all.
If he was to work in such a manner, he had to repeat what they did. He did not turn his blade in defense, he saw to the holy weapons the pair used, and the ripping force they had against their unholy, perhaps even unworthy foes. The unworthy, such as those who fought not for shared joy, a land's protection, or self-improvement, but only to see a foe grovel and cry.
Those who had to coat themselves in shadows. So different than those who walked in the light.
Light, such as that which reflected off of Sasaki's famous laundry pole.
SHINK!
Especially as he drew pas the air, trailing the light as it swung, and taking a healthy dosage of red with it. Sasaki's swung concluded as he held his blade forward, staring along the coolness of his steel, and the red that tipped its edge. A confident smiled turned back, looking at the path he had carved.
Carved through the Count that stood there now, holding up an arm, with a hand falling to the ground beneath him. It hissed as it landed, shadows fleeing back its cloak, but leaving the man to stare at him with blazing eyes, and a snarling expression. It only made the samurai's gaze brighten.
"I have never spent a night with a geisha, and never have I conducted myself in the beauties beyond nature, but I feel it appropriate to say this." He turned against with an adjustment to his footing, eyes forward and blade pointed on. "Red suits you well."
Lightning crackled, and Sasaki's light bloomed.
His feet beat against the stone with arms pumping at his sides. His breath was harsh and desperate, eyes wet as his skin and clothes.
"How, HOW!?" He screamed the question between half-breaths. "I shot him! I shot him! No one can resist my arrow! No KING CAN!" He hollered for all his lungs were worth, and they were using their best to carry him far from the Son of God. The Archer did not care. Not even as he screamed into the gilded throne hall.
"Peter, you return." The witch and the Saber looked at him scornfully from across the room. No care or thought in their eyes. Only judgement. "And with failure I see."
"I did not fail! I did not!" They blinked, even the woman lowering her flaming sword to gaze at him. The standard in her hand flipped as she turned.
"Did you? Then I'll have to take back the condemnation I prepared. You having killed the Lord God and laying out his Master. A grand display." His face furrowed with rage, and the red of his skin boiled like the flames she carried.
"I did not kill him!"
"Yet you say you succeeded. Was that a lie?"
"No! I did it! I DID! I shot him!"
"And yet he lives. Men a thousand years before you were able to kill him with lances and whips."
"He was bound then! He caught my arrow!" He shook his fist as the pair of them, neither giving him more than a scornful look. The boy in the corner laughed at him. He would strangle him later. "How was I to know he could catch my arrow!? My arrow that slew a king of England that routed the faithful of another God, and I killed him!"
"But you did not kill Jesus Christ. It appears that he was stronger than a man with a Lion's heart. Who would have thought of it?" Saber actually chuckled at him, laughed at the cook on his knees. "You wish for me to offer you what then? Praise for failure? Compassion for weakness?"
"An ANSWER!" He howled at the blue-haired Irishman. "How was I to know that my royalty killing arrow could not touch him!?" He turned eyes to the witch, who had held no smile, but only a nasty twist of her lips. A scowl deep enough to crease her features. "Did you know? Is that why you told me to not shoot him?"
"I had suspicions, thoughts related to what our 'Master' said," the dark Jeanne looked at the malnourished Master in the corner. His laughter was mad with hysteria. Peter growled at him like a mad dog.
"Then you set me up to die. You wanted me to fail!?" He howled and made to rise.
A blast of fire from the woman, those akin to hell's breeze, had him howling again as he fell back, in a clothes now charred a darker gray. He rose all the same, the fire and anger of his heart unturned by the heat.
"No better than them all! The same as the liars and traitors!" He screeched. "Sent me to die! Loathed me for success! You never wished for me to kill him! Never!"
"Had you killed Jesus Christ, I would parade you before his foolish saints and show them the arrow that took his life." She pointed down at the battle below, a war the Archer could not care for. "But your failure does not mean ours. It only means one of several other options must be used. You at least slew one of their Servants, giving us the opportunity to slay the remainders. Be thankful for that."
"No!" He denied it. "You promised me I could kill him! So let me! Let me kill him!"
"I promised you the chance you may. I do not and cannot give you the power to do so." Saber grinned next to her. "If you wish for more, than take it, with your own power. Do not grovel for it to be handed."
"I deserve it!" He stood up, ready to charge again, just the image of her falling with his hands around her neck. "I killed for it! I will slaughter you to have it!" He took stomps forward, crying out as he was ready to jump.
A boot hit his face, and his body was flung in the opposite direction. He had no sense of direction as his body tumbled over itself, righting itself only when his legs felt broken, and his head screaming. His lips soon joined.
"Damned fool," the witch slipped out. "Kill me? It took the mercy of God to do that, and even then, I crawled out to remake this world. I offered you a chance of vengeance, and you blame me for your weakness."
He didn't answer, trying to stand, but finding his leg folding in on itself. He screamed, gain grabbing it, and looking down. When had it broken? When did she break it? Why was this always happening to him? Why was he being punished by those who were supposed to worship his deeds!?
"Crawl away, worm of the bird. Dig yourself a new grace, before I turn you into something else. You… oh? Perhaps you had one more use." Her eyes were looking past him, and Peter, laid out now on his back, twisted to see.
Peter stared up, unable to suck in the breath to scream, but enough to let watery eyes look at the alabaster figure of Christ. Unblemished from the flood of blood, undaunted by the fires that blossomed above. He strode into the hall, and the battle softened upon his approach.
The Lord stared at him, and Peter scowled back.
"Peter, I yearn for you."
The words, so simple and quick, brushed aside the fire in his heart.
"You were forgiven by your killer, and wronged by others, and you carry a hatred for it. You were not meant to carry this loathing in your heart. You were meant to know my love." Jesus walked towards him. The Archer, still lain on the ground, did not try to rise. "As all others who have trespassed and been trespassed against, I offer my mercy and yearning for you. Will you not approach me?"
Why? "Why?" The question came out as a harsh grunt, one that required him to suck in a great deal of air. "Why now?"
"Because you are willing to hear me." The hand of God reached for him. "Will you listen to me?"
Peter stared at it, the hand hidden partially the long alb of the man's robe. The man of God, the Son of God. He was reaching for Peter, and he felt no pain. He felt the remains of the fire and the kick, of the slashing of a blade, and the laughter of the decrepit Master, but that as all. Nothing else was around him by the blue eyes of this man.
This man… his Lord. He reached up slowly, a hand so close to the digits of Christ.
SHINK! He pulled back with a silent grunt of pain. His hands instead gripping a blade in his stomach.
He curled up, seeing it stand at attention before him. The golden eyes of the witch blazed down upon him. The wasn't any love or care in those eyes.
"You already damned God," she spoke softly to him. "Don't worry, I'll keep you from making the same mistake twice."
The darkness took him once more. All under the eyes of his Lord.
The body dissipated, as he knew it would. The same as Marie, the same as Mozart, yet so entirely different from the Horned King. Still, the Archer was gone, and not from any means Solomon would have planned on. Pleased, but surprised.
"She killed him?" Solomon mused, confused. For only a moment. "He was no longer a risk. It was why he fled. You killed him because he had no more use."
"I slew him because he was about to make a terrible mistake. The same one we are all trying to crawl our way out of." Her expression was fiery as the fires that loomed around her. "The same one that your Lord has damned so many for, and is unwilling to let us be free of."
"You wished to keep him from hearing my word." Solomon had little surprise Jesus knew the answer. "For what end would you keep someone from hearing me?"
"Pity." Her words were soft as the edge of flames. "All those who raised up and cried for help were left tormented until their bitter ends, no light from you to guide them." Her smile was as sharp as her blade. "But there are exceptions of course. You are here to save one such soul, aren't you?"
Her eyes drifted away from them, either confidence or foolishness, to look in the corner of the room. Solomon followed the gaze, eyes narrowing as he saw the obvious focus. The broken and beaten body in the corner, so much like trash at first, he was sure he could be excused for thinking of it as such. At least until the musty gray hair shifted, and tattered clothes billowed enough to show the twisted expression of the boy beneath.
"That's… that's Kadoc?" Ritsuka was no more enthused with the sight. "What did they do to him?"
"Exercised on him." The final member of the room spoke. He wasn't immediately recognizable, at least not to Solomon. Blue hair and red eyes, but with a glowing sword in his hand. He had the makings of being a saint with a weapon like that, but no heroes of the Christian faith had the blood of divinity to twist hair color like that. Nor would they have such deep red eyes.
No… he was a powerful Servant, but from another region. One… that was close.
"Exercised?"
"Beat… battered, and… belittled me." A raspy voice came from Kadoc. The doctor in the Wise King felt pain at the sound. He had to have contusions that were making it difficult to move, perhaps even lacerations forced to heal with cauterization. Given the missing fingers… "Guess which I… hated the most?"
"The keeping of your life if you continue to speak," the dark version of Jeanne spoke. "Let the Masters speak, but the dogs should wait." Her fire dragged itself back.
Fire followed the arc of her weapon, and Solomon saw Ritsuka make himself small behind God. A small surprise as to why. Especially as the flames appeared to follow the blade' will more than just its path, carving up the sky until it hung like an umbrella above them. A canopy of heat, smoke, and fire.
Its purpose was immediately clear to him.
"Hold a minute, Ritsuka," he instructed his Master. "This is a small spell. You should be able to use it." He pushed his thumb to the boy's throat, uttering a chant and carving the symbol of the Lord on him.
As he did, his throat opened up, and the young man took in a long deep breath. Impressive to any one else, as the fire above was doubtlessly burning away the air around them. For the Servants, it was hardly a worthy thing to look on.
For Kadoc.
The boy had his hands to this throat, almost convulsing on the floor as he shook. His eyes watered as he looked up, staring at them and doubtlessly asking for help. Solomon made to move.
Saber stood in front of him.
"Careful, king," the warrior spoke. "Or else I will take his head before you may take a step." That was his attempt at intimidation? It had the Wise King smirking at him, voice framed in alabaster hair and flames.
"I have met faster swordsmen than you, and I have greater magic then a witch." Both glared at him. "You'll need far more than choice words to make me stop." He raised his hand up, ready to snap his fingers.
The fiery curtain above dissipated. He looked up, seeing his thumb still pushing against his middle finger. He hadn't done anything.
"Go no further, Solomon," Jesus spoke, earning their attention. His hand was at his side, coming down from waving in the air. Ah, that was it.
"I understand, my Lord, you wish to speak first?" It made sense. "Please do, but let me assist Kadoc. He needs us." That wasn't hard to see.
The boy was on his knees now, reaching forward and clearly fighting the pull of a chain upon his person. It was a miracle in itself he had the strength to move at all. Determination or desperation, it was hard to say which, but that the boy was alive was a blessing. They would save him, defeat these Servants, and move on to correcting more of the order of Humanity.
"Do not approach him. None of them." Those were not the words he expected.
"What?" It was a word they all shared, either aloud or in their mind. "My Lord, he needs us!"
"He has only need to reach out for me, and I will do all that I can to save him." The Wise King, near infinite in wisdom bar the Lord on high and his Son before him, looked between the two, utterly and completely confused.
"My Lord. I don't mean to correct you, buuuuuuut I think that is the position of reaching out to you." He stepped closer to Kadoc. "Don't worry, we'll get you back to Chaldea quickly."
"Do not approach him, Solomon." The words stopped him again.
"You're… you're seriously afraid… aren't ya?" The boy asked with a voice as broken as he looked. "I'm literally unable to stand. I just… just need a-"
"You broke your body to cover your soul." What?
Solomon's golden eyes looked at Jesus, to see the same hard stare given to the boy. He looked back at the lost Master. The boy's lips were quivering, silent, as his only good eyes stared forward.
"Hee hee… aha… ahahAHAHAHAHAH!" The corrupted Jeanne, however, had no difficulty in giving into laughter. "Oh proof! Proof of the horrors of the Son of God! Never to approach those in most need, giving only to those who may serve him! AHAHA!" Her voice echoed above the fires and war outside, and her cackles made the halls shake.
The Saber at her side adopted a position much the same, blade lowered as a cruel, even correcting, grin was at his features. It was sharp as the blade he held, and full of as much love as such a vicious weapon could contain.
"Jesus, my Lord," Ritsuka finally questioned. "What do you mean? Please tell us."
"That boy in the corner is a Master of these Servants."
"Not by choice!" Solomon argued back. "They kept him alive to keep up their power! You can look at him and say that he's in charge!"
"I do." His hand lain over the boy again, too far to be meaningful, but close enough to not be construed. "For what manner of prisoner is given the ends of his own chains?"
The words made Solomon jerk.
He looked down at Kadoc, seeing the boy freeze all the same, the tremble in his lips gone. His hand, held out, flipped over, showing the red markings of the Command Seals, vibrant upon his palm. He looked back, seeing Ritsuka do the same for his own. Staring at them, and then back up. The spark of realization was bright in his eyes.
Solomon was almost ashamed to admit he had not seen it. Why hadn't he seen it? A loss of five rings? A desperation to save a boy he once knew? The orders of another? He did not know.
He only knew that as he stood, taking slow steps back, the boy before him, broken and beaten, began to change.
A grin spread across broken lips, and a glint in his eyes not fit for a wounded man. No, Solomon had seen that gaze before, several times before, among his time as a king speaking to other rulers. Those who came with gifts… but intending to leave with more.
"By the power of my first Command Seal," Kadoc began to speak, grinning behind a red emanating from his hand. "Vlad Tepes, Lancer, accept your true nature!"
"HRAAAAGH!" Longinus slid back as the Lancer before him let out an animalistic screech. His boots grabbed at dirt, and the cloud of ruin behind him shook his robes, but he did not look. He stared at the noble with the dark lance.
And watched as that lance fell with a dull clatter to the ground below. The man's hands at his head, scratching at it with a wet snarl. Blood and spit fell from him in a drizzle. It was enough to make the Roman soldier blanch.
"Lancer, what has become of you?" He did not approach. "Do you war with yourself?" His eyes looked about the field of battle. At the moment he spoke, he saw the spires around them begin to waver. The grand points from the ground, black and malicious, dripping like melted pillars of ice. It was a sight to behold, for all the time he had allotted.
In the time that followed, he raised his infamous Lance to catch the charge of Vlad.
CRAAASHSHSHSHHS!
"GRH!" He grunted with effort as grand clawed hands reached over the diaphysis of his lance, a feral face bearing over them. At arm's length, he held his weapon out, pushing back the snap of sharp jaws. The noble man of Waluchia trying to bite at him like a dog.
A dog… with fangs more akin to a monster, and a gaze that would make the dragon George fight tremble. The blood that fell from him was a deep and curling omen. Bested only by the made sway of the man.
No… he was no longer a man.
He was the monster he made himself to be, by deeds against the Lord.
"You fall again," Longinus offered ominously. "I'll catch you, upon the end of my lance!" He pushed back, succeeding only in pushing himself away. The beast tore at the ground with boots and claws, his jaw swinging like a cloak, teeth following.
Longinus did not waver.
"By the power of my second Command Seal," Kadoc continued on, loving the shocked sight of the King of Israel. "Gilles de Rais, Caster, scorn God and all that he has made!"
He would not let this madman besmirch his name.
He would not let this monster descrate the name of God!
He would not let this ABOMINATION use the gracious name of JEANNE!
"HOORAAAAGH!" He yelled as he brought down his silver blade. It made meat out of the tentacle that waved at him, sending it thrashing in a helpless mess of muscles over his head. He realed back his arm to strike again, only to grimace as he was forced to pull back.
TWAAAANG! The sound of the beast's magic hitting the light of the blade, consecrated to Christ, rang like a bell. It deafened Gilles, but he did not let it slow him. It would not even make Jeanne waver, let alone bend. He would not let it do the same to him! He would not!
"Towagh!" He shouted again, this time piercing the monster as the stallion charged. It brough the monster who mimicked his name down, and it let him stare into the monster's eyes. "No more foul creature! No more mere demon! The Love of Jeanne and Christ is beyond you, and I will not let you use her name in the chanting of some ill omen!"
Bubbly eyes looked down at him, befitting the monster he rode on. Drool and madness poured from his lips, face twitching as he bore down on him. Gilles did not bend in the face of the doppleganger. He could not allow himself to.
"Omen… ill…" The words fell out like teeth from a beaten man. "You dare to accuse me, me, of such! Wounded man who mocks me, shame of my past! You dare to stand on the side of those who would burn our fair Jeanne! How dare you! How DARE YOOOOU!"
His arm ripped up, and the beast rose with him. It dislodged the blade of Gilles, forcing him further to turn his steed's head and retreat.
"I'll kill you! I'll damn my self for the damnation of God! For all those who mocked her, for all those who dare to think these beautiful woman UNWORTHY!" The book held high above his head glowed like a torch's sconce. "May the devil play with your entrails, for I shall have your souls!"
The beast, several limbs disarmed, surged to new life. Gilles watched it in the retreat, watching as limbs regrew and the poignant flesh darkened into sickly purple, bubbling forth. It made him wretch at the sight. No more so than when the damning dragon flew in. Fires continued to spray from its maw.
"This is a terrible sight. One that would test the faith of men." Gilled twisted, the visage of George vaulting next to him. His own blade, named of silver and Ascalon, shining forth. "See your sins vanquished, Gilles De Rais. As I will vanquish the greed that follows." With no more words, the Saint turned and charged ahead.
Gilles, staring into the uneven eyes of his vile self, whipped the reigns of his horse, charging himself.
"And by the power of my third Command Seal," the boy made to continue on, but Solomon finally recovered from the terror. His hand rose to grab at the boy
SCHWING! Only to be pulled back moments before it was cleaved from his wrist. The fiery blade glowed about him as he did so. The Dragon Witch stepping forward, more knightly than she had the right to appear with the flames of hell wreathed around her, and a grin akin to a killer's satisfied smile.
"Conlaoch, Saber, show the son of God the righteous anger he should hold, for being killed by his own father!"
Ritsuka watch, mortified and silent, as the blue-haired Saber's hand cracked. The blade he was holding did not grow or twist, but his arm looked as if it was becoming one with the weapon. A weapon he would be forgiven, he believed, to be have come from the Lord's blessing, but still danced too readily in the fries around it. He watched it.
Boom. And then he was blown away. He had no idea from what.
His feet rolled over his head as his back hit the ground. He twisted when he landed on his stomach, looking up a great distance from his Lord and seeing him undaunted by the same blow. All the more impressive why.
His hand held high, as he had when he split the woman's bloody river, and instead now pushing back on the glowing blade. The red eyes of the Sabe, ferocious as fire, baring down on him, as the blade was held over his head.
"What do you hope to gain from challenging me?" Jesus asked. "You may speak and find answers, but instead you challenge, why?"
"Action is all that men like you understand! It is all any man can understand!" The Saber shouted back. "You-"
"I have no words with you." The Lord interrupted him, tossing his hand aside.
The saber was thrown away so much like a lump of wood.
"Kadoc, why do you act in this way?" The Lord had eyes only for the fallen Master. "I am here to speak, and have come to speak with you. Will you not have words with me?"
"Words? HAHAH! Wow you're stupid!" Ritsuka couldn't keep up with the insults to his Lord, or the reasoning of what was happening. "I just have all the strongest Servants here a boost, and you're asking why? You think you have time for that?!"
"I have all the time my father has permitted, and so long as I speak, time will wait." He held his arm out.
BOOM! But then had it swing to the side, catching the blade of Saber, Conlaoch, by the tip. His robe billowed in the wind and the fires were forced to bend, even if for a moment, but Jesus did not. Solomon watched a distance away, as did the fake Jeanne.
"No! Time waits for no one and nothing! You're just another self-righteous man that learned a little and thought he could make himself better than anyone else!" He stood forced himself to stand, and the fake Jeanne let him. "But too bad for you… I know the truth. And that?"
The boy laughed, even as he held up a broken hand, free of Command Seals, but still littered with the remains of them like crushed grapes. He grinned brokenly, shook like a leaf, but cackled as if he were one with the fires that bloomed around them. The war outside, a cacophony of noise, rose at his call.
"And that truth, will destroy you."
Author's Question: Yeah, not a note, a question. A note comes when I finish next chapter. For good reason. Here's the question though.
My writing is a lot more 'prose' like than my other stories, and that's because I'm trying to make this, well, a lot more like a story of Jesus. People wrote about what happened around him, and then how he fixed it. Trying to adopt that kind of style. Need to be honest and ask if I'm doing that justice, or if it is just more annoying/distracting as you read.
Please tell me if I am, be honest and brutal. And hey! Just realized a I asked a question without a question mark. Guess I'm taking that kind of style from the bible at least! Ponder without another's inquiry ya'll!