Broken Compass

by Ai_Megurine

Summary:

Who knew trying to help Archer would get him in such trouble?

Or, Sétanta aka Cú Chulainn tries to be a hero and guess what. It backfires, and he now has a new shadow: a cynical and definitely suicidal Archer.

Notes:

• Inspired by Walk A Mile In My Shoes (And Then A Thousand More) by Fluffheaded
• Inspired by Of Wormwood and Rosemary by knucklesholdinganaxleinlethalcompany

Well, this is my first attempt at writing for the Fate universe. The tags will evolve over time, I'm still working out the details. Cú/Emiya are the only guaranteed ship.

I call him Sétanta on purpose, mostly because "Cú" sounds like "ass" in my mother tongue so please have some mercy on my, hahaha!!)

Also also, I love it when my characters have mental breakdowns 😭🫶🏻

Chapter 1: Meeting in the Forest

Sétanta is scouting – as always because fuck Kotomine – when he notices a commotion in the woods just outside Fuyuki City. He makes his way there in spirit form in case it's Caster. That woman is powerful and he doesn’t want to stumble upon her without a plan. As powerful as Gáe Bulg is, he isn't sure his spear will pierce her heart before he dies if he fights her, and that's not something he wants to try. So, as much as he dislikes it, he does his best to be stealthy. Not for the first time, he wishes the War would take place in Ireland, where his fame would allow him to be stronger despite his crappy bond to that bloody priest.

Oh well, it's not like he can do something about it so he pushes the thoughts away. He reaches the clearing whence the commotion comes from and freezes. He wasn't expecting this.

It’s Archer.

The white-haired man is punching trees in what seems to be a despair-fueled frenzy, hiccuping and shaking like a madman. Sétanta observes him for a few seconds, taking in the scene before him. The other Servant looks like he's having a full-on mental breakdown, something the Lancer doesn’t really understand. Not that he doesn't know what trauma is – Connla haunts him almost every time he allows himself to sleep – but it doesn't make sense to have a breakdown now, in the middle of the war. Has something reminded Archer of the darkest parts of his myth? Maybe a spell by Caster? The questions dance in his mind, but Sétanta pushes them away. He takes a physical form and enters the clearing slowly. Archer turns around, and Sétanta breathes in. The dark-skinned Servant's eyes are completely wild, with almost no sanity left.

 

"What the fuck do you want?!" he snarls.

"Nothin'. I was curious," Sétanta says cautiously.

"Go away!"

 

The cry is desperate, filled with grief and madness.  Sétanta finds that he cannot ignore it. He wasn't much of a chivalrous, selfless knight during his lifetime, but he would never ignore someone so haunted. He doesn't personally like Archer, but that's irrelevant. The man is completely losing it, and there's no one to comfort him. When Sétanta killed his son, Emer was here to soothe him. He can't imagine dealing with a breakdown like this alone.

 

"Archa', what's goin’ on with ye?"

"Go away!"

 

The man almost roars as he launches at him, but it's half-assed and Sétanta easily avoids the punch. Instead of retaliating, he catches Archer, hugging him tight. He remembers Emer doing that, holding him as tightly as she could while he trashed and screamed his grief, because of fucking course his son would do something as stupid as promising to never back down from a fight. Emer's arms was the only thing keeping him from ravaging the entire countryside in his grief and fury. Archer struggles a bit, but his strength is barely half of Sétanta's.

 

"It's alright. I won't hurt'cha. Ye're safe here. I'm 'ere."

"Leave me alone! I hate you!"

"That's alright. Let it out, Archa', before it eats ye alive.

 

The other Servant is clinging to him, but Sétanta isn't sure he realises it. He shakes and cries madly, his body jerked around by the sobs. Nails dig in Sétanta's skin through his clothing and although they don't draw blood, he feels them. He only hugs Archer tighter.

 

"It already does! It’s the only thing I can think about! And these idiots won’t even listen to me!”

 

Sétanta assumes that said idiots are Saber, that red-haired boy and Archer's master. He grimaces; she doesn’t exactly look the type to listen to anyone. Not that she’s unkind, just… well, she's a teenager. A stubborn as hell, emotionally repressed, teenager.

He wonders if his daughter was the same. He never had the strength to look it up.

 

"I want to die, I want to disappear, I can’t do it anymore, I can’t. Why can’t Gáe Bulg make me disappear? I’d let you kill me!" Archer rants.

"If Gáe Bulg could help, I'd use it," he replies, even if he has no bloody idea what the problem is.

"It's not fair! It’s been so long, can't she let me go? Can't she let me die already?"

"Who's she, Archa'? Casta'?"

"Not Caster! Alaya! I should have never made that contract… I have to kill him before he does… that way I'll disappear. It's the only way, Lancer, don't you see?"

 

Sétanta gently takes Archer's soaked face in his hands, and gives him the kindest look he can. The one he saved for Emer and Finn. To be entirely honest, he's winging Emer's words and actions. His wife knew how to comfort others, not him.

 

"I want to, Archa'. Why don't ye tell me everything? I’ll find a way to end it."

 

Archer does. In-between hysterical sobs and hysterical laugh, he tells him about Alaya, about becoming a Counter Guardian, about all the horrors he committed against his will. About his all-encompassing desire to end it, no matter the price, and Sétanta wishes he could do something. But without the Grail, there's no way to free a Counter Guardian like Archer. It's truly an awful fate, and he can understand why Archer is completely losing it. From what he could gather, Archer has been in this situation for over so long he can't really remember. It’s not hard to see why he would break. 

 

"I just have to kill him. And then I'll be free. I’ll disappear."

"Who do you have to kill?"

"Shirō Emiya," he spits.

"Saba’s master?" Sétanta repeats.

 

Archer nods. Well, that's definitely not going to be easy. Saber is insanely powerful, even with her powers limited by her master’s abilities. Perhaps he and Archer could take her down if they worked together, but Kotomine's fucking command spells prevents him from going all out. And when facing Saber, it would be a death sentence. Archer probably knows it, though, so Sétanta doesn’t say anything about it. It's not like Archer is rational anyway; killing his past self wouldn't even work. Because he's been recorded outside of space and time, Archer might be some future version of this Shirō Emiya, but said specific Shirō Emiya isn’t Archer's past.

Time is fucking complicated.

Still clinging to him, Archer is completely breaking down, sobbing and laughing about his situation, and Sétanta lets him. He can't help him, but he can at least give him a shoulder to cry on and an ear that would listen, even if he doesn't have a solution. Back when he was alive, he could solve most of his problems with violence or alcohol, but tonight, it wouldn't work. 

Now that he thinks about it, maybe getting wasted would help Archer. Still, they can't exactly show up in a bar dressed like that and ask for alcohol. Especially with no money. The mental image almost makes Sétanta snort.

Eventually, Archer seems to fall asleep. His tears are still wet on his cheeks, and his sleep looks anything but peaceful, but he's asleep. Sétanta traces a rune in the air, Othala, so he may dream of home and his family. He adds Uruz, for he needs both the strength and the healing the rune carries. Archer shudders in his sleep, but settles down. Sétanta smiles, proud of himself, and repositions them. He pulls the white-haired man against his chest, acting as both a mattress and a pillow. He throws an arm around him to keep him from falling, and waits. He has all the time in the world, after all.

 

---

 

Archer's master is a petite girl with bright blue eyes, and she enters the clearing like she's going to kill someone. Sétanta arches an eyebrow as she halts, her eyes widening.

 

"What’s… is he okay?" she asks in disbelief.

"Sleepin'. 'E needs it. Ye bein' attacked, little lady?"

"No, I was just wondering where he was and why he wasn't responding."

"Ah, I deepened his sleep with some runes, 'e needs the rest."

"No problem. Is he hurt?"

"Not physically. The rest… well, it ain’t me business to tell."

"That's fine. Can you carry him to my place, please? It’s better than a random clearing. He has a bed there."

"Sure."

 

He takes Archer in his arms. The master adjusts her Servant's head against Sétanta's chest, and they leave the woods.

 

"Did you… I had a fight with him earlier. Is it because of that?"

"Dunno. What did ye fight 'bout?"

"Shirō Emiya, Saber's master. He's obsessed with killing him, but I became friends with him so I can't exactly let Archer carpet-bomb him."

"Ah. Yeah, that's 'cause of that kid."

"Why does he have such a murder boner for Shirō anyways? He's no one important!"

“Not me story to tell, sorry.”

"I know, I know. I'm just rambling,” she says. “Ah, here's my house. Come in, I'll show you where you can put him."

 

'This ain’t a house. This is a fuckin' castle!' Sétanta thinks as he enters the place. Lavish decorations on the walls, splendid architecture, rich furniture, the whole nine yards. Especially compared to Kotomine’s run-down church. The spearman whistles in appreciation, and the little lady gives him an amused smile.

 

"There's a bedroom for him upstairs. Not that he ever used it," she grumbles.

 

The bedroom in question has a massive bed Sétanta would kill to lie in, but instead he puts the unconscious Archer in. The little lady removes her Servant's shoes and gently covers him with a blanket with a sad smile.

 

"He said he has amnesia, but I guess he just doesn't want to tell me. His story must be really sad," she says to no one in particular.

 

Sétanta nods. It's nice to see her care. For all her posturing, she's still a kid, and she still cares. Pride is a stupid thing, but the hero isn't in any position to say something about it.

 

"Giv'im some time, 'e'll come 'round. Kinda like a feral cat, ye know?"

 

She giggles at the image.

 

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Lancer. I owe you one."

"No problem, little lady. Lemme give ye a piece of advice for that wa'. The priest is worse than ye think. Trust me."

 

She nods, eyes serious, and Sétanta slips away in spirit form. He makes his way back to the church, but doesn't report Archer's breakdown to Kotomine. He was never ordered to, and he'll screw over this man whenever he can. He loves winning, but he's ready to throw victory away if that means stopping that asshole.

He sits on top of the church, observing the city and thinking about Archer's problem. How the hell can that poor guy out of here? It's not like Alaya is going to let him do as he wishes. She might even send some of her Counter Force to stop Emiya from escaping her grasp. The fact that he was human before is probably very useful to her, because he can blend in easily if he tries. Sétanta may know enough about the era to not freak out when he sees a car or a plane, but Emiya lived in this world. He's bound to know things that other Heroic Spirits don't. Even about humans; as much as he lived among them and died for Ulster, Sétanta is a demi-god. Living normally has never been part of his vocabulary, and he probably couldn't pass for a normal human even if he tried.

The internet still freaks him out, to be perfectly honest. Social media gave him a heart attack, and YouTube is… huh… something.

'Back to Emiya. What can be done, anyway? Except gods or Gaia, no one can stand a chance against her,' he thinks. That's why the man is so desperate, no doubt. What can he do? What can anyone do? Sétanta blinks a few times as the sun comes up, its light warming the world in its orange embrace. Instinctively, the spearman smiles and all but purrs, enjoying the light on his face. Being Ireland's Child of Light comes with many perks. One of them is an acute appreciation of the sun, although his da isn't the kindest god around. Lugh's anger is fearsome, but Sétanta loves the light nonetheless. The sun's warmth gives him strength and heals his soul, erasing all the bad things the night inflicted. There isn't much Lugh can't do when he puts his mind to it. Sétanta had to inherit his stubbornness from someone.

'Wait! Da can help!' he thinks as an idea comes to him. Sétanta grins at the rising sun. He can help Emiya.

Chapter 2: Broken Toy

Summary:

Archer wakes up and has a bad day.

Notes:

TW: SELF HARM.
It's not explicit, but it's here. If you want to skip it it starts with "Instead, his eyes find the razor Rin bought before the war" and ends with "He can almost hear Alaya's voice in his head". There are other allusions throughout the chapter.

I'm very thankful for the comments I've received!!! It really made my day, because I was quite unsure of myself.

He can't remember the last time he laid in bed. Probably when he was alive, before he got betrayed and – No. Not going there, it was a long time ago. He's over it. It's done. He's dead. Archer rolls on his back, grunting as he sits up. He is in the room Rin gave him, although he can't remember just how he got there. The Servant massages his painful head, memories slowly coming back to him. The fight with Rin, his rage, leaving to blow some steam in the forest, breaking down and –

Oh. Oh no. Lancer. Lancer showed up. And he told him everything. Fucking stupid idiot, how could he be such a brain-dead moron? What went through his mind? For fuck's sake. Archer breathes deeply. It's done, it cannot change it, but it's fixable. He just needs to get rid of Lancer, and everything will go back to how it was, how it's supposed to be. No one will know anymore. But, at the same time, he remembers the feeling of Lancer holding him, comforting him, telling him he would help, and allowing to weep and break without judgment. Archer brings his knees to chest, hiding his face against them and hugging himself, although he's thankfully far less gentle with himself than Lancer was.

Because it hurts. The gentleness hurts so much. The kind words are like bullet wounds, and smiles make Archer's stomach clench painfully. He wants to take a shower, he wants to wash the kindness away, scrub himself red and bleeding if he has to. Anything to forget, to make last night disappear. He has to get up and tell Rin he's fine and just needs a shower but, somehow, his body won't listen to him. A part of him he hates begs him to stay in bed, to let himself rest. To wrap himself in the blanket in the hopes of mimicking Lancer's hug from last night to chase the feeling of being cared for. Archer bits his lips, tasting blood, and pushes that weak part of him away.

This kind of thing isn't for fucked-up failures with stupid dreams. Gentleness and kindness are for actual heroes, people who made something of their lives, people who aren't tools, who aren't murderers. Lancer is someone who deserves this kind of thing. He has dignity, his own version of honour, and if what he reads about his legend is true, he can boast about some of the most impressive feats Archer ever read about. Literal one-man armies aren't that common, even among heroes. So, if he were to break down, he would be entitled to all the comfort in the world.

Not Archer. He's entitled to nothing. He's nothing, just a weapon. And weapons don't have feelings.

Getting out of bed is almost painful but once he’s up, it's better. Making the bed perfectly gives him a sense of normalcy and when he leaves the room, his mask is perfectly back on. He gets down in the kitchen and finds Rin cooking some breakfast – or at least trying to.

 

''I'll do it,'' he says when she almost drops a burning pan on herself.

 

She shrieks in surprise, actually dropping the pan this time, and whirls around, ready to shoot magic. He only arches an eyebrow in response, and she sighs in relief as she puts a hand on her chest.

 

''Oh my god you scared the shit out of me!'' she exclaims. ''Are you feeling better? I had a heart attack when I found you in Lancer's arms. Thank God he was here to carry you back home, by the way. We owe him one.''

''He what?!'' Archer all but shrieks in horrified embarrassment – now that he thinks about it, he has no idea when he fell asleep to begin with.

''Well, I wasn't going to do it, you're way too heavy for me. And too tall. Can you imagine how awkward it would be?''

''Why didn't you just wake me up?''

''I couldn't. He used runes to make you sleep deeper. He said you needed it, and I couldn't exactly do anything about it.''

''Wait, let me get this straight. You let an enemy Servant just… walk you home?'' he asks in disbelief.

''Yeah?''

''That was reckless. He could have killed you.''

''He didn’t. And what was I supposed to do?''

''He could have. You should have left me. Worst case scenario, he kills me. Saber would have kept you safe, so you would have been fine,'' Archer shrugs.

''That's not an option! I was worried about you!''

''It’s better than dying for something as stupid as worrying about a Servant. You do realise that I'm already dead and a tool, right?''

''You – Oh my god you're so infuriating. Archer. I. Value. Your. Life.''

''You shouldn't.''

''You don’t get a say in this!"

"I get a say in things, now?''

 

She screams in frustration. Then, she breathes deeply, joining her hands as if she’s praying for patience. Knowing Rin, it's probably the case.

 

''Archer. I understand that there are things you wish to keep private about yourself, and I respect that. I also know you were upset because I won't let you carpet-bomb Shirō into dust. However, if you want me to understand and potentially agree to this, you need to explain some things to me.''

 

'He's me, I hate him, I hate myself, I want to disappear, and the only way is either killing him or the Grail. But since Alaya won't let me get the Grail, killing him is my only option.' He doesn't say that, of course. Lancer already knows, and that's one person too many. He can't bear the thought of being pitied, because it might break him even more than Alaya's orders. The memories of Lancer's kindness are more painful than a hundred lashes across his back, almost as bad as the noose around his neck. If Rin pities him, he might lose it. It's better to be the bad guy.

 

''He's an idiot with stupid ideals, and the world would be better off without people like him.''

''Yeah, that's not a valid reason. What's next? You're going to kill every firefighter you come across?''

''Firefighters are realistic, he's not.''

''You do realise he's a teenager whose most important memory is the Fuyuki disaster, right? Oh, and he never went to therapy.''

''Yes, I am. He should have died back there; it would have spared me the headache.''

 

He didn't expect the slap, and his head turns with the force Rin put in it. It doesn't hurt, of course, he's had much, much worse, but he's surprised enough that it stings a bit.

 

''Don't you dare say that again. Shirō is my friend. Got it?'' she snarls, angry tears in her eyes. ''Whatever you've been through doesn't excuse this, understand? I can work with your nihilism and your hate-boner but this is taking things too far. So, you either come up with a valid reason to dislike him, or you shut up about Shirō, because from what I can see he's a thousand times the man you'll ever be.''

 

With this, she storms off the kitchen, slamming her bedroom door. Archer stays still for a few minutes, half-baffled and half-amused by what just happened. He knows that hitting him was never below Rin, but it's still surprising. It was pretty amusing, though, to see her claim that he will never be the man Shirō apparently is. So what, that moron helped her once or twice, and now he's her personal hero and best friend? How stupid. Shirō Emiya isn't a hero. He's an idiot destined to fail. And even if he isn't, Archer will never view him as anything else. He has to get rid of him in order to finally die. It's the only way.

'Why? It won't work anyway', says a voice in his head. It sounds a bit too much like Lancer's for Archer, and he pushes it away. Instead, he focuses on cleaning the kitchen and the rest of the house before preparing something for Rin. He leaves it in front of her door, knocking but not entering.

 

''I left you some food.''

 

She doesn't reply, which is to be expected, and Archer decides to finally take a shower before going to scout. He needs to clean himself from last night, or it will stick to his skin like a festering wound. He carefully avoids the giant mirrors of the bathroom, and turns the water on, the cold harsh on his skin. Perfect, just what he needs. Something to make him forget the warmth of Lancer's arms. The memories make his body shake, and he grabs the closest shampoo bottle, scrubbing himself until his skin is raw and almost bleeding. 

If he could use bleach without damaging himself, he would. Burns require more mana to heal than cuts, and he can't waste mana on this. Instead, his eyes find the razor Rin bought before the war – 'in case my servant needs one! Fighting with a beard can't be that practical' – and, numbly, he grabs it. The blade is long and sharp, and he refuses to look at it when he runs it on his wrists and abdomen, nor does he look at the blood going down the shower drain, staining the clear water with red. He only cares about the way the physical pain takes away the anguish in his head, washes away the gentleness he was wrongly given the day before.

He can almost hear Alaya's voice in his head. 'Good boy, my good boy. Just do as you're told. There's no need to think about this anymore. Isn't it easier when you don't think?' And, horribly, he listens to the voice he wants to get away from. Centuries of slavery is a long time, and Alaya's voice and brutal treatment have become much more familiar than any sort of kindness. Archer closes his eyes, locking the memory in a box somewhere in his mind. It's better like this. It doesn't hurt like this. Alaya's dog doesn't know pain.

When he leaves the bathroom, Archer doesn't think about the night before. Or, at the very least, it's not at the forefront of his mind. He goes to Rin's door again and knocks. There's a silence, but eventually she opens the door. She looks angry still, but that is to be expected. That's fine with him. His feelings are buried deep enough that it doesn't affect him in any way.

 

''I apologise for this morning, Master. It was unprofessional of me to say these things. I'll stay away from your ally for the time being. If that is alright with you, I'll go scout.''

 

There's surprise, then realisation, then hurt in Rin's eyes, but Archer doesn't react to any of them. He just waits for further instruction, like the good machine Alaya made.

 

''Okay. I… Appreciate your apologies. I'll need more time to fully forgive you but, that helps. You can scout if you want but stay hidden. I don't want to start a fight until we have a full strategy with Saber.''

''Alright Master. I'll be back by nightfall.''

''Yeah, sure.''

He turns around and leaves without another word, ignoring Rin's sniffles and curses. She's not in danger, and he isn't her therapist. He has no obligation to comfort her.

She would do it for him. She looked for him last night. He knows it. He hates himself for being unable to do it for her.

He leaves the place and jumps on a rooftop, observing how things changed from his own War. Thankfully, some things are still the same. Caster is in her temple, amassing mana – they really need to do something about her –, and Berserker is with the homunculus in her well-protected castle. Gilgamesh has yet to make his grand entrance, and Lancer is still stuck with Kotomine. If he had had an actual competent master for once, he would be giving everyone a run for their money.

'Why am I even thinking about him again? He's stuck with Kotomine and can't do shit but scout because of that. He's of no interest,' Archer thinks angrily. Stubbornly, he tries to think of a way to deal with Caster. 

Killing her master seems to be the best option, but she's not stupid enough to leave him alone. He has Assassin watching over him and, the second danger comes around, she'll teleport right back to them and obliterate them like the fucking nuclear warhead she is. Saber's Excalibur might kill her if they lure her away from the temple, but again, she's not stupid. Maybe Berseker could do something about that temple, though. Hercules is famous for destroying everything in his path and, with twelve lives at his disposal, she wouldn't be able to kill him easily. He pointedly refuses to consider an alliance with Lancer.

'I guess Berserker is our best shot. Convincing the idiots and the homunculus is going to be a pain, though. Maybe sharing Caster's name would convince them? Same with Assassin,' he tells himself.

A shudder suddenly runs down his spine, and Archer whirls around, summoning his twin swords. Immediately, he considers stabbing himself to save him from the mortifying interaction that awaits him.

Lancer.

 

''Ay the', Archa'! Feelin' bette'?'' he asks with his trademark smile.

 

He wants to run away, he wants to go back to the shower and the well-known pain, to the voice of Alaya who takes everything away and leaves him as an emotionless machine. He wants to go back to his usual battlefields, to the murders and the pillaging and the destruction. Anything is better than confronting Lancer and last night.

 

''Yes. Thank you for the concern. If you'd be so kind to forget our last interaction, I would greatly appreciate it,'' he says as politely as he can through gritted teeth.

 

Something akin to worry flashes through the man's red eyes, but Archer refuses to think about it. However, it's much harder than with Rin. How? Why is Lancer harder to handle than Rin? A lifetime ago, she was his friend. She's his Master. He's her Servant. Why is Cú Chulainn able to affect him in a way no one never has before? Why, why, why, why?

 

''Well, I'd love ta, but I said I'd help ye, and I ain't about to go back on me word!''

''I don't want nor need anyone's help. Now piss off. I'm busy trying to win the war,'' he says coldly.

''And me da ain't Lugh! Ye need help, Archa'. We both know yer idea ain't – Oof!''

 

Archer doesn't let Lancer finish his sentence. Instead, he slams him against the wall, left arm pressed against his throat, and Byakuya in his right hand, pressed against Lancer's liver. He tries desperately to stop his body from shaking with both unbridled wrath and despair. Lancer needs to stop. Archer can't deal with this, he can't.

 

''Shut. Up. I don't want to hear anything from you or anyone else about this!'' he hisses.

 

Lancer grabs his right wrist, holding it into place with a vice-like grip. Archer knows his opponent is physically stronger than him, maybe twice. He could kick him away with ease, but he doesn't, and it hurts even more than any blow.

 

''Ye do; ye're hopin', Archa', and that's fine. Yer situation is real shite, and there's not much ye can do 'bout it on yer own.''

''I could get the Grail.''

''We both know she ain't gonna let this happen.''

''Shut up!'' Archer screams, and he sounds so desperate that he wants to hit himself.

''I have an idea, Archa'. A real one, with lots of chance of workin'.''

 

Archer is so stunned he can't even muster a reply. Instead, he stumbles away like a drunk man, his swords hitting the ground. Lancer looks awfully smug, and Archer opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of the water. How? How can Lancer have an idea? How could he possibly be able to help? This is Alaya! This isn't some enemy he can just throw Gáe Bulg at! This is – this is stupid! Insane! It makes no sense!

 

''I just gotta get some more mana,'' Lancer continues. ''When it's done and we got a sunny dae, I'll take cae ov'it. We'll just hafta meet up.''

''No, it – I… It can't… Shut up. You can't help me. No one can. I don't need help. I can – I can –''

''Ye need help,'' the spearman continues. ''Ye need help so bad but ye're scared shitless of what's gonna happen, aren't'cha?''

''Enough!''

 

Lancer doesn't listen to him, instead walking towards him and grabbing his wrists. His eyes are blazing with… something, and Archer feels small, he feels seen. Like the shining rubies can see right through him, beneath Alaya's conditioning, all the way to the heart of his self-loathing.

 

''Nah. I'm gonna get yer ass out of this bullshite, and ye're goin' to let me.''

''What can you even do? It's Alaya!'' Archer exclaims in an attempt to convince the Lancer to just give up, to stop burning him from the inside-out with his kindness.

''I'm the son of Lugh, Archa'. Bright sunny daes tend to be pretty nice to little ol' me.''

 

The Hound gives him a wolfish grin as realisation dawns on Archer. Lancer is going to ask Lugh, the sun god, for help. It might work. The Age of Gods is gone, but Lancer is a good catalyst for his father, and the god could decide to be a pain in Alaya's metaphorical ass. Still, it doesn't answer Archer's main question.

 

''Why?''

''Cuz everyone's entitled to rest, Archa', and for once ye deserve bein' saved instead ov doin' the savin'.''

Notes:

Sooo, Archer has issues, lol. More seriously, poor guy needs a break. His personality "flips-flops" a bit here because he's unstable and three parts of himself are fighting each other: Alaya's hunting dog who found some twisted comfort in feeling nothing, the Emiya who desperately wants help, and the one who's too prideful to ask/accept help. I'm basing this instability on the behaviour of some abuse victims.

Chapter 3: Of Gods and Men

Summary:

Sétanta and Archer talk. Saber is in trouble, and a god makes an appearance.
Featuring, Alaya being a bitch.

"Cuz everyone's entitled to rest, Archa', and fer once ye deserve bein' saved instead of doin' the savin'."

 

The sentence somehow seems to break something in Archer – even more than he already is. He starts laughing hysterically, eyes too wide and demeanour… weird. Like he's not completely in control of his body, like a puppet whose strings aren't all attached. It sounds like a tragedy, and it saddens Sétanta to see him like that. What was once a hopeful kid with ideals too big for his own good is now reduced to a broken man, a shell of a person with no hope but death. The spearman can't help but wonder how Archer's laugh would sound, if it was sincere. What his smile would look like, if he was really happy, for once.

 

"Doing the saving? Me? I never saved anyone, Lancer. I’m a murderer. I kill my victims like a coward. Not at war, not during honourable fights, nothing. I murder them, put them down like rabid dogs. An arrow through the heart or the brain, sometimes a neck snap if I have to infiltrate a building. No witnesses, of course, and Alaya doesn't care whether or not the bystanders are innocent."

 

Sétanta looks at him, forcing himself to stay calm. It pisses him off to no end, how Archer sees himself. Sure, his record isn't the cleanest, but Sétanta isn't an angel, and he certainly wasn't one when he was alive. How many allies has he slaughtered during his many ríastrad? How many innocents were killed during his battle-frenzy? Soldiers trying to escape, trying to stop him, healers, wounded… When he is in that state, he spares no one. It doesn't matter who's in front of him, he'll tear through them like they're paper. Waking up from these situations never gets easier, and the looks he receives get heavier each time. It hasn't happened yet during this Holy Grail War, but Kotomine might force him to be in that state. He hopes it won't happen, but nothing is below that man.

 

"If anything, I don't deserve to be saved. You should be leaving me to rot."

 

Archer's voice brings him back to the current conversation, and drags away the memories of war. 

 

"Let the hero decide that. And I sae that ye're worth savin'," Sétanta replies.

 

Archer's eyes are wide, and he stumbles like a drunk man. Behind him, the sun is slowly rising, and the spearman enjoys the way the light feels on his skin, like a mother's arms – which is kind of ironic, in a way. He walks to Archer, who makes himself as small as possible, shoulders in and head down, arms around his torso. 'Like a hurt child…' Sétanta realises painfully.

 

"I ain't gonna hurt ye, Archa'," he says gently. "Why don't'cha look at the sun with me? Me da's a real beauty when he wants to."

 

Archer seems surprised, but he complies nonetheless, sitting next to Sétanta on the edge of the rooftop. He leaves about fifty centimetres between them, clearly abhorring the idea of someone being close enough to touch him. Sétanta pretends not to notice it, choosing to talk instead.

 

"Me da didn't visit me much. Probably busy with all his divine duties and that shite, I dunno," he says with a shrug. "But when I was a wee boy, he came sometimes. Gave me ma a real scare the dae he decided to see if I had any powers! She chased his arse with a broom. Can ye imagine? Lugh, god of the sun and all that shite, chased by a teeny woman with a broom through a bloody garden. Pretty sure the otha' gods laughed their arses off."

 

Archer looks bewildered by Sétanta's tale, but he is clearly less manic. The distraction is working. Good.

 

"When I killed that hound, back when I was a lad, he was so fuckin' proud. Like he did that! Fucker sent the best weather Ulster had seen in decades just ta celebrate! Ye should've seen me ma’s face! She was ready to 'throw hands', as slang says," he adds, making sure to mimic quotation marks with his hands at the right time.

 

This time, he gets a chuckle from Archer, which Sétanta deems a fucking miracle. He glances at the bowman, who is slightly more relaxed. It’s really working.

 

"T'was a nice dae. Ma did throw her broom at me head when I told her, though. It hurt more than the bloody dog! That shite was cursed, I tell ye. Fuckin' druids and all that. That's whae me da liked her, I think. Nothin' frightened her, not even bloody Lugh himself."

 

He pauses, looking at the rising sun. He doesn't really know where he's going with all that, but it’s calming Archer so it's worth it. Unless the bowman can stay stable enough for them to properly talk, Sétanta will never be able to truly help him. It's going to take time for Emiya to be okay, even after getting him out of Alaya's clutches. Sétanta doesn’t mind. They're dead, they have all the time in the world. He can't tell why he wants to help Archer this much but he does, and that's enough for him. He does the things he wants, when he wants. Becoming a Heroic Spirit didn’t change that.

 

"I don't remember my parents."

 

Sétanta's eyes widen, and he turns to look at Archer. The bowman is staring at the sky, immobile as he speaks.

 

"They died when I was a kid, and that was… that was a long time ago. I was the only survivor of a massive fire, with hundreds dying. Kiritsugu found me, and I suppose I got those stupid ideals from him. Save others. Be a hero. It didn't work out for either of us, I guess."

"I'm glad he saved ye."

"Why?" Archer asks, voice croaking.

"'Cuz ye're fun te fight. We should spar one dae! Thanks to me da, we should be able to, I think."

 

There's a pause before Archer speaks again.

 

"What is it? Your plan, I mean…"

"Me da can be real a pain in Alaya's arse if he wants to. So, I'm gonna ask 'im to link ye to me myth and me. He won't lemme be a Counter Guardian, so Alaya will have to let'cha go. Unless we're summoned for wars, ye'll be able to rest… blissful oblivion, no dreams, no memories, nothin'. Or ye can chill in the Throne and enjoy blissful afterlife shite."

 

When Archer doesn't react, Sétanta turns to look at him. His face is a mix of bewilderment, fear, anguish, and, beneath all that, hope. The spearman gives him a bright smile.

 

"It ain't perfect, but trust me. Me da likes me enough to do me a favour."

"If… if it doesn’t work… if Lugh can’t pull me out then… then… then you'll be stuck. With me. As a Counter Guardian."

"Then I guess ye'll have some company! Bette' than bein' alone, ain't it?" Sétanta says with a shrug.

 

In lieu of a response, a tear rolls down Archer's cheek, and it seems to open a dam he was keeping shut with all he had. More tears follow, with hiccups jerking his body. Sétanta scoots closer and puts a hand on Archer’s shoulders, pressing it. A simple gesture, but meaningful. 'Go ahead. I'm here. It's alright.' The hiccups turn into sobs, and wails follow suit. This time, the breakdown isn’t unhinged or manic. Those are good tears, the ones that are shed when one is rescued, when a weight is lifted from one’s shoulders. Sétanta was like that when Finn was born, sobbing as his little girl babbled in his arms. Both she and Emer were healthy and safe, and it had been like all the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

So, Sétanta lets Archer cry all he needs, rubbing comforting circles on his shoulders. Sometimes, Archer articulates words of gratitude. Sétanta tells him it’s alright.

 

"Ain't that what friends are for, Archa'?"

"Friends?" Archer repeats, incredulous, as he wipes the tears on his red sleeve.

"Pals, buddies, all that. Ye and I go back a long wae, don't we? Ye got a nasty scar from me, and I died savin’ yer arse in yer Grail War, dinnae I?"

"But… you don't remember that…"

"Nah, but it still happened. I always had that weird arse feelin' I knew ye already when we fought. It makes sense now. If ye won't sae friends, allies then?" Sétanta says, offering his fist.

"...Allies…" Archer replies, bumping his fist against Sétanta's.

"Good. Now tell me, how did I look, facin' the Kin' of Heroes?"

 

Archer blinks, surprised, and chuckles.

 

"Really cool. You lasted a full day, if I remember correctly."

"Ha! And I wasn't even at me prime! I'll kick his arse, one dae."

"You might get your chance this time around."

"Not with that masta', trust me," Sétanta snorts. "When's he showin' up, by the wae?"

"Soon, probably. I don't know. Things have changed a bit, so I suppose it depends on his ego."

"Shame. I wanna see his legendary arse into action."

"You won't be able to miss it. His only flaw is his ego. He could nuke that whole city without breaking a sweat if he simply tried."

"And me arse lasted a full dae? Fuck I'm cool."

 

Archer looks at him with slightly wide eyes, half bewildered, half amused. Suddenly, he freezes and gets up.

 

"Rin is in trouble. I must go."

"Comin' with ye. I'll tell me masta' I was scountin' if he asks."

---

It's a bloody shit show. Caster imprisoned Saber, her master and the little lady in some shit, preventing them from interfering. And now, Caster has Saber because that bloody witch has a magic fucking dagger. Of course she fucking does. Wonderful. She's going to be a real pain in the arse to deal with. He has to take care of Archer sooner than planned. No more accumulating mana, he has to try to call upon his father. Outside, noon is coming. He hopes it will work. Pushing himself from the wall he was leaning on, he makes his way to Rin Tohsaka, who just finished bandaging Saber's master is now sitting at her dinner table. She looks extenuated, and her eyes are red and puffy. She obviously cried, but Sétanta can't tell if it's out of anger or worry. Probably both.

 

"Hey, little lady!"

 

She looks up from her bowl of soup, courtesy of Archer. The bowman seems deep in thoughts as well, arms crossed on his chest.

 

"Can I borrow Archa' fer a few minutes? I need 'im fer somethin'. We'll be in the garden."

"Sure," she says, shrugging. "Don't make a mess of the roses, they belonged to my mother. I'll be taking a nap after that," she adds, pointing at her soup.

"Yes ma'am. Come along Archa', ye and I got an appointment with the sun."

 

Archer follows without a word. Sétanta surveils the garden, looking for the place where the sun shines the brightest. A smile appears on his face as he finds the perfect spot. A knee on the ground, the spearman gets to work. He slowly traces all the runes in a circle. Then he adds a second circle, writing down the sacred words to call upon Lugh. The runes shine brightly, and the magic gets to work. He can feel the sun getting brighter. Sétanta gets up, looks at the sky and opens his arms, palms towards the sky.

 

"Lugh, Divine Father! Will you listen to my prayer? Will you grant your son a favour? Behind me is my friend, and he’s been in the shadows for so long. Will you shine upon him again? Will you let him rest beside me?"

 

He repeats the prayer three times before he can feel a tingle on his skin. Magic, true magic, starts running through his veins and inside his body. He smiles and lets the magic do its work. Lugh is coming to borrow his body.

 

---

When his son was born, Lugh was overjoyed. A child, a babe of his! He named him, sent blessings his way, loved him from afar. He knew Sétanta wouldn't live to be an old man, but he would have a splendid life. He would be a hero, he would defend Ulster from Medb, he would be loved and adored. Men would fear and admire him with equal force. No one would forget him. And, during this short but legendary life, Sétanta never asked for anything. Not for his son Connla to be returned to him nor for additional strength to protect his country. Today is the first day his son calls upon his name, upon his help, and Lugh doesn't hesitate. His strength might be diminished, but he remains a powerful god. He is no minor deity.

As he opens his eyes inside his son's body, he surveils the surroundings. He quickly finds the child Sétanta wishes to save. It isn't hard to realise that the poor soul is broken, only holding together thanks to sheer force of will. The mortal is impressive, in his own way. He is nothing special, and yet has become Alaya's favourite dog. He feels her coming, her rage bubbling in the soil. He still has a few minutes, which is all he needs.

 

"You are the child Sétanta wishes to help… what a poor soul you are indeed. I wonder what he saw in you that I cannot."

"I – I… I apologise. I never meant for him to call upon you or help me…"

“Fear not, I have no quarrel with you. I am merely curious," Lugh replies. "Moreover, I don't mean to overrule my son's wish. I will merely grant it, for it is the first time he asks something of me. Give me your hand."

 

The child obeys, and Lugh starts pouring his own magic in him. He finds the Spirit Origin and his magic swirls around it, slowly building a bridge to Sétanta's own. It takes time, more than Lugh wishes, but it doesn’t matter. The bridge is built. He pours more magic in it, making it strong, too strong for Alaya to break it – she doesn't have that kind of power, but the god has no intention of being reckless. Soon enough, the Spirit Origins have merged. Or rather Sétanta's has swallowed the other, safeguarding it inside itself like a dragon guarding its treasure. Lugh cannot help but smile. But soon enough, Alaya starts appearing, and Lugh knows he has little time left in this world. A shame, he has missed it.

 

"Stay behind me, child. I am afraid your owner is quite displeased."

 

The Counter Guardian’s eyes widen and he starts shaking violently, but he obeys nonetheless. A good thing, for Alaya finally appears. She took the form of a woman, with long golden hair and black, bottomless eyes. Her face is expressionless and, if he didn't know better, Lugh might think she isn't furious.

 

"Old god, I am surprised you have come. Have you not left this world?"

"I have, but my son called, and so I came. He never did so when he lived, how could I deny him?"

"You mean to steal from me. I do not like it, old god."

"I would apologise, but it would not be sincere. I didn't know you cared about your Guardians. Or at least, enough to intervene yourself."

"I like Emiya. He is a good boy, he always does what he must."

 

At the words, there's a whimper behind him. A fury that isn't his roars inside, and Lugh knows that Sétanta is screaming in rage. The god glances quickly at the child. He is shaking like a leaf in the wind. He looks half-ready to run to Alaya's knees, and beg her for forgiveness. Like an abused dog who would obediently lie at its owner's feet in the hopes of not being hit as hard as usual. It is terribly sad to behold. He extends an arm, acting like a wall, a protector.

 

"And now, you must let him go. My son is no Counter Guardian, and I will not allow you to use him."

"Allow me? Old god, you may have linked the two, but you do not have the strength to take Emiya from me. All you did was give me an additional Counter Guardian."

"I need only to gather my strength. How long until I can plunge humanity into darkness? Do you think my brothers across the pantheons will ignore me?"

"Perhaps. But until you can properly threaten me, I will make good use of your beloved son. I am certain he will make a good dog."

 

The mockery in her voice infuriates Lugh, for she is right. As of right now, he doesn't have the strength to forcefully take the boy from Alaya, and Sétanta is stuck with him. That is his son's choice, but he hates it nonetheless. He wishes he could do more, descend into this world himself, and make Alaya fear his wrath. But the Age of Gods is over, and it will require time before he can truly threaten her.

 

"And when I am strong enough? What will you do?"

"I will release them. But until then, they are mine, old god."

 

With this, she vanishes. Lugh sighs and turns to face the child. His soul is on the verge of shattering, but he somehow holds it together. His will is impressive, the god must admit it. Perhaps it would be easier for him if he had forgotten all his humanity, if he truly was nothing but Alaya's dog. His son wouldn't want to save him, if that were the case. And, as such, he wouldn’t be doomed the way he is now. 'No, not doomed. I vow to gather the strength needed. I shall plunge the world into darkness, I shall force her hand.'

 

"I – I'm sorry… I'm s-so sorry… I didn't mean… he shouldn't… I…"

"Fear not. My temper isn't against you, child. It might take me some time to gather my strength. Until then, I entrust my son to you. Watch over him, will you?"

Notes:

The boys are linked!!!

Thoughts on Alaya? I know they're not supposed to have a gender or an actual personality, but I'm making her Emiya's main abuser. Even if she doesn't really have a notion of what's abuse, she knows she's manipulating him and scaring him into obeying her. In her eyes, it's worth it because that way he does what she needs him to.

Chapter 4: Laoch

Summary:

Archer struggles with Lancer becoming a Counter Guardian, and his trauma rears its ugly head. Still, he gets a nickname, and ends up fighting the King of Heroes.

It's a busy day.

Notes:

Behold, I can't write fight scenes to save my life lmfao.
Also, I'll add titles for the chapters!!

Everything is his fault. Archer knows it. Because of him, Lancer is going to become a Counter Guardian. Because of him, he won't be able to rest. Because of him, he will have to obey Alaya. All because of someone as worthless as Archer. Lugh has said he isn't angry at him, but Archer knows best. He knows that look, that tone of voice. Alaya uses it every time he disappoints her.

He hates disappointing her. She's the only one who can give a purpose to a failure like him.

Nausea washes over him like a tidal wave, and he barely has the time to make it to the bathroom before he throws up bile in the sink. It's the first time these thoughts are so painful, so repulsive. Usually, he takes the first opportunity available to drown himself in Alaya's words and attention, no matter how brutal it is, to forget about the weight of his actions. But now… Now thinking about it makes him ill. The thought of her inflicting that treatment on Cú Chulainn makes him mad with guilt. He deserves better than being a Counter Guardian, than doing dirty work behind the scenes of humanity's survival.

Alaya will do everything in her power to keep the spearman, to tarnish his light and make him the faithful dog she needs, Archer knows it. She'll break his mind like porcelain, before rebuilding him just the way she needs. Just like she did with Archer. He is bound to become one of her favourite Counter Guardians, one of her most useful and used. Lugh spoke of one year, but there is so much that Alaya can make them do in a year. Time doesn't matter to her, and she can send them to end hundreds of wars in that timeframe. Cú Chulainn is strong, but how long until he becomes her faithful hound because it's easier than fighting her?

Worse, an ugly part of Archer wants to keep Alaya's attention all to himself. He served her faithfully for so long, and her attention, whether brutal or kind, is the only stability he knows. The orders, the congratulations when he does his job properly, the feeling of her mana in his veins, empowering him and healing his wounds after a particularly hard mission… A part of him doesn't want to share that, no matter how much it disgusts him. Alaya doesn't care about him, he knows it. He's just her tool, doing what she says in exchange for a few pats on the head like a dog. She has trained him perfectly as well, because he begs and begs for her attention, thankful even when she hurts him.

'I like Emiya. He is a good boy, he always does what he must.'

He wishes the razor was in his hand, to make all these horrible thoughts go away. The best he can do is vomit once more.

Blindly, he turns on the faucet and splashes water on his face. He can't think like that. He can't. He's going to get out of this situation. He won't let Cú Chulainn become like him. He will free himself; he will be able to die and rest, and the spearman will be free. Of course, his own fate is secondary to the hero's one. He can't let someone else suffer endlessly like he does. Especially a hero like Cú Chulainn. Ireland's Child of Light shines brighter than the sun, with glittering rubies for eyes and a smile that would steal any woman's heart. His tone is always cheerful, and his entire demeanour is lively and brave. Reckless, yes, but not stupid. He has the brain to match his formidable strength.

In an impressive display of bravery, he looks up at his reflection in the mirror. He has dark circles under his eyes, which shouldn’t happen because Servants don't need sleep. He supposes he's just weak. Lancer wouldn't have dark circles under his eyes. He bites the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. It doesn't matter. His objective is clear. Make sure Cú Chulainn escapes Alaya's grasp. Nothing else matters. No matter how long it takes, no matter how many trials and errors he will have to go through, no matter how long they will have to wait for Lugh. And, as long as he is by the spearman's side, he will look after him. He will protect him from Alaya, from the world itself in need be. Archer might be a murderous fuck-up, but he is an efficient murderous fuck-up. So long as he stays focused on his goal, he will succeed.

No one will be able to hurt Cú Chulainn on his watch.

 

"Archer, are you okay in there?"

 

He all but jumps in surprise as Rin's voice is heard from beyond the closed door and rushes to open it.

 

"Yes, Master. I just wanted to freshen up a bit. Yesterday was… eventful."

"It was. We should talk about it and figure out what we're going to do…"

"Of course, Master."

 

Archer follows Rin into the living room, ignoring the pain in her eyes as best he can. He knows she doesn't like the distance between them, but it's better this way. He will eventually disappear, and she will never see him again.

 

"By the way, what did Lancer want with you, yesterday? I felt a massive rush of mana from him."

 

Archer winces. He doesn't want her to know. It wouldn't do any good. She's attached to this… pathetic past version of himself. It would be a hassle to deal with. Still, it's strange that she didn't notice anything, or wasn't woken up by Lugh's presence. Is the god behind it? It isn't impossible. It would make sense for him to keep his presence on Earth hidden, no matter how short it was.

 

"He used his knowledge in magecraft to share some of his protection against magic. He wants to ally himself with us and defeat Caster. It's probably what you felt."

"Oh. But it came from the sun, not him?"

"Cú Chulainn is the son of Lugh, the Celtic sun god. It would make sense for his energy to be linked to the sun, I suppose."

"Yeah, it makes sense. Anyway, back to Caster. So Lancer wants to team up with us?"

"Yes. After all, she is the biggest menace."

"Hm, that's fair. What about Berserker?"

"If we share some information with his master, we might convince her, but we can't exactly force her hand. Berserker is stronger than me, and Lancer alone won't be enough to convince her."

"Yeah, I know. But it would make sense for her to want to get rid of Caster, right?"

"She could let us fight each other and crush the exhausted winner," he replies, then pauses. "We could do that, actually. Let Caster and Berserker kill each other, kill the winner, defeat Lancer and we're done."

"Absolutely not! It would kill Saber! We can't let that happen," she says firmly.

'Of fucking course. It would be too easy.'

"Alright. What's the plan, then? Carpet-bomb the Church?"

"No. That would also kill Saber," she says firmly. "Do you think you could snipe Caster from afar?"

"Unlikely. She probably put up about a dozen protections."

"Shit… well, rushing like heroes it is!"

'Yeah, because that's going to work.'

"It has little chance of working unless Berserker is on our side as well. As strong as Lancer is, rushing into a Caster's territory unprepared is suicide. Moreover, if she can fully control Saber, we would be outclassed. "

"I know. We'll try contacting Berserker's master and see if we can convince her to ally herself with us, at least until we get rid of Caster and get Saber back!"

"About that… Do you intend to have two Servants, Master? It would help our chances of victory, but it will drain a lot of mana. Even if you're a talented mage, it would be a health hazard that can’t be ignored."

"Of course not, we’ll return Saber to Shirō."

"Oh. Of course, Master."

"I mean, I know he messed up, but he's my friend. He and Saber are friends too. The way she was taken from him was unfair."

 

Archer feels like puking all over again, but he restrains himself. He has something else, or rather someone else, to focus on now. He can and will ignore his murderous impulse for now. 

 

"Should I contact Lancer then?"

"Yes. But what's Caster's name, by the way? You said you know it. And Assassin's?"

"Caster is Medea, the witch who was betrayed by Jason. Assassin is Sasaki Kojirō."

"How do you know that to begin with?"

"I fought them. Assassin can't stop yapping about his name, and Medea is pretty obvious once you open a wonderful tool called Wikipedia. I mean, how many legendary sorceress have been betrayed by their lovers?" he says drily, the lie coming easily.

"You discovered who Caster is through Wikipedia?!” Rin shrieked, looking both offended and impressed.

"I didn't have the time to go through the entire library,” he shrugs.

"I'm almost offended on Medea's behalf."

 

Archer shrugs again. It's a lie, anyway, so it doesn't matter.

 

---

 

Archer easily finds Lancer. He's pulled towards him, as if the red string of fate is linking them together. It's the case, in a way. The spearman must feel him coming as well, since he turns around about two seconds before he should be able to fully feel Archer's presence.

 

"Oye the', Archa'!" he sing-songs, waving his hand.

"Lancer," he replies, nodding his head. "Rin wanted to know if you'd consider an alliance with us and maybe Berserker against Caster."

"I'd love te. Ye guys have a plan or somethin'?"

"So far, the best Rin came up with is 'rushing like heroes and hope for the best'," he sighs.

 

Of course, Lancer bursts out laughing. He probably used that exact same strategy a lot, back when he was alive.

 

"Also, we'll try convincing Berseker to join us."

"Tha'd be nice, he's a real beast that one! Saw him kick yer sorry arses the first day. T'was fuckin' hilarious."

"Then you saw Saber knocking a couple of life from him, and me at least one."

"Yeah, but before that? Fuckin' hilarious. What if they sae nah and try to kill us?"

"Then we hope that Gáe Bulg can kill him about ten times. I can't really do much against him."

 

A bloodthirsty smile appears on Lancer’s face. It shouldn't look so good.

 

"Ye don' need te worry, Archa'. I’ll kill 'im as many times as needed.”

"Good to know. Will Kotomine let you?"

"Yeah, think so. He knows Casta' needs to be killed, and it’s better to get allies for tha'. He's a dick, but he's a smart one."

"I suppose so."

 

Somehow, its only then that Lancer addresses the elephant in the room: Alaya. The spearman left briefly after the whole event, the day before, exhausted after summoning his divine father.

 

"So, Counta' Guardian fer some time, eh? Could be werse! It went well, don't'cha thin'?" he says with a bright grin that is so painful to look at that Archer can only stare at his combat boots.

"I'm sorry," he articulates. "I'm so, so sorry. It shouldn't, you… you shouldn't… you're a real hero and I… And she shouldn't get you like that…"

 

Lancer flicks his forehead and Archer looks up, almost offended. Once again, a smile brighter than the sun and a pair of shining rubies welcome him. It hurts, God, it hurts.  

 

"I knew what I was gettin' meself into, laoch," he says with a laugh.

"La – what?"

"Just a nickname fer ye! It's Irish. Me Irish at least."

"It's… You can call me however you want, so long as it's not that boy's name.”

"Don' worry, laoch. I wouldn't do tha'. And don't ye beat yerself up 'bout me bein' a Counta' Guardian with ye! I'll be jus' fine. And it ain't forever, just until me da can kick Alaya's arse. Tha' bitch deserves it!"

 

Archer winces. As much as he tries to bury his twisted loyalty to Alaya and focus on the spearman, he's uncomfortable with such words. Lancer makes it much easier, but he can't verbally agree with the spearman. Cú Chulainn seems to notice it, but he thankfully doesn't say anything about it.

 

"Let's focus on Casta' for now, 'kay laoch? I'll settle shite with me masta' and we’ll go convince Berserka' to join us."

 

---

 

Berserker and Illyasviel Von Einzberg are both dead by the time they arrive. Gilgamesh is chopping her heart out, and it takes all of Archer's strength to physically stop Lancer from attacking the King of Heroes right there and then, while Rin slams Shirō to the ground before he attacks Gilgamesh as well. The entire display seems to amuse the blonde Servant immensely.

 

"Who knew? It appears that some mongrels do have a survival instinct," the man mocks.

"I'll rip you apart!" Shiro bellows.

"Shut up! Did you not see him kill fucking Heracles like it's a walk in the park?!" Rin shrieks.

"I don't care!"

"Well start caring!"

"Laoch lemme go! I'll butcher 'im meself!" Lancer roars.

"Absolutely not!"

"I can kill 'im!"

"No, you can't! Not with your current master!"

 

Lancer screams one more, but it's just frustration, and he stops struggling.

 

"I hate him too; I promise I do. But we can't win. Not like that. You know we can't."

 

To make matters worse, Shinji shows up, provoking both Shirō and Rin. This time, Archer's Master snaps and gets up, getting in position to blow off the disgusting boy's head. Of course, this is met with Gilgamesh's eyes darkening ever so slightly. A threat that Rin doesn't see, so Archer has to let go of Lancer. He summons his bow and aims three arrows at the King of Heroes. Although he can't harm the man, he can't let him threaten Rin without reacting. Lancer readies his spear as well, ready to jump in the fray if needed. He probably didn't see Gilgamesh's reaction, but he follows the general decision anyways.
 
Fuck. This is getting bad. They can't defeat Gilgamesh and Caster. The best would be to set them against each other. Medea might be able to do some damage, especially if she uses Saber, and if they swoop in at the right time, they can't take them both down. Unlimited Bladeworks is made to take Gilgamesh down – provided he doesn't start the fight with Ea – but Archer knows he's unlikely to survive the fight. And Lancer alone can't defeat Caster, Assassin and a controlled Saber with Kotomone as his master.

 

"Oh? You want to fight, mongrels? I’m not usually interested in worms like you, but I dislike the way you dare look at me. This fault alone is punishable by death, so perhaps I should eliminate you all here."

"I'd rather just blow Shinji's head up," Rin replies, eyes not even turning to the blonde man.

 

Archer doesn’t know if she's incredibly stupid or incredibly brave. Probably a mix of both. Shirō is, of course, just as useful as always, with a reinforced pipe in his hand. 'For fuck's sake, the second-hand embarrassment is going to kill me before Gilgamesh does', he thinks.

 

"As much as I'd love to get rid of this pathetic excuse of a human I got saddled with, I will not allow you do so, wench," the King of Heroes says, and the Gates of Babylon open behind him to unleash his unlimited arsenal of weapons.

 

Rin falters a bit at the sight, but she gets her expression under control once more and steels herself. The tension is palpable, and one could almost cut through it. Archer clenches his jaw. There is no way they will all walk out of here unharmed. Someone needs to occupy Gilgamesh, or they will all die. He glances at Lancer. He lasted twelve hours, last time. A miracle might allow him to last long once more, but he still died and that cannot happen, and it cannot happen. He can't bear the thought of Lancer dying. Once again, he laments that Kotomine is his Master. If only he had a decent one to empower him...

 

An idea suddenly pops up in Archer's mind. That's right. Rin could be his master. She has a large amount of mana, and she will do her best to support her Servant. If Saber can still resist the Command Seals, Lancer might win. Assassin is no match for him, even powered by Caster. Archer sighs. He supposes it's the only option, isn't it?

 

"Lancer, you're not under a command seal to protect your master, are you?"

"Nah, why?"

"Good. I entrust the kids to you. I'll buy some time, get out of here, get yourself a new master, and kill Caster. I'll take care of his Royal Ego-trip."

"What?"

 

Instead of replying, Archer jumps down, a few arrows in hand. Voices call him, but he pays them no mind, instead focusing on Gilgamesh.

 

"Hey, you piece of shit. You threatened my Master. How about we settle this, Servant to Servant? Unless you're too ancient for that," he exclaims, shooting a few arrows to make his point.

 

Gilgamesh falls easily for the provocation, his ego wounded, his pride challenged. Instantly, the numerous weapons pour down, and Archer runs around to avoid them. Gilgamesh isn't giving him a single second to breathe, the weapons destroying everything in their paths before returning to their owner.

Although he doesn't have protection from arrows like Cú Chulainn, Archer is still able to dodge most of the weapons. Gilgamesh's attacks are predictable, for the King of Heroes doesn't try very hard. He allows himself to glance at his allies once, and he sees Lancer's conflicted expression as he ushers the kids outside, surely understanding Archer's plan. He sighs in relief and focuses on the fight.

He's not going to win, he knows it. Rin is exhausted, too exhausted to provide him with more mana, and his primary goal is to take Gilgamesh with him, not survive. Despite the many swords, spears and other weapons cutting his skin and leaving him bloodied and wounded, he closes the distance between them, using his superior swordsmanship skills to destabilise the other Servant. Gilgamesh uses Enkidu, of course, but Archer has no divinity at all, so the chains aren't that dangerous for him. It annoys his opponent, Archer knows it.

 

"You worm!" his opponent snarls.

 

Archer doesn't reply, instead muttering his chant. He feels his mana reserve emptying, threateningly low. It's fine, he knows he will disappear. He doesn't mind. He's giving his allies a chance, he's giving Lancer a chance. And that's all that matters.

 

"Unlimited Blade Works!"

Notes:

Laoch means 'warrior' in Irish!

Chapter 5: A new master

Summary:

Sétanta gets a new master and fights Assassin.

They're close to Kotomine's hiding spot when Sétanta feels Archer dying. He stumbles, a cry escaping him, and clenches a fist over his heart. It feels like someone just ripped out something from his chest, and it hurts like a bitch. It's worse than the three days he spent bleeding out, tied to a tree so he would die standing. If it wasn't for Gáe Bulg, he would have fallen on the ground. Thankfully, the two kids don't notice his agony because a second after his stumble, a loud wail escapes Rin Tohsaka. The unexpected grief leaves her shaking, and she falls to her knees, tears running down her cheeks. The boy, Shirō Emiya, is surprised for half a second before he falls next to her and puts his arms around her shoulders, holding her tightly against his chest.

She lets herself sink in the hug, sobbing. Their crush on each other would be adorable if the situation wasn't so dire. Worse, it pisses Sétanta off. He feels like raging and screaming at them, because how dare they live when Archer is dead? It's stupid, of course, especially because Archer sacrificed himself for them. It's just the grief speaking. But Lugh is it painful, it burns in his chest like a forest fire and he's too close to his battle-frenzied state for his liking. He wants to kill something, he wants to rip someone apart, he wants to let the bloodthirst take over, just to make the pain go away. But it won't bring Archer back, and in the long-run it won't do anything for his pain. He needs to remember that he'll join him soon.

So, he swallows the grief down – he can't let Emiya die in vain – and turns to the two hugging kids.

 

"We gotta move," Sétanta croaks. "We almost thae'."

"Archer is dead!" the little lady shrieks.

"I know!" he snarls. Lugh be damned, he knows and it fucking hurts. "I know," he repeats, sighing. "And if we stae 'ere, he'll be dead for nothin'."

 

The girl nods slowly, getting up and wiping her tears. She starts walking, mumbling to herself. The boy catches up to her, taking her hand. She clenches it hard, and Sétanta follows them.

 

"He didn't even say goodbye. Stupid Archer. If he wasn't dead, I'd kill him myself…" he hears the girl say, grief and fury tightening her voice.

 

'Good. Anger's betta' than tears. Tears don't do shite,' he thinks. His own grief is a furious tornado inside him. He wants nothing more than to go back and rip Gilgamesh apart for taking Archer from him, but he's dead as well. His mana is gone, just like his master's. At least that slimy bastard is dead. He hopes it hurt like a bitch and will haunt that pompous blonde in his next War. Sétanta leads the two kids to the edge of Kotomine's sanctuary before stopping.

 

"I can't go thae'," he says. "Or that trash will use me to kill ye."

 

Rin Tohsaka nods seriously, wiping away her last tears. Before they leave, Sétanta makes sure to give them protective runes. Uruz, for power and endurance. Wunjo, for success. Nauthiz, for willpower. Algiz, for protection and friendship. Finally, Sowilo for health. It's far from what he might be able to do as a Caster, but it's better than nothing. His mother, who was a druid, insisted that he knew some basic magic, but he was never good at it. He much prefers his spear and ripping his opponents apart with his bare hands than hiding behind spells and tricks. It's not as fun.

 

"Good luck, kiddos. Kill 'is ugly arse."

 

Rin Tohsaka gives him a violent grin, and he can't help but chuckle. She'll be a damn good master. A shame she didn't summon him earlier! Maybe in another Grail War, if it happens during her lifetime. They'd be a good team. He slips into spirit form and retreats, giving the two kids time before he’s summoned. If Kirei summons him. In his arrogance, he might not think about doing it. After all, he didn't even call Sétanta when he was fighting Caster's minions. Good. May he die painfully and slowly. He closes his eyes and prays to the Morrígan. May her crows feast on his eyes and entrails, may she drag him behind her chariot, may she leave his body and soul to rot. His second set of prayers goes to Neit. May he grant the kids a swift and decisive victory, may he protect them from harm, may their strikes all find their target.

Fifteen minutes later, there's a roar in his mind. 'Lancer! Come to me, now!'. Oh? Kirei must be in a real bind, and he didn't even use a Command Spell. He probably doesn't have the opportunity; the little lady is a fierce thing, that she is! Of course, Sétanta takes his sweet time walking towards the hideout, stretching. If his pants had pockets, he'd put his hands in them. He feels his master freaking out, and a grin appears on his lips. He rarely takes pleasure in people's death – ríastrad excluded –, but he'd happily spit on Kotomine's corpse. The Morrígan’s crows will feast on his body.

The fight is over when he arrives. Or as good as. Part of the safe house has been destroyed, courtesy of some brutal magecraft. Sétanta finds his dying master on the ground, bleeding profusely from a dozen stab wounds, half of his body covered in burns. The spearman whistles in admiration; he didn't think two kids would be able to do this much damage. The priest's eyes widen as he sees him, realisation dawning on him, and Sétanta crouches next to him, a bloodthirsty smile on his face. He extends a hand, forcing it into the priest's mouth so he can't use a Command Seal. He doesn't have enough mana left to do so, but better be safe than sorry.

 

"Ye look like shite, Kotomine. Got yer arse kicked by a pair of kiddos?"

 

He smiles cruelly at Kirei as Rin Tohsaka and Shirō Emiya show up, panting. They're covered in bruises, and Sétanta is pretty sure the boy's left arm is shattered. But they need to finish the job. Otherwise, Sétanta will remain stuck. He meets Rin's bright blue eyes. She nods in understanding, and grabs a nearby rock. The spearman clenches his jaw. If only he wasn't blocked by that stupid command seal, he would be able to do it himself. Two kids shouldn't have to commit murder like that, no matter how much Kotomine deserves to die.

 

"I'd apologise, but you fucking deserve it, you freak."

 

The rock goes down once, twice, thrice. Blood goes everywhere, along with some pinkish brain bits. At this point, the girl’s movements are erratic, and she's almost hysterical, sobs wracking her. Sétanta gently takes her wrist with one hand and covers her eyes with the other.

 

"It's alright, little lady. It's over. Ye did great. Let's get'cha kids out of 'ere, 'kay? Ye've got an appointment with a nice bed."

"T-the contract. First, the contract."

"Ye sure? I can last a bit."

"Please."

 

He nods. Her incantation is simple and short, and he responds in kind, shaking the offered hand. Three Command Seals appear on her hand, forming a red star-like symbol on her skin. Sétanta feels her mana in his veins – or what little she currently has, poor girl is two seconds away from fainting – and hums contently. Kotomine's mana was disgusting; rotten, like mud and slime. The little lady's is much better, clear and fresh, running in his veins like a mountain river. Ah, if only he had had a master like her from the get-go!

 

"Well, then, Masta', let's get ye to bed, alright?"

 

She nods and tries to get but her legs immediately give up. Sétanta quickly catches her, and takes her in his arms. He expected that. She's had a really awful day.

 

"I'll carry ye, little lady. Ye'll be fine walkin' on yer own, lad?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Tell me if ye need a break, 'kay?"

"If I stop, I'm not getting up until tomorrow so let's go," the boy confesses awkwardly.

 

They start walking, and Rin cuddles against Sétanta, silently crying in his arms. She reminds him a bit of Emer, who hated it when people saw her cry. Slowly, probably getting much more attention than they should from the clueless citizens of Fuyuki City, they make their way to the girl’s massive manor. It's the best protected location they have, with ancient blood wards and protective spells who withstood the many trials of time. An unwelcome guest would have a hard time entering. Sétanta isn't certain he could. Perhaps as a Caster, but as a Lancer? No way. The oldest spells are too strong for him.

Since he doesn't know where the girl's bedroom is, he lays her down on the couch. She's near catatonic, and the boy is close to her state as he slumps on a chair. Sétanta approaches him.

 

"Aye, show me that arm o' yers, lad. I've got enough mana left to help. Maybe."

"You should take care of Rin…"

"Broken bones come first. If it heals wrong, ye'll have to break it again. Trust me, it ain't fun."

"But –"

"He's right, dummy. Let him look."

 

The kid relents, and Sétanta checks the arm. He grimaces quickly; the bones are completely shattered. The muscles are probably torn and if no nerve is touched, it's a miracle. He definitely doesn't have the mana to deal with this right now. But he can at least settle the arm in a make-shift splint.

 

"Ye get something straight I could use to make a splint, Masta'?"

 

The girl vaguely gestures to the furniture.

 

"Help yourself. I don't use it."

 

A chair is sacrificed, and Sétanta uses a curtain to tie the wood. It's not ideal, but he's no healer, and it's better than nothing. Then, he makes his way to the kitchen and, hoping the Grail has given him enough information about modern technology to not burn down the manor, he looks for ingredients to cook something. Even soup would work. They need something to eat, and neither is healthy enough to cook. 

The cupboards are empty of anything interesting – why does the little lady even have that much cutlery? It's ridiculous! –, so Sétanta turns his attention to the big white thing. It's a fridge, apparently, and it's cold, to keep food from rotting. He opens it, and his eyes widen. There's enough food to make a bloody feast! He's not sure he's ever owned that amount of food in his life. He's not going to complain; he should be able to feed the two kids with what's in there.

After inspecting what's in the fridge – and marveling at all the spices he can smell –, he settles on leftovers. Archer used to cook for the little lady, right? And he's a damn good cook. He eyes the modern stove and realises he has no idea how that thing works. Considering the size of the machinery, he's more likely to burn the manor down than cook anything. Yeah, leftovers it is. There's something called a microwave as well, and he's vaguely aware that it's used to re-heat food, but he doesn't know how it works so he gives up on it. Runes will work.

He brings the magically heated plates to the kids with some cutlery and hands them each some food.

 

"Ye both need to eat, so dig in. It's still good, right? 'T' was in that cold white shite."

"Archer made these… Guess I won't get to tell him it tastes great…" the girl sighs, eyes tearing up.

"I'll tell 'im for ye, don' worry," Sétanta tells her with a smile.

"Do… do heroes talk to each other?"

"Nah, not really. But 'e's special. He told ye who 'e is?"

"... No… but Shirō and I figured it out after I had that big fight with him…"

"Ah… sucks to be 'im, raeght, lad?" he asks the boy, who frowns.

"I'm not him!" Shirō snarls.

"So long as ye don' go and make a contract with Alaya, ye won't," Sétanta shrugs, uninterested in the boy's ego.

"He told you that night, right? When you found him…"

"Aye. Thought Casta' was fuckin' shite up, or maybe Berserka', but it was 'im. Lost 'is shite on me and told me arse everythin'," he explains.

"I'm glad he told someone. I wish he had told me too. Did he think I wouldn't believe him?"

"Dunno. Don't thin' so. He was too busy moppin', and I don't thin' he likes it when people feel bad fer 'im. Was pretty mad when I told 'im I'd help," he shrugs.

 

He doesn't mention Archer's breakdowns and catastrophic mental state; they aren't his to share. The Counter Guardian deserves some privacy, and the little lady would be doomed to a lifetime of worrying, for she would never see him again. She doesn't need to know how bad it really is.

 

"You can help him?!" she exclaims, sitting up.

"Already did. Ask me da a favour, and bonded 'is moppin' arse to me. Alaya ain't too keen on fightin' a sun god, so now he's restin' with me. We'll get summoned together, but otherwise, he can enjoy a peaceful afterlife!"

Rin grabs his wrists, shaking." Really?! He's not… he's not stuck like he was anymore?!"

"Nah, he can rest now."

 

A smile brightens her face, and she uses the last of her strength to hug him. Sétanta gently taps her back, unused to such displays of affection.

 

"Thank you, Lancer. You look after your Emiya, and I look after this one, okay?"

"Sure thin', Masta'," he chuckles.

 

---

They take three days to rest before going to confront Caster, Assassin, and possibly Saber. It's going to be one hell of a battle, but Rin has a lot of mana, enough to sustain him through a long fight. Their first target is obviously the temple, guarded by Assassin. There's little chance that Caster left it unprotected, since it would leave this mana free for the taking. Oh well, If Assassin is absent, then Rin can steal all the mana left behind. If he's here, then Sétanta will kill him. As expected, Assassin stands in front of the gates, and he unsheathes his sword as he sees them approaching. Sétanta grins, Gáe Bulg appearing in his hand.

 

"Stand back, both of ye. I’ll take cae of 'im," he tells the two.

"Roger."

"Have no fear, Lancer. It would be dishonourable of me to attack your Master," the swordsman says calmly.

"Ye'll forgive me fer not trustin' an Assassin."

"I dislike being called such a name. I am Sasaski Kojirō. May I know your identity?"

"Well, I guess I can't refuse if ye tell me yer name. Cú Chulainn, son of Lugh."

"I'm honoured to face Ireland's mightiest hero," the man replies as he readies himself.

 

Sétanta grins and jumps into the fray. Sasaki's blade is longer than a regular sword, so it takes Sétanta three blows instead of two to get used to its length. He can probably end the fight with his Noble Phantasm right away, but it's been a long time since he has been able to enjoy a good fight. Moreover, he can see that his opponent is indeed a man of principles, and he would hate to end the fight like that. Assassin deserves to be sent off properly. His technique is extremely swift and a nightmare to read, but Sétanta's superior reflexes and Gáe Bulg's length allow him to keep the man at bay. Thank Lugh he has those, because he might actually need to resort to his Noble Phantasm in order to win. That bastard is much stronger than anticipated.

 

"Your skill with a spear is unparalleled, Cú Chulainn," the swordsman confesses after they exchange blows for a couple of minutes, both covered in cuts and panting.

"And ye're a right pain in the arse, Sasaki! Ye're s’posed to be a Saba' or what?"

"I am. Being an Assassin is… insulting."

"I'll thin' ov ye as a Saba', if that makes ye feel betta'," Sétanta replies.

"I appreciate it."

 

They jump back at each other, dancing and moving around each other. Sétanta notices his opponent is growing tired and grins. He has more endurance than the swordsman, which he supposes is to be expected. Being a demigod tends to make one hard to kill. Still, he tires as well, and they need to take care of Caster. He can't let himself grow tired. He jumps back a few feet and sends mana to Gáe Bulg. The air around the weapon crackles with red energy, and he gets in position. Sasaki readies himself to stop the strike, but the spearman isn't worried. Nothing but a massive amount of luck and precognition can stop his weapon. And even then, it barely deflects it from its main target: the heart.

 

"Gáe Bulg!"

 

The air screams and the red mana bursts to life, the shockwave bending the nearby trees. Sétanta protects his face from the flying rocks, squinting his eyes to see the results. As the dust settles, he grins. Gáe Bulg is impaled in Sasaki's chest, straight through his heart. His own blade is shattered, and blood is pooling beneath him. Still, he’s standing. Sétanta steps towards the man, wondering if he has any last words. He's never seen someone stand after taking his weapon through the heart.

 

"Damn, ye're one tough fella!"

"I'm a… samurai… dying… standing… is only… natural…"

"Still! I’ll rememba’ ye, Saba'."

 

The swordsman smiles weakly before disappearing in a myriad of blue light. Gáe Bulg faithfully returns to his hand, and Sétanta turns to face the little lady and Shirō. A shield – most likely put up by Rin – falls down, and his master runs up to him with a bright smile. She high-fives him, a gesture Sétanta didn't even know existed until three seconds ago. The Grail is one hell of a weird artifact.

 

"That was awesome!"

"Heh, wait 'til I kick Casta's arse."

"Oh no, I’m very much hyped right now. You’re awesome. If we lose this war, I'm one hundred per cent summoning you in the next one!"

 

Sétanta bursts out laughing. This little lady is definitely the best master he could have. Reckless, stubborn as Hell and the brain to go with it! He'll definitely remember her. He ruffles her hair affectionately, earning a squeal, and he points to the temple.

 

"Enjoy the extra mana, little lady! It won't hurt, when facin' Casta'."

"Right!"

 

She dashes up the destroyed stairs, getting some stones from her pockets. The boy follows her like the lovesick puppy he is, and Sétanta shakes his head fondly before following as well.

Notes:

I hope the fight scene wasn't too bad, I'm awful at those!!!

Chapter 6: The End of the Fifth Holy Grail War

Summary:

Lancer faces his last foes of this Holy War, and Rin has to say goodbye.

It doesn't take long for Caster to appear, sensing the death of Assassin and the stealing of her mana. When she manifests, Sétanta acts fast. He grabs Rin by the waist and jumps outside the temple's boundaries in one swift movement. At the same time, the sound of magic missiles destroying the stone floor almost hide the half-shocked, half-scared shriek of his new master, but he quickly gets her out of blast range. Once he has, the spearman puts her down and whirls around, Gáe Bulg in hand to deflect the incoming purple projectiles. Protection from Arrows kicks in as well, dealing with the few blasts that he can't stop with his weapon. A small part of him wonders if Shirō Emiya made it out of the temple safely, but he can't bring himself to care. He's far too focused on keeping the little lady safe from the onslaught of magic. After about fifteen seconds, the missiles stop, and Caster comes into his field of vision. Sétanta readies his spear, but the witch doesn't seem stupid enough to attack. She must know that a close-range fight wouldn't work in her favour.
 

"You killed Assassin," she says simply.

"Sure did! Ye gonna do somethin' 'bout it, old 'ag?"

"You will die, of course. You, and that lovely new master of yours… that little thief who thinks she can trespass in my domain with no repercussions…"

"Yeah? Why don't'cha come at me then? Unless ye're scared of a Lanca'!"

"It would be idiotic to fight you in such a situation. No, I won't even have to deal with your filthy existence myself, mutt."
 

The insult makes Sétanta growls, and Caster smiles mockingly. He can't see her eyes, but he's certain she's amused by his reaction. She reminds him of Medb, and he can't wait to plunge Gáe Bulg in her heart. A lifetime ago, he wouldn't have harmed a woman, but now he knows better. Killing Medb when he had the chance would have saved Ferdiad, and many other lives as well. He tightens his grip on his spear. It would take him two jumps to get her, which is one too many. He could throw Gáe Bulg as well, but he doesn't know if she can defend and attack at the same time. If that's the case, he can't afford to let go of his weapon. His runecraft is far too weak to hold against her.
 
Worse, her words imply she can now use Saber. This is going to be a massive shit show of epic proportions. He focuses on his surroundings, searching for the Saber's mana signature. He can't feel her presence yet, but he doesn't exclude the possibility of Caster hiding her presence. Fuck. They're going to have to make their stand right now.
 

'Little lady, ye think ye can flee? It's gonna be a war zone quicka' than I wanted, and I ain't gonna be able to protect ye and kill 'er.'

'Don't focus on me. I'll get out of blast range. Do you need extra mana?'

'Not fer now. I'm waitin' to see where Saebe' is.'
 

As if the universe has heard him, there's the sound of armour and Sétanta moves just in time to protect Rin from Saber's invisible sword. The swordswoman's eyes are filled with unshed tears, the Command Seals forcing her body to move. It's an awful thing, but Sétanta is more annoyed at his odds. A Caster and a Saber are too much for him and Gáe Bulg, even if he drains Rin’s mana supply dry. Unless…
 
He grits his teeth. He doesn't like this solution, but it's clear that it's the only option.
 

'Masta', ye're goin' to need to use two Command Seals.'

'Two?!'

'One to induce a ríastrad. The second one to make me stop or kill meself when these two are dead.'
 

An anguished sob fills his mind. Poor kid. She deserves better than that. Sétanta pushes Saber back – she isn't trying really hard –, and she lands near Caster.
 

'It's our only option. Casta' and Saebe' at the same time are too much fer me.'

'...Fine. But I'll make you stop. You're not dying.'
 

Sétanta doesn't reply. He's probably going to die taking the two women with him. That's fine with him; that's how he wants to die. Fighting, standing, his spear in his hand. That's how he died a lifetime ago, and it was the best death he could ever want. Plus, he'll join Archer. Is he mopping? Or is he discovering the peace that comes with the Afterlife? He supposes he'll know soon enough.
 

'Cú Chulainn, by the power of my Command Seal, I order you to enter a state of ríastrad and defeat Caster and Saber!'
 

Bloodthirst pumps into his veins like blood, and electricity runs down his nerves. An insane, dangerous cackle escapes him, echoing loudly in the area. Saber's eyes widen, and she readies her weapon as Caster draws a shield. The last decision Sétanta takes before losing his mind is jumping on his opponents in the hopes that his little master can escape.
 

---

 
Rin doesn't let Shirō ask questions, instead quickly dragging him away. They need to get the hell away from here before Lancer notices them. He seems too focused on his Saber and Caster, but she will not court death in this situation. Death by insane spearman isn't on her list of acceptable deaths. Thankfully, her boyfriend-not-boyfriend understands the urgency of the situation and they bolt. She allows them to stop once they're two hundred metres away from the fight. She hopes it's far enough.
 

"What's going on?" Shirō asks.

"Did you ever read Cú Chulainn’s myth?"

"No, not really?"

"Well, he's got this… berserker state, described in the texts. He gets stronger but he can't discern friend from foe. Normally he wouldn't get like that in a Grail War, but a Command Seal can induce it," she explains.

"Rin! How could you do this to him?!" Shirō exclaims, horrified.

“It was his idea!" she barks, hitting Shirō on the head – not hard, but enough to sting. "He told me it's the only way he'll win. I'm also sending him almost all the mana I have as well."

"I'm sorry…"

"It's fine. I'll use another Seal to calm him down once it's over…"

"We won't be able to save Saber, right?"
 

Rin looks down. She wishes they could. She wishes so much they could. They could wish for Artoria to stay with them. To be happy with them. Or, at the very least, they could say goodbye properly. But they can't. They can't save her, and she's going to die fighting for Caster. Furious tears fill Rin’s eyes. She deserves better, so much better. They should be able to give her a goodbye hug, to tell her that they will never forget her, that they will miss her more than anything. Rin knows she's an idiot for caring so much; getting attached to a Servant is just begging for heartache. But she can't help it. She didn't even try. All because she grew up feeling terribly lonely.
 
Painfully, she realises that this is why Archer was always calm and collected, distant and uncaring. How many Masters has he served? How many people has he grown attached to, only to never see them again? And how painful was it to be summoned by people he loves dearly, knowing he would never be allowed to stay? If only… if only she had talked to him. If only she had tried to help him. Then maybe… maybe he would still be here, helping Lancer and saving Saber, cooking the best meals she has ever had. Slowly, she looks at Shirō. He seems to know what she needs, for he opens his arms. Rin lets herself fall against his chest and hugs him tight, digging her fingers in his shirt.
 
She can't help Archer, but she can help Shirō. She can make sure he doesn't pull too many stupid stunts, and she can give him happiness beyond the idea of 'saving others'. She will save him from himself, and she will trust Lancer with Archer's well-being. The spearman is a terrible liar, after all. She knows Archer isn't yet saved, cannot rest peacefully. But she knows Lancer will be with him, and she hopes it will be enough. It has to be enough.
 

"I wish we could save them all."

"Now who's the reckless hero with a stupid ideal?" Shirō jokes.
 
Despite his words, his tone is just as sad as hers. Still, Rin chuckles and hugs him tighter.
 

"You're an idiot. You'd be dead already if it wasn't for me."

"Yup, about three times already, I think."

"Don't keep count, it's morbid."

"Strangely, near-death situations and actual literal deaths are hard to forget."

"God, I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"No, I don't. It would be easier if I did."
 

He doesn't dignify her words with an answer, just laughing and kissing the top of her head. The affection makes Rin's heart skip a beat. Shirō's kindness and devotion make her feel alive again, and she finally doesn't feel so lonely anymore.
 
Suddenly, there's a harsh pull on her mana and she whirls around. Focusing on the mana circuit around her eyes, she enhances her sight to witness just what is going on in the fight. Lancer is covered in blood that is both his and his opponents', a mad grin on his face. He seems to have ripped part of Artoria's armour, and the Saber's left arm is badly wounded – most likely from the whole 'armour ripping' thing. Caster has some nasty wounds herself, which makes Rin smile.
 
The spearman seems to be more and more lost in his bloodthirst, hence the pull on Rin's mana. He isn't saving his energy at all, even punching Artoria straight in the plexus, sending her flying against a tree. It seems to shatter the bones in his hand, but he heals it instantly. Considering he doesn't seem to mind his other wounds, it's probably just to keep using Gáe Bulg. Rin watches, feeling horribly helpless, as Cú Chulainn keeps attacking Artoria with the ferocity of a rabid beast. The Hound of Chulainn indeed… Once he bites his prey, he never lets it go.
 
A sudden blast from Medea goes through Cú Chulainn's shoulder despite his Protection from Arrows, but he doesn't even flinch. Blood gushes from the wound, drenching his clothes in even more haemoglobin. With the insanity twisting his face, he looks like a monster straight from a horror movie. Saber successfully wounds him, but the spearman retreated just in time, and the cut is shallow. Rin can't tell if she's happy or not with the situation; as much as she wants Lancer to win, she doesn't want Artoria to die, and certainly not facing an opponent who can't even talk. But she can't do anything; she has to let the fight go on.
 
And then it happens. Artoria disarms Cú Chulainn with a brutal blow. She loses her grip on Excalibur, but she cannot even try to get it back because, instead of even trying to retrieve Gáe Bulg, Lancer attacks her. He viciously grabs Artoria and tightens one hand around her throat while the other grabs her shoulder. Then, with a roar, he dives straight for Artoria's jugular with his bare teeth. It's a gruesome act, one that paralyses Rin and she can only stare, tears rolling down her cheeks, as Lancer rips out Artoria's throat. The young mage can't help but scream in horror, falling against Shirō's torso.
 

"Oh my god! Oh my god!"

"Rin! What happened?!" Shirō exclaims.

"He killed her! He killed her!"
 

Shirō starts shaking violently as he undoubtedly understands whom Rin means by 'her'. He knows she wouldn't be upset about Caster's death. Worse, Rin can't stop looking. Her eyes won't move away, and she has to witness Artoria slowly disappearing in a myriad of yellow lights. As she glitters away, Rin hears a voice in her head.
 

'Rin, Shirō, I am honoured to have known both of you. Mourn me not, for I died fighting, and such was my wish. I pray that you shall live long, happy lives filled with laughter and mirth. May we meet again, once your time has come.'
 

It only makes them cry harder, holding onto each other for dear life. Rin feels like her heart has been ripped from her chest and crushed. It hurts, it hurts so much she's about to throw up. But instead, she digs her nails in Shirō's arms, just to make sure he's still here. She hasn't been able to look at him yet, eyes still on the fight that has yet to end. Caster seems to be suffering from her wounds, unable to heal them because of Gáe Bulg's curse. Still, she seems to have the advantage, thanks to her superior mana and her dangerous spells. She doesn't have the time to chant a long incantation, but it's not necessary. Protection from Arrows has its limits, and Cú Chulainn's battle-frenzy means he isn't the cleverest of foes.
 
However, contrary to Caster, he isn't trying to survive the fight. He only cares about killing and as such, what he lacks in intelligence he makes for in daring moves. The Irishman plants his spear in the ground and uses it to launch himself in the air, straight towards Medea. A massive blast of light goes straight through his abdomen, leaving a gaping hole behind it, but it doesn't Lancer. No, he stills slams into Caster, falling to the ground with her and stabbing her straight in the heart with his weapon. Medea screams in pain and, despite all her mana, quickly succumbs to her wounds.
 
As she disappears in a myriad of lights, Rin feels like she can move again.
 

"We need to go!" she exclaims.
 

Shirō follows her, and they sprint up the destroyed stairs. What they find breaks Rin's heart. Lancer is kneeling, bleeding heavily as his guts lay on the ground around him. His eyes are hazed, and if it wasn't for the slight twitch of his hands, one would think he is already dead. Rin approaches him cautiously and, through tears-filled eyes, watches him starting to fade.
 

"Lancer…?" she calls out, although she has no idea what to say.

He looks up, the pain evident on his face. "W-wo… n…" he articulates, and blood pours out of his mouth.

"Y-yeah, you won. You're amazing. Thank you."
 

He smiles. Then, for the second time in her life, Rin feels her Servant die.

 

---

 

Sétanta coughs loudly as he wakes up. His entire body burns with the memory of wounds, both fatal and small. He grunts in pain as memories assault his brain, his actions during the ríastrad slowly coming back to him. Fighting Saber, being disarmed and… He slams a hand on his mouth as nausea hits him like a tidal wave. Oh Lugh be damned. He ripped out her throat with his bare teeth. The tastes of her flesh and blood still linger in his mouth, and Sétanta hates himself for not hating it. He should be retching, the taste should repulse him. But instead, a part of him likes it. He hides his face in his hands, focusing on his breathing. He mustn't think about it. Saber won't even remember the event, even if he were to run into her again during some other War.

Still, he will. He always will. A thought chills him; has he done this before? Has he ripped someone apart like that, during another War? It's terrifying. Perhaps amnesia is better. Perhaps forgetting the wars is better. He can't imagine how many times Archer found himself like this, remembering events that no one else will. Have they fought before? Has he fought the same Hero several times? He has entered the Fifth Holy Grail War twice after all. Once as a Master, once as a Servant. The thought is terrifying.

Eventually, Sétanta looks around him. He's in a barren wasteland covered with many weapons. Up in the reddish sky are gears of different sizes. The biggest one doesn't even seem to move, whereas the smallest ones click and turn at regular times. This isn't his Afterlife. Is it Archer's? Is that where he stays between summons? What a horribly depressing place. The spearman stands up, looking for the bowman. He's surprised he hasn't shown up yet, but perhaps there's something more to this place. He looks around, but it seems there's nothing but weapons as far as he can see. He stands corrected when he notices a rock, with a figure lying on it. Sétanta walks towards it, and a fond smile makes its way to his face.

Archer is lying down, curled up like a cat, sleeping soundly. His face is much softer like this, the constant anxiety finally gone. A gentle breeze picks up, dancing in Archer's short white hair. Sétanta can't help but wonder just when his hair turned from red to white. Same with his skin. Is it the overuse of mana? It could be, but he isn't a good enough mage to know for certain. Oh well, it doesn't matter. Archer looks perfectly fine like this. The spearman also suspects that he prefers it that way, considering the way he views his past self. Being constantly reminded of who he once was would be too much. Perhaps Alaya did this, as a gesture of kindness. Sétanta snorts at the idea. Yeah, right. He's seen the being; she doesn't see Archer as anything but a dog.

Archer's eyes open slowly, embers shining through his eyelids. He brings a hand to rub the sleep away, barely half-awake. He frowns when he notices Sétanta but, a second later, he blushes considerably and quickly sits up, stuttering apologies.

 

"Don't worry, Laoch! Ye needed'at nap!" he exclaims.

"I – huh, I didn't think… I thought it would take longer."

"It's been three days, but I guess time ain't working the same 'ere," Sétanta shrugs.

"It doesn't… did… did you guys win?"

"Nah. I mean, I killed Saebe' and Casta' but I died too. Kiddos are fine, though," he replies. "Got the little lady to use me ríastrad to do it, but it worked."

"Your – you mean that… that battle-frenzy legends talk about? I didn't know it was real."

"Why wuden it?" Sétanta asks.

Archer gives him an unimpressed look. "Legends often say bullshit. King Arthur is supposed to be a man."

"Yeah, guess so. But the ríastrad's real, an' it's a pain."

"Did you… how did you…"

"Casta' blasted a hole in me guts after I killed Saebe'. I stabbed that old 'ag in the heart and died. One on two like that ain't easy. T'was pretty rough."

 

Archer nods gravely.

 

"Don't worry, Laoch. It's fine now. And it's not like they'll rememba'."

"You will. You're going to die or worse so many times now, and Alaya will never let you forget."

"She can throw whatever she wants at me. I ain't scared ov 'er."

 

Archer gives him the most haunted look Sétanta has ever seen and for a second, he forgets how to breathe.

 

"You should be."

Notes:

Is it realistic for Lancer to win this fight? Probably not but hey, ríastrad

Anyway, the intro is over, and now we're getting into some Counter Guardian business!

PS: yes Emiya looks like a cat when he sleep, fight me.

Chapter 7: First summoning

Summary:

Archer and Cú Chulainn chat a bit, and get summoned by Alaya.

"You should be," Archer replies.

Lancer just stares at him in silence, as if he's looking for something on his face, in his eyes. Archer finds it almost impossible to withstand the demi-god's ruby eyes, but he stays still. He will protect Cú Chulainn from Alaya with everything he has, but the spearman needs to understand how terrifying she is. How she digs her claws into one's heart, how she uses the loneliness of her Counter Guardians to turn them into loyal dogs, how she becomes the only thing they have, the only constant in their lives. How they all end up begging for her attention. Humans are fragile like that; when everything is awful, they need something or someone to cling to, and Alaya becomes that someone. And it's terrifying, much more than any battlefield or mission, because it's just a matter of time before it happens.

Archer won't allow Cú Chulainn to end up like this, like him, but Alaya's never-ending ire is focused on them and that, Archer can't stop it. She's eternal, and she'll never forgive either of them for receiving Lugh's help. And since she can't take her anger out on the sun god, she'll take it out on them instead. Especially Lancer, the demi-god who dared defy her and stole her 'favourite' dog from her. Archer doesn't think about how he feels about being her favourite because if he does, he'll go back to loving her. 

 

"Well, I ain't. Maybe I'll be, but fer now? Nah. She can fuck right off," he says before looking up at the reddish sky and the clicking gears with a wolfish grin. "Ye hear tha', Alaya? I ain't scared of ye! Ye can throw whateva' ye want at me, I can take it with a smile on me face!" he yells.

 

Archer sighs. How long until Cú Chulainn regret the words? Soon enough, Alaya will send them on a quest to kill someone, or maybe an entire family this time. Knowing her, she will choose something awful, something that will break the spearman's will. And if he resists, she will use her Command Seals – or whatever her equivalent is – to force him to do something awful, that goes against everything he stands for. And when he rests, she'll send him dreams, she'll whisper in his head. She'll praise him when he kills, punish him when he doesn't. She will leave him with gaping wounds all over his body until he learns his lesson. She will teach him to beg, like she did with all the others. Like she did with Archer.

The bowman bites the inside of his cheek. He won't allow that. For everything she does to destroy Cú Chulainn, Archer will remind him of who he is, even if he must sacrifice what little sanity he has left. Alaya can have it, she already has him, and he knows a part of him will always be hers, even when he and Cú Chulainn will be free. So, she can have it. So long as he's with Lancer, so long as he remembers he'll be free, Archer can take it. He hopes, at least. What's one last year after almost two centuries? And even if it takes longer, he will be fine. He has a tangible goal, now. Someone to protect, someone to follow, someone to fight for. And that someone shines even brighter than the sun.
 

"How long does it take?"

"Hm?"

"Fer 'er to need ye? Or us, I guess."

"It depends," Archer replies. "Sometimes I stay here for hours, sometimes a few days. I can't say for sure, time doesn't work properly here, and I don't really keep track."

"What do ye do, then? Between summons?"

"Nothing, I guess?" he says, frowning as he tries to recall. "I sleep a lot, since I don't get the opportunity when she summons me."
 

That makes Lancer burst out laughing. His laughter reminds Archer of a barking dog, but he knows better than saying it out loud. Cú Chulainn probably wouldn't like that.
 

"Fuck, ye're a real cat, Laoch!"

"A cat?"

"Always cleanin' and stuff, ye sleep a lot and ye're almost feral sometimes. Real wild lad, like bein' nice would 'urt ye or somethin'," the spearman explains. "Reminds me of them wild cats."

 
Archer doesn't tell him that affection does hurt. It burns him like hot white metal. He hasn't had a proper relationship with anyone in over a century, and he's more familiar with pain than comfort. The only comfort he's had since his death is Alaya when she deems him worthy of praise, and it's not exactly a normal relationship between two people. No, excluding physical pain from fights, Archer is more familiar with loneliness than anything else. Over time, he slowly found a twisted form of comfort in it. Being alone means he's not in pain. Paradoxically, if the loneliness – and the thoughts that go along with it – becomes too much, he can have pain instead. He has plenty of blades lying around to do what he needs. He's never looked at the result because he's too much of a coward for it, but it's still a common occurrence.
 
Somehow, Cú Chulainn's warm presence and comfort hurt more than his sharpest blade or his worst memory. Still, he's welcoming it despite the conflicted feelings. The banter is welcome as well, especially after the truly terrible couple of days they've just had.

 
"If you keep comparing me to a cat, it's only fair that I compare you to an animal. You know that, right?"

"Don't ye da'e!" the spearman exclaims.
 

Archer raises his hands in mock defence; there's no real bite to Lancer's words.

 

"I haven't said a word."

"Ye thought 'bout it!"

"Can you honestly, genuinely, blame me?"

 
Cú Chulainn's eyebrow twitches in frustration. He's far too honest to lie, even during banter.

 
"Fuck ye!"

"Sure, but I don't think I'm a fantastic lay. You might regret it," Archer says as flatly as possible, which he deems absolutely worth it when Lancer's mouth falls open. "What?" he asks innocently.

"Ye can joke! Ye can make actual jokes!"

"Of course, I can joke. I just rarely have the opportunity to do so."

 

---

 

The pull of a summoning comes perhaps three hours later, at most. Archer doesn't resist, knowing he cannot refuse Alaya. He loves being summoned. If Alaya needs him, then he's not a failure. And if he does his job properly, she will praise him and call him her favourite and tell him he's good. 

Curious about Cú Chulainn's reaction, the bowman glances at him. The spearman seems surprised by the way the pull doesn't give them a choice. It feels almost like a Command Seal, with their bodies obeying on their own. He supposes it's different from being summoned as a Heroic Spirit, for they can always refuse the summoning. Heroes like Gilgamesh rarely answer summonings, and some like Artoria come as long as their master can sustain them or a relic is used. As reality shifts, Archer wonders what kind of summoning makes Cú Chulainn answer willingly.

Their bodies materialise in a forest, and their senses are immediately assaulted. The sun, although hidden by leaves, is too bright compared to the dull reddish sun dying in the foggy sky of his Reality Marble. There are many smells, and no harsh winds slap dust and sand in their face. The repetitive clicking of the gears is gone, replaced by the chirping of birds and the many noises of various insects. Leaving his personal hell and entering the real world used to comfort Archer, but not anymore. The real world means he's going to do something horrible, whether he likes it or not.

He glances at Lancer, wondering how he feels about their environment. The spearman looks unbothered, simply looking around and taking in where they are. Nothing special. Appearing here is probably not much different than being given a body during a Grail War. However, Archer can't look away, for Cú Chulainn's eyes glow and his hair glitter despite the little sunlight reaching them. He shimmers, as if all the light in the world is made for him, as if it is reflected on a skin made of jewels. Archer never saw him under the sun before, so he didn't expect for the spearman to look so… ethereal. He didn't think the nickname Ireland's Child of Light would be this literal, but he finds himself entranced by it. It's awe-inspiring, in a way.

Suddenly and without any consideration, the information about the time and place Alaya deems necessary is sent to their minds. They're in Medieval France, somewhere during the Middle Ages. Someone is continuing Gilles de Rais' monstrous work in their castle. The region is still recovering from the nobleman's actions, and this new criminal is most likely a mage feeding on the despair around them. Alaya needs it to end before it turns into a worldwide catastrophe. It would take time, but she always wants the problem to end before it can truly start. Not because she cares about the number of victims, but simply because it's simpler. Less work means sending less Counter Guardians.

'Go. Go to the castle. Kill all involved. Burn the castle. Nothing left. No witness. Nothing left. No witness.'

As always, her voice sounds distant, echoing in his head. She doesn't sound human, but rather like something trying to mimic a human, and it's unnerving. It reminds Archer of porcelain dolls; similar to humans, but still different. The Servant believes it used to disturb him, but he can't be sure. The memories of his first years as a Counter Guardian are distant, for they are over a century old. Now, this is the voice he's the most used to, and it bears a sense of familiarity and reassurance he's all but addicted to. It's comforting in a way it shouldn't be. Archer glances at Lancer, whose face betrays his discomfort. He's unfamiliar with the way Alaya speaks, the way one's body feels compelled to move and obey her.

 

"I'll neva' get used to people talkin' in me 'ead," the spearman grumbles.

"Don't worry; she doesn't speak much."

"I fuckin' 'ope so. She's 'enough ov a pain in the arse like tha'."

 

Archer shrugs and points at the forest's exit, about a kilometre from where they are.

 

"That way. I can't see the castle with the trees, but once we're out, we should know where it is exactly."

"Aye, let's go then. Betta' get on with it."

 

The nature around them is much more beautiful and healthier than what Archer is used to. Most of the places he's sent to are partially destroyed, whether by war or magic. The few times he's not sent to a warzone, it's in a city. He can't remember the last time he heard birds sing or saw a deer. The oaks and other European trees he can't recognise are big and healthy, most of them taller than a modern house. A crow watches them curiously from a branch, and Archer can't help but be amused. Birds of death indeed. There is a reason why mages like them so much. They're among the few animals who can feel mana and understand when something isn't supposed to be here, like Heroic Spirits.

 

 

"Urgh, the Morrígan's got a meal nearba or somethin'?" Lancer growls when he notices the bird.

"Not all crows are the Morrígan," Archer shrugs.

"Yeah, some are Odin. And it ain't betta'. At least the Morrígan's got a crush on me, and I can tell 'er off."

"The Morrígan's got a what now?"

"She offered me 'e' love once. Told 'er nah. She didn't like it."

"I had heard you weren't the most faithful of husbands, but even a goddess wanted to get in your bed? Is there anyone in Ireland you didn't sleep with?" Archer asks in disbelief.

"Amon' the ones who asked? Medb. And the Morrígan. Wait, there was that lady frem up North, too. Derbforgaill, or somethin' like tha'. Pretty lassie, but I gave 'er to a friend of mine. She was a princess so she'd have to be me wife but I had Emer, 'n' havin' two wives ain't possible in Ulster."

 

That's what stopped him?' Archer can't help but wonder, almost offended on Emer's behalf.

 

"And your wife was alright with you sleeping around?"

"They were just flings when I went to wa'," he shrugs. "'S'not like I was bringin' them home."

Archer shakes his head. "I can't imagine being okay with my partner sleeping around like that. Nothing against you, because you sound like you two were happy but I can't picture that for myself."

 

He's never pictured anything for himself, but neither of them say anything about it. Still, curiosity must burn Lancer's tongue, because he asks questions nonetheless.

 

"Ye ever had someone, Archa'?"

"In my bed? Yes. In my life? No."

"Ooh, so ye're not a blushin' virgin!" the spearman cackles, bumping his shoulder against Archer's.

 

The bowman gives the other Servant a deadpan look.

 

"It's been a while, but I was a healthy teenager at some point, you know?" he says drily, but Lancer returns the look, just as unconvinced.

"Archa', I've met yer teenage self. Ye weren't scorin' nothin' at that time. Mana transfa' don't count," he teases.

 

Archer rolls his eyes. Usually, the mention of Shirō Emiya would hurt but for some reason, it doesn't bother him as much as it usually does. To be entirely fair, his reactions to his past self have never been consistent. Sometimes, something as simple as thinking about who he used to be, what kind of vain, idiotic boy he once was is enough to send him into an uncontrollable state of fury and despair. Sometimes, it takes a fight against a genuinely good man, against a true hero, to send him into a state of madness. Sometimes, neither affects him. It seems the last War left him too numb to care this time.

 

"I had people in my bed. Never the same person twice, but it still happened."

 

Cú Chulainn's bark-like laughter echoes in the forest, and birds flee at the sound. As much as Archer enjoyed the songs, he finds that he prefers the laughter. Not that it's beautiful to hear or anything, but it's Cú Chulainn's, and it's more than enough for Archer.

 

 

"What's so funny?" he can't help but ask.

"Just picturin' ye tryin' to 'it on some lassie!"

"People mostly came to me. I'm not good at… seduction."

"People eh? Not just lassies?"

"What does 'lassies' even mean?"

"Girls."

"Ah. Then, no, not just 'lassies'," he replies, making sure to mimic quotation marks.

 

Cú Chulainn's red eyes set his skin aflame, and Archer tries his best not to blush. Human interactions are complicated, and he doesn't really know how to interpret the spearman's look. Objectively, Archer knows he can be attractive. He's had enough partners to confirm it, and, with his white hair and tanned skin, he's been ogled a lot. But Cú Chulainn's eyes are different. For a change, Archer actually cares about Cú Chulainn, whereas he never got attached to his one-time flings.

 

"I got some lads in me bed too! Mostly Ferdiad, but we weren't always on the same side. Ye heard ‘bout 'im?"

"Yes, your foster brother."

"'S'that what people call 'im now?" Cú Chulainn asks, his bark-like laughter back in full force.

"What else are we supposed to call him?"

"Me first love, and me best friend."

 

Archer does his best to ignore the green-eyed monster snaking around his heart. Instead, he just hums. They reach the end of the forest to almost stumble upon a massive castle surrounded by desolate villages. It's barely half a kilometre away, which is strange. How could so much destruction go unnoticed? The forest isn't nearly dense enough to hide all of this! Archer can almost smell the suffering in the air, and his eyes are already irritated by the disgusting mana permeating the air. A glance shared with the spearman tells him they're both equally surprised. The pair looks behind them, at the forest. It's Lancer who seems to notice what's wrong first.

 

"I think there's a heart tree that way," he says, pointing at the middle of the forest. He frowns, squints his eyes, focusing on what he apparently sees – or senses, perhaps. "It's old, it must be keepin' all that shite away. It ain't gonna last foreva' but fer now, it's holdin'. I ain't much of a druid so I can't tell ye shite 'bout how it works, but me ma was and she made damn sure I could find a heart tree with me eyes closed. She'd be livid considering the time it took me to spot it."

"That's actually impressive. I used to be a mage and I can't sense anything."

 

Lancer shrugs, balancing his spear on his shoulder.

 

"She went on a tirade 'bout me bein' a demi-god and all tha'. 'D'ye know who yer ma is, Sétanta? Ye do, aye? So make me proud and find the tree or Lugh 'elp me I'll get the broom!'." he says, poorly mimicking a woman's voice. 

"I must confess, it seems quite amusing to witness."

"Aye, I'm su'e it was! Wasn't fun fer good ol' me, though."

"I can imagine," Archer replies.

 

He does his best not to laugh, but it's harder than he thought, and he can't help the smirk on his face. The idea of a much younger Cú Chulainn, demi-god and hero of Ulster, being chased by a woman with a broom was absolutely hilarious to picture. 

 

"Alright, ye've laugh'd enough! Let's get goin'."

Notes:

The actual mission starts next chapter!!

Fun fact, Emiya was actually supposed to have another breakdowns this chapter but I changed my mind. I mean, that's why the mission is here!!

Chapter 8: The Cursed Castle

Summary:

The mission happens, and Sétanta discovers what Alaya can do.

What awaits them as they near the castle is nothing short of a wasteland of misery and death. The villages are empty, the houses left to crumble and there's not even the shadow of some grass. Everything is dead, like all the life of the region has been stolen by someone. Animal corpses are rotting on the ground, worms disgustingly crawling through the decomposing flesh and feasting on it. The nightmarish putrid smell makes Sétanta instinctively protect his nose, although it doesn't help much. Anyone less used to wars and battlefields would undoubtedly be retching whatever would be in their stomach, but luckily for Sétanta, he's seen worse. Probably done worse, too. War is an ugly thing.

Above them, crows sing, and Sétanta scowl. He doesn't like the Morrígan, she who finds pleasure and joy in senseless slaughter and massacres. She who makes his own bloodthirst worse and loves him the most when he loses control of his own mind. She who adores the part of himself Sétanta loathes. Mistress of Crows, Lady of Slaughter, Queen of Massacres, the Morrígan rules over carnage and sends her birds to feast upon the corpses of fallen warriors. She's probably uninterested in the bodies lying around them; animals have never interested her. No, she waits to see what Sétanta and Archer will do to the mage responsible for all this carnage. It's probably going to be an ugly fight if she's here. A simple execution would be boring to her. The spearman swallows a curse and focuses on the hellhole around them.

 

"We should burn that whole place 'til there's nothin' left."

"When the mage dies, nature will heal on its own. And we haven't been asked to do it, so this place will be fine on its own."

"Ye often see shite like that?"

"In terms of pure destruction, it's usually much worse. Wrecked villages aren't very high on Alaya's list of targets,” Archer says drily. “But the smell is pretty bad. I could definitely do without."

"Guess so. What 'bout the mage? What kind of nutjob do ye think they'll be?"

"What did Alaya tell you about Gilles de Rais?"

"Mess'd up fella who butcher'd kiddos and ladies, mostly. She didn't tell me everythin', though, 'cause I ain't got any precise idea ov what he did."

 

Archer frowns, before cooling his expression.

 

"Of course," he mutters, but he's talking to himself. "Well, picture the worst you can imagine, and then double it," he tells Sétanta after a moment.

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"How do ye even know?"

"History books back when I was human."

 

Sétanta is pretty sure the bowman is lying to him, or at the very least isn't saying the whole truth. Has Alaya given him more information? But why? She wants to use him which means she has no good reason to withhold information. As much as she hates him, she remains a pragmatic being. Her targets come before her dislike of him and Lugh. The spearman shakes his head; no need to dwell on it. He'll get the missing information soon enough.

Finally, they get to the castle. The steel doors are massive, but nothing a duo of Servants can't deal with. It would make their presence known to anyone in the castle, of course, but if they're supposed to kill everyone involved in this mess, it's perhaps better. The quicker they're done, the sooner they can leave this hellhole. Sétanta twirls Gáe Bulg in his hand and Archer steps away, knowing what he's going to do. Sétanta inhales, focuses his strength, and brings Gáe Bulg down on the doors. Both break down instantly, unable to handle a legendary cursed spear infused with a demi-god's mana. One powerful kick by Archer takes down what's still on their way, and they walk in the outer court. They slowly make their way through it, searching for any sign of life.

Nothing. No one. Not even a sound beyond their own steps on the ground.

The castle looks empty, almost as dead as the fields around it. But Sétanta isn't fooled. Something is coming. Archer must feel it as well, because he summons his bow and some arrows, looking around. They keep advancing, careful about their environment. Whatever is coming isn't here yet. The Servants make it to the inner courtyard when a bizarre sound is heard. It could be a moan or a cry, but it's twisted and filled with more suffering and terror than humanly possible. There's anger within it as well. It's unsettling, and Sétanta gets ready to kill whatever is making this disturbing sound.

The chimeras appear like a swarm, and Sétanta growls in his throat, sharp teeth exposed in a snarl. He hates chimeras. They're an insult to the dead who won't rest in peace as long as their corpses are used this way. Once humans or animals, the twisted creatures have several faces and even more limbs. Their bodies are big and disgraceful, with their gigantic hands grabbing onto the stone walls. Their behaviour reminds Sétanta of spiders or cockroaches as they crawl on the walls and ramparts. Some come out of the lower windows and crawl on the ground. They surround the two Servants, their many mouths moaning or crying or snarling.

 

"That's some disgustin' shite. Whoever made those is some twisted baste'd."

"Gille de Rais probably did much worse," Archer replies flatly. "Can you deal with them? I'll find the mage controlling those guys and kill them. It should stop them. Otherwise, they'll just keep coming."

"Fine by me, Laoch! Get goin'!"

 

Archer replaces his bow with his twin swords and jumps on the pathway watching over the yard, leading from tower to another, just below the massive ramparts. He kills two chimeras before disappearing in Spirit Form. Sétanta grins before throwing himself into the fray. His spear easily tears apart the chimeras' cursed flesh. Greenish goo-like blood spurts out and drenches Sétanta, the smell just as putrid as the corpse the monsters are of. A wave of nausea almost makes him puke, but the spearman doesn't relent.

His spear keeps going, he keeps killing and dodging, never worried about his safety. As repulsive as they are, chimeras aren't strong to properly harm him. Even if one of them somehow got him, Lugh's divine blood would protect him. Usually, the sun god's blood wouldn't protect him as strongly as it does currently, but it's midday and Sétanta is standing right below the sun. Lugh's power is his to use, and Sétanta knows he must shine. No chimera will be able to harm him as long the sun watches over him.

As he slashes through another chimera, a child's eyes look at him, and its mouth opens. Instead of a cry, however, words come out.

 

"H… he… l… p…"

 

Sétanta jumps back, eyes widening. As he realises what this implies, the spearman feels sick to his stomach, and horror fills him. They are still alive. They are still conscious. They know what's happening. These people feel their bodies twisted out of shape, forced to move by a mage, merged by dark magic. They still feel the pain of what's been done to them, they still beg for mercy, for help. It's sickening. Who can do something so cruel? So inhuman? Not even Medb did such things, and gods know she did some messed up shit. Breathing heavily, Sétanta looks around, pays more attention to the faces. Most of them express raw dread and pure suffering, and the spearman finds it hard to keep his grip on Gáe Bulg.

 

"H… u… r… t…" the voice – no, the child pleads again.

 

Sétanta bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, firmly gripping his spear. He raises it once more, and the child's eyes widen.

 

"Sorry, lad. That's the only wae I can 'elp."

 

Gáe Bulg takes the chimera’s life, and then another, and another, and another, until Sétanta can't even tell how many he's killed, how many died asking for help. In the end, he stands in the middle of twisted bodies, soaked in greenish blood, not a scratch on his body. Usually, he would celebrate such a victory, but he can't. This wasn't a fight; it was mercy – or so he tells himself because the other option would make him weep. The sun's warmth gently caresses his skin, and he smiles sadly. Is his Da trying to comfort him? The spearman looks up; there are no clouds in sight. Lugh is indeed watching. 

But suddenly, Sétanta hears a crow. He whirls around and finds the bird on a wooden construction, probably a former weapon rack.

 

"Ye eat chimeras, now?" he asks the Morrígan. "Wuden it make ye sick?"

 

Of course, he gets no answer from the bird. The goddess isn't nearly strong enough to talk to him like this. This isn't some battlefield in her lands; she can merely send one of her many birds to watch. Perhaps it's the same as the one he saw earlier, although he can't be certain. Crows all look the same to him. Turning away, the spearman rushes inside the building; he needs to focus on his job and join Archer. He can hear the sound of a fight, and he has no intention of allowing his broken warrior to be hurt – or worse, killed – again. The Fifth Holy Grail War was awful enough. 

Following the sounds, Sétanta finds the bowman one floor below. He's battling a gigantic chimera which, like the ones the spearman fought, seems aware of what is happening. Its many heads cry and moan in both pain and rage, but Archer seems completely unaffected by it. He's relentless, and his attacks precise and methodical.

Still, he is sent flying by one of the creature's many arms. Sétanta quickly jumps and catches him by the waist just before he hits the wall, landing a few metres away. He puts the bowman down, and twirls Gáe Bulg in his hand.

 

"Ye alright the', Laoch?"

"Yes, I appreciate the save. The owner is behind it, and it protects him whenever I attack. It's taking longer than planned."

"I'll keep the chimera busy. Take ca’e ov the masta'."

 

Archer gives a grunt in lieu of an answer, but it's enough for Sétanta, who jumps on the creature. Something in him weeps when he sees a toddler weeping in fear and pain, but he pushes it down and cuts one of the monster's many limbs. Behind him, Archer summons his bow and arrows start raining down. The chimera immediately reacts; it makes for its master and protects it. The rotting flesh regenerates where Archer's arrows cut it, with pus and other bodily fluids leaking from the closed wounds. Sétanta grimaces, repulsed.

Nonetheless, he goes back to his task, wishing he could just throw Gáe Bulg and be done with all of this. Especially considering that, now that he isn't under the sun, most of his father's protection is dulled. When he's sent crashing against a wall, Sétanta painfully realises that the chimera's attacks can break his bones. Some of his ribs are smashed, but if there's one thing he can give Alaya, it's her massive amount of mana. She isn't being cheap with that and gives the two Servants what they need and more. Sétanta's bones are healed almost instantly, and he's yet to feel an ounce of exhaustion.

Archer's final arrow whistles through to air like a shooting star, and the chimeras rushes to protect its owner. Of course, Sétanta doesn't allow it and attacks the creature. The weapon, which Sétanta can't identify, twists in the air with a crackling sound. Before Sétanta can wonder what weapon it is, the mage screams. The chimera roars one last time before falling to the ground, dead. Sétanta pokes it twice in one of its many faces before making his way to the bowman.

 

"Noice shot! What arrow was tha'?"

"A weaker version of Hrunting. It's less destructive, but it doesn't miss,” he explains as he jumps down from his vantage point. “Are you wounded?"

"Nah. Alaya's a bitch, but she gave me 'nough mana to 'eal me arse. I'm as good as new!"

The bowman nods and gestures towards a door. "The main mage behind all of this is in this. They sent their second-in-command to slow us down. We should hurry before they harvest all the mana floating around and turn into a real problem."

"Let's go then!"

 

Sétanta kicks open the door, the protections unable to hold against Alaya's mana and Lugh's divine blood. He gives Archer a satisfied grin before turning around to look at the room. Thanks to his superior eyesight, the dark doesn't hinder him at all. Thus, Sétanta immediately pales and slams a hand on his mouth so he doesn't throw up. The inside of the room is worse than a nightmare come true. 

Bodies have been carved up, the organs sewn together. Some have been turned into… furniture, for lack of a better term, the limbs twisted unnaturally. Objects of all kinds have been shoved in articulations or between the organs. Some bodies have been turned into some sort of machinery, moving in jerks like some sort of macabre dance. Corpses in various stages of decomposition are hanging from the ceiling, their organs dangling and leaking all sorts of fluids. Jars filled with eyes, tongues, nails and other body parts are piled up on a shelf next to several massive books.

That's when Sétanta notices with horror that, just like the chimeras, some of the poor souls trapped in here are still alive, despite being torn apart and some of their organs gone or otherwise twisted. He feels himself pale and glances at Archer. His face is completely blank, but Sétanta can't tell if it's because he's horrified or doesn't care. Knowing Archer, he might be bottling everything in order to be as efficient as possible. Part of Sétanta isn't so sure Archer is affected by what's happened in that room, to those people.

The mage responsible for all of this removes their hood, revealing the beautiful face of a lady in her early twenties, with golden locks and bright green eyes. She's holding an ornate dagger, most likely designed for some ritual.

 

"Il ne servait vraiment à rien!" she complains, with a pout that makes Sétanta's blood boil.

"Tu l’as envoyé seul contre un demi-dieu et un Counter Guardian. Tu t'attendais à quoi?" Archer replies.

 

The only words Sétanta understands are “Counter Guardian”. Alaya hasn't deemed it necessary for him to understand French, and it's not like he had the opportunity to learn it while alive – especially since he lived about one thousand years ago, so French probably didn't even exist. Archer, however, looks fluent. It's probably not Alaya, so Sétanta supposes he learnt it on his own at some point. 

 

"Un peu plus de temps, déjà. C'est injuste, j’avais presque terminé ! Mon œuvre allait être splendide et maintenant, vous allez tout gâcher. Qu’est-ce que ça peut bien lui faire, que je massacre quelques humains ?"

 

This time, Archer doesn't answer, and simply fires a bunch of swords at the woman the same way bloody Gilgamesh does. Sétanta takes it as a signal that the conversation is over and attacks the woman. She chants something and light explodes in the room, allowing her to avoid a deadly stab. The second chant elicits screams of agony from the captives. Worm-like creatures come out their guts, covered in gore and blood. The poor captives aren't even allowed to die, their bodies jerking as the creatures attack Sétanta and Archer.

With a wide slash of Gáe Bulg, he cuts through a dozen creatures, and their heads fall to ground, twitching like headless chickens. But the captives scream even more, and the mage cackles. Rage makes Sétanta's blood boil; that bitch linked those monsters to the people she tortured. With a snarl, he jumps towards the woman, avoiding the creatures. He has to kill her. If she dies, everything will end. They will be able to die, to rest. He swings Gáe Bulg to cut the woman in half – a quicker death than she deserves –, but the creatures form a wall of twisting worms between them. Sétanta stops in time and jumps back, analyses the room. He doesn't want to hurt these people more than necessary.

 

"Quel abruti ! J’en étais sûre ! Tu ne veux pas leur faire de mal, n’est-ce pas ?"

 

No need to understand what she says to know her words are taunting and mocking him. Sétanta growls, annoyed. He needs to get to her without harming the creatures more than necessary. Before he can come up with an idea, however, one of the monsters screeches in pain, its mouth opening wide and revealing even more teeth that Sétanta thought was possible. It falls to the ground, unmoving. Not even a twitch. 

Sétanta looks at the human it's coming out of, and he sees Archer removing one of his twin swords from a little girl's head. She's dead. The bowman gives the mage an unimpressed look.

 

"Tu n’es pas aussi maligne que tu le penses. Comme je le pensais, il suffit de tuer les corps d’origine pour se débarrasser de tes petits jouets."

"Si j'avais pu finir mon œuvre, ce ne serait pas aussi facile !"

 

Archer shrugs and summons his bow once again. This time, he aims at the ceiling, muttering under his breath. Understanding what's coming, the spearman grips Gáe Bulg and gets into a defensive position. A second later, red arrows start raining down, tearing through the flesh of both monsters and victims. Sétanta avoids most of the projectiles and deflects the few that would touch him. The onslaught only lasts two seconds, but it's enough. The creatures are dead, and the mage is wounded. Sétanta is impressed she isn't dead; Archer's arrows are capable of great damage.

Not that he complains.

The spearman walks towards the woman and, although she tries to fire a few spells at him, he easily avoids or deflects them. Some of them don't even affect him, too weak to cause any damage to a Heroic Spirit. In a fit of panic, she starts throwing rocks at him, but she doesn't even have the strength to aim properly.

 

"Merde ! Merde, merde, merde ! Je peux pas mourir ici ! Je dois finir l’œuvre de monseigneur Gilles !" she shrieks. "Je dois le ramener et devenir sa nouvelle Jeanne !"

 

Ignoring her screams, Sétanta grabs her by the neck and lifts her until her feet are dangling above ground. She instinctively tightens her hands on Sétanta's wrists as much as she can, trying to make him let go. The spearman only holds tighter until he feels the tell-tale snap of a broken neck. The hands slide down Sétanta's arm, and he lets the body go. It hits the floor with a thump, the woman's green eyes devoid of life and madness. Part of him wishes he had drowned out the mage's death so she might have felt an ounce of what she's done to her victims, but Sétanta refuses to sink that low. Still, killing her was pleasing.

 

"Good riddance!" he exclaims. "No one's gonna miss that nutjob!"

"Indeed," Archer says. "Do you think you can look for something flammable? I need to check something."

"No need; I'll just use me runes! I ain't a Casta', but I've got 'nough mana to burn down that shithole! What'cha lookin' fer?" he asks when he sees Archer looking around the room.

Alaya answers before Archer can.

 

'Can't you tell? It's not over. It's not over. In the cells, there are witnesses. No witnesses, no one left. Kill everyone. They saw. They must die.'

 

Forced by Alaya, Sétanta walks to a cell door. He opens it, and his heart drop. There are children and women, alive and as well as could be in this situation. They're mostly unharmed, albeit terrified and emaciated. The women are holding the children tight against their chests and have fire in their eyes, fiercely protective even in this situation.

 

"Ye're fuckin' with me."

'Of course not. Emiya warned you, did he not? That you should fear me. That I would make you pay for your father's actions. Kill them all, Cú Chulainn. This is an order.'

Notes:

French to English translation :

Il ne servait vraiment à rien!" -> He was really useless!

"Tu l’as envoyé seul contre un demi-dieu et un Counter Guardian. Tu t'attendais à quoi?" -> You sent him alone against a demi-god and a Counter Guardian. What did you expect?

Un peu plus de temps, déjà. C'est injuste, j’avais presque terminé ! Mon œuvre allait être splendide et maintenant, vous allez tout gâcher. Qu’est-ce que ça peut bien lui faire, que je massacre quelques humains ? -> More time, to begin with. It's unfair, I was almost done! My work was going to be magnificent and now, you're going to ruin everything. Why does it matter to her, that I slaughter a few humains?

Quel abruti ! J’en étais sûre ! Tu ne veux pas leur faire de mal, n’est-ce pas ? -> What a moron! I knew it! You don't want to hurt them, do you?

"Tu n’es pas aussi maligne que tu le penses. Comme je le pensais, il suffit de tuer les corps d’origine pour se débarrasser de tes petits jouets." -> You're not as smart as you think you are. Just as I thought, I only need to kill the bodies to get rid of your little pets.

"Si j'avais pu finir mon œuvre, ce ne serait pas aussi facile !" -> If my work was done, it wouldn't be so easy!

Merde ! Merde, merde, merde ! Je peux pas mourir ici ! Je dois finir l’œuvre de monseigneur Gilles !" she shrieks. "Je dois le ramener et devenir sa nouvelle Jeanne ! -> Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! I can't die here! I must finish my lord Gilles' work! I must bring him back and become the new Jeanne!

Chapter 9: Old Habits

Summary:

It's a bad day. A very bad day.

Alternatively:
Sétanta : so how many issues do you have?
Archer : yes.

The moment Cú Chulainn starts moving against his will, raising his spear in jerky moves, Archer acts. Because the spearman is trying to resist Alaya's order, Archer is faster and successfully blocks Gáe Bulg with Konshō. The weapons clash with a loud noise as sparks fly. Behind Archer, the innocent captives scream in fear. They who believed they were being rescued against all odds now have to witness two Servants fight. Any other day, he would feel bad for them. But he only focuses on Cú Chulainn. Nothing else matters.

The pressure on Kanshō is intense, and Archer grits his teeth to withstand it. Still, he refuses to look at Cú Chulainn's face, knowing that the only thing that awaits him is pure dread, and he's not strong enough to see it on Lancer's face. Fuck. He should have known she would make him kill the witnesses. He should have known, he should have known, he should have known! From the moment Cú Chulainn said Alaya didn't share with him the same information about Gilles de Rais' as she did with Archer, he's known something is wrong. He thought she wanted to scare him with the horrifying acts the mage had committed in the name of her obsession, but it's worse. 

Alaya wants to break Cú Chulainn's spirit by making murder defenceless women and children. As a hero of Ulster and a member of the Red Branch, he's never slaughtered innocent civilians before. Making him do such things will break something in him that will never be fixed, and that's exactly what she wants. If by some miracle he doesn't break, it will only anger Alaya more, and as such she'll hurt him over and over again as revenge for Lugh's actions and his own resilience. The Counter Guardian feels bile rising in his throat and his stomach twisting. It's his fault. It's all his fault. As always. He's such a failure, such the opposite of a hero that it's almost laughable. So powerless he finds himself begging Alaya for mercy without a second thought.

 

'Let him go. I'll do it. I'll kill them. You just need them dead, right? I'll do it.'

'Will you? You don't want to be my good boy anymore. How do I know you'll obey and not betray me again?'

'You know I can't! I'll do it, just leave him be! You can Command me to do it!'

'You truly want to keep him safe and sound, don't you? You asked faster than I thought you would. But you need to be taught a lesson.'

'Let me do it. Don't do this to him. Let me do it instead. I'm your dog, aren't I? I'll do it properly and quickly. Better than he ever could.'

 

There's no answer, and Archer wishes he could stab himself or rip out his own heart. He knows what she wants to hear, what she wants him to do. Later, he'll hate himself for breaking so quickly. For now, he tells himself he does it for Cú Chulainn. In truth, he knows he's doing it for himself, because he's not ready to be free yet. He's too weak for freedom, he still loves Alaya too much. He wants to do it, because it means she will keep praising him, keep calling him her darling boy, her favourite, her knight, her hero.

 

'Let me kill them myself. Please.'

'Of course my darling boy. How could I refuse when you're asking so nicely?'

'Thank you.'

Immediately, Cú Chulainn stumbles back, panting, and Archer dares looking at his face. It's grief-stricken, the ruby eyes filled with so much anguish and despair Archer wants to throw up. He wants to hug him, wants to tell him that it's fine, that everything's going to be okay, that the innocents will be allowed to live. But he can't, because it would be a filthy lie. And, as painful as the truth is, Archer knows Lancer wouldn't prefer a gentle lie over it.

"She stopped?" the spearman wonders aloud, flexing his fingers.

"I asked her to."

"An' she listen'd?" the hero asks, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

"Close the door when you leave," is all Archer can reply.

Cú Chulainn's eyes widen and several emotions flicker through them. Surprise, realisation, horror and finally, anger.

"No!" he bellows.

"Get out. It will be easier."

Lancer's anger turns into grief and he turns around, slamming the door shut behind him. He must be mourning the unlucky witnesses. So long as he leaves, that's fine. He doesn't want Cú Chulainn to see him like that.

The Counter Guardian turns to face his targets. Five women, six children. The women are hiding the children behind them, and a woman in her thirties stands in front of the group. None of them have any fighting abilities. Still, Alaya wishes them dead, and so he will obey. He tilts his head to the side, wondering how he should proceed. Sending a hail of arrows would be messy. They might try to run. They would scream. Some might take some time to die. How should he proceed? What would be the most efficient way? Alaya doesn't seem to care as long as they die.

“Est-ce que nous aurons mal ?" asks the oldest woman.

The Counter Guardian blinks, surprised. He didn't expect them to speak. But it gives him an idea.

"Non, ce sera comme s'endormir."

"D’accord," she says calmly before turning to the other. "Les enfants, fermez les yeux et priez. Notre Seigneur qui est aux Cieux désire nous rencontrer. Inutile d’avoir peur, nous serons bientôt en paix. Nous n'aurons ni mal ni peur. Vous pouvez faire ça pour moi ?"

The children nod and hug each other, muttering prayers. The other women do their best as well, but they're softly crying. He doesn't listen. Instead, he calls upon his mana and casts a sleeping spell on the humans. He isn't the most talented mage, but he's strong enough to put a room of regular humans to sleep. Their bodies fall to the ground with soft thumps. For a second, he observes their sleeping form. They seem at peace. Will he ever be at peace? The swords fall on the humans with a gesture of his hand, and they all die instantly and painlessly.

 

'Good job. You're being such a good boy!'

He can feel phantasmagoric cold arms hugging him, and he lets himself melt in the embrace. He did well. He's good. He's broken.

'My sweet knight, don't you like it when I'm happy?'

Of course he does. He loves her. She's made him a hero, and thanks to her, he's been able to save the world so many times. He's saved countless people, just like he always wanted. He killed them, he never saved anyone. He's a hero of justice. He's a monster.

'Exactly. You're my hero. You just need to finish the job, now.'

He nods and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him. Cú Chulainn is standing next to the door, staring at him with slightly wide eyes. Something in the Counter Guardians weeps at the grief in the spearman's eyes, but he ignores it. He has a job to do. Alaya is counting on him, and he won't disappoint her. Lancer comes up to him and a hesitant hand is raised, going for his shoulder, but the Counter Guardian slaps it away. He doesn't like being touched. It burns.

Ignoring the hero's painted face, he grabs a torch on the wall and inspects the room around them. It should burn quite quickly. There's some hay upstairs, and the castle structure has a lot of dry wood. It will burn nicely. But before he can start the fire, Cú Chulainn traces a rune against a wall, and flames burst to life, greedily swallowing everything.

"It'll stop on its own when the castle's ashes," he says in a flat tone that doesn't suit him. He looks up, a hand on his hip. "Ye gonna let us leave, now?"

Alaya's mana glitters in the air, and reality shifts. Instantly, they're back in the Reality Marble, and she's gone. The Counter Guardian whines in displeasure. She was supposed to praise him! That hero took Alaya's praise all for himself! He whirls around to punch the man in the face, but before he can do anything, Cú Chulainn's hugs him tightly and he freezes.

"It's ova', Laoch. Ye can come back, now."

Archer blinks, and just like that, everything does come back. The murders, the way he fell right back into Alaya's clutches, how he let her praise him, how he loved the words whispered in his head and the cold arms around him. He's disgusting. He wants to die. He wants to disappear. His sight becomes blurry, and hiccups make their way out of his throat. He's crying. Sobbing, even, and he can't stop himself.

No words come out when Archer opens his mouth, only croaking sounds. What's there to say, anyway? Apologies? It wouldn't bring the dead back, it wouldn't make the all-encompassing dread of still loving Alaya go away. Everything hurts so much, the guilt, the self-loathing, Cú Chulainn's palpable anger. He must hate Archer. He must wish he'd never sacrifice his afterlife for a messed-up freak like the bowman. Somehow, it's what hurts the most.

Desperate, Archer clings to the hero's back for a comfort he doesn't deserve. Even if Cú Chulainn ends up hating him, he needs to hold onto him. At least a bit. It's incredibly selfish, but he can't help himself. Warm arms tighten around him, and Archer finds himself hiccuping even more. The warmth spreads through his body, the comforting act washing away Alaya's cold embrace. It's like Cú Chulainn's mana is surrounding him, turning into a blanket and warming him to the bones. It burns in the best of ways.

"I'm sorry, Laoch. Ye shouldn't've done that alone. I'll be the’ now. Ye ain't alone no mo'e. I ain't lettin’ that ‘appen again."

Why is Cú Chulainn of all people apologising? He hasn't done anything wrong! No matter how much he suffers because of his broken mind, Archer would rather endure it than allow Cú Chulainn to commit them. He wants to tell him, wants to articulate that he'd rather be Alaya's dog than let her hurt Lancer in any way. But he can't talk. Words won't come out, and it frustrates him to no end. All he can muster are whines and strings of vowels that don't make any sense. His head is foggy, and he can't put together a coherent string of thoughts. He feels like he's floating outside of his body and mind, disconnected from reality. Cú Chulainn's body against his is his only anchor, the hero the only thought he can muster.

At some point, he becomes vaguely aware that Lancer is guiding him to the ground. He finds himself sitting, tucked against Cú Chulainn's chest, his head resting in the crook of the hero's neck. The other Servant is still talking to him, but Archer isn't able to undertake what he's saying. His brain doesn't even try to understand the words, barely registers them. It's pathetic, really. But Archer sinks into the embrace, and he lets Cú Chulainn's mana gently put him to sleep. He doesn't have the strength nor the will to resist.

 

---

When Archer falls asleep, Sétanta allows his own tears to roll down his cheeks. He's been a splendid, one-of-a-kind moron! He's underestimated Alaya's cruelty, her power over Archer. Sétanta wishes he could kill her brutally, wishes he could rip her apart with his bare hands for what she's done to Archer, wishes he could make her regret mocking him as Archer was killing those poor souls. Her words still echo in his head, mocking and taunting him.

'I told you didn't I? He's my good boy. My good dog. He loves me so much he'll beg for a scrap of my attention. And you can't do anything about it.'

Sétanta instinctively tightens his hold on Archer's sleeping form as he remembers Alaya's words. He will do something about his fellow Servant's suffering. He'll teach him what love is, what freedom feels like. He'll protect him from Alaya, he'll take him to his Afterlife, where he can rest without fearing for his sanity. He'll prove that bitch wrong. He's going to make sure Archer is happy and at peace, no matter how long it takes. He can't explain his growing obsession for the other hero, but Sétanta doesn't find it in himself to care. He doesn't need to understand. Some people call it fate, others the will of the gods… Sétanta doesn't name it. He just accepts it.

"Ye won the first round, bitch. But I ain't lettin' ye do that to 'im again," he growls, a wave of possessiveness washing over him. "'E's mine, now."

Of course, Alaya doesn't reply. It seems she doesn't interact with her Guardians in-between missions. And, even during missions, she seems to limit herself at giving the basic information about their missions. Something tells Sétanta that the only reason she didn't tell him what the mission entailed was her desire to hurt him. She probably knows that, had he known from the beginning he would have to kill the remaining prisoners no matter what, he might have been able to do it. She wanted to hurt him.

Had she planned for Archer to offer himself, when she Commanded Sétanta? Probably. She knows what state he's in, how she conditioned him to half-adoring and half-fearing her. The thought makes Sétanta growls. Fucking bitch. Playing with his mind like this… No wonder Archer is so prompt to break down when he talks about his status. He both loves and fears Alaya, and he most likely has no idea how to function beyond the missions she gives him and the occasional Holy Grail Wars.

Once again, Sétanta wishes he could rip her apart with his bare hands.

He looks at the bowman's sleeping face. The anguish that was twisting his features is gone, and he looks almost at peace. His nose scrunches up sometimes, and his eyelids twitch, but nothing out of the ordinary from a sleeping person. Sétanta gently brings a hand to his face, and lets his fingers trace his features with feather-like touches. At first glance, he looks nothing like the boy he once was but now, but now, Sétanta can see some common features. The cheekbones are the same, and the blink-and-you-miss-it mole below his ear is identical, although much harder to see on Archer's dark skin.

How long did it take for his skin to burn until both scars and moles disappear? How long did it take for his hair to become bleached like this? And, of course, how many times has he been forced to do something like this? How many times has he been sent to kill innocents, whose only sin was being at the wrong place at the wrong time? How long has he been trapped? Archer told him one hundred and fifty years, but by his own admission, his memory is faulty. So… how long? How long has Alaya been hurting him like this?

He hates her. Lugh, he hates her.

Will she send them to kill children over and over again? He shivers at the thought. It is, after all, a real possibility. She might. She's furious, after all, and wants nothing more but to break him and take her revenge on Lugh. He tightens his hold on the sleeping Counter Guardian. They have each other. It will be enough, no matter where she sends them. It has to be.

Sétanta looks up to the red sun of the Reality Marble; he misses the real sun, which carries his father's warmth and power. This is just a pale imitation, and it looks more like blood than the star it's supposed to replace. Still, it brings him some comfort.

"Please Da… get us out ov 'ere. He ain't gonna last foreva'..." he whispers.

Archer wakes up a few hours later, taking a deep breath in and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Sétanta lets him sit up, although he keeps his arms around him, albeit loosely. The bowman seems a bit confused as to where they are at first, and his face goes bright red when he notices his position. He moves back, sitting a good metre away from Sétanta, eyes stubbornly turned away. The whole thing brings a smile to Sétanta's face, and he can't help but chuckle. He really is a cat. A traumatised cat, but a cat nonetheless.

"Ye wanna talk?" he asks, knowing it might do the man some good.

Archer looks at him and frowns, hesitant. Finally, he opens his mouth, but only some meaningless strings of vowels are croaked out. The man closes his mouth, looking endlessly frustrated with himself. Ah, the words won't come out. He's seen it before, on the battlefield and after. It's never happened to him personally, but he's seen it. It's like the world is too complicated, too harsh, and the mind doesn't want to interact with it anymore. Sétanta can't say he doesn't understand. His ríastrad is not so different, in a way. He gets to forget about the world, about morality and all the pain that comes with it. He just destroys everything until there's nothing left.

A frustrated croaked noise makes its way out of Archer's throat, bringing Sétanta back to reality. The bowman seems to try very hard to be talking, his frustration growing with each failed attempt. Of course, the frustration makes it even harder, and Archer doesn't seem able to realise that the vicious cycle isn't going to end like this. Sétanta gets closer to him, although he's careful not to touch him. This cat of a Servant has issues with physical contact, and trying to touch him right now wouldn't help.

"Don't force yerself, Laoch. It'll come back on its own."

Archer glances at him, eyes unreadable, before hiding his face in his knees. Sétanta smiles softly. It's going be a long journey, but they'll be fine. He'll make Alaya regret it.

Notes:

Thoughts on Archer's mental state? He's a mess :')

French traduction:
"Est-ce que nous aurons mal ?" → Will it hurt?
"Non, ça sera comme s'endormir" → No it will be like falling asleep
"D’accord," she says calmly before turning to the other. "Les enfants, fermez les yeux et priez. Notre Seigneur qui est aux Cieux désire nous rencontrer. Inutile d’avoir peur, nous serons bientôt en paix. Nous n'aurons ni mal ni peur. Vous pouvez faire ça pour moi ?" →Alright. Children, close your eyes and pray. Our Lord Above wishes to meet us. No need to be frightened, we will soon be at peace. There will be no pain nor fear. Can you do this for me?"

Chapter 10: England, 1764.

Summary:

Archer and Cú Chulainn are summoned and meet their Master for the Holy Grail War, Lady Helene Beauxmonts.

Notes:

Holy Grail War incoming!! I had fun looking for historical figures that aren't in Fate yet and figure out what class they'd be in, and what abilities they'd have. My mum – who is a huge history nerd – helped me with some of them

It doesn't even take an hour for the pull to come. This time, it calls for Cú Chulainn and his legend, his fame and strength. The mage's mana is strong, promising a powerful Master. This type of call is only meant for first rate heroes, not something Archer would ever receive on his own. As Ireland's Child of Light, Cú Chulainn probably hears them a lot. Most masters can only dream of having such a Servant. The mage calling for him uses a relic, and it sings the hero's name. Lancer gets up, and Archer looks at his face. He has a wild grin on his face, and his eyes are shining with bloodthirst. With Gáe Bulg in hand, his figure promises a bloody victory. When he turns towards Archer, the artificial sun shining on his skin, the bowman and Archer can't help but think it's unfair that he looks so handsome.

"Ye're up fer a Grail Wa', Laoch?"

Archer can't help but be surprised that Lancer asks for his opinion, even though he shouldn't. He would follow Cú Chulainn through Hell and back if he asked, but the spearman doesn't know for Archer will never say it out loud. In lieu of a verbal response, he stands up as well and nods, arms crossed on his chest.

Cú Chulainn's laugh echoes in the Reality Marble as they both disappear in a myriad of light.

Archer opens his eyes in what seems to be an attic. A woman is standing, left arm extended as she holds an object he can't identify in hand. She's panting, but she seems otherwise unaffected by the summoning ritual. The call hasn't lied; she's a powerful mage with the massive amount of mana that goes along with it. However, there's something off about her; her eyes are milky white, with no visible pupil. It's when she taps her bare foot on the ground and frowns that Archer understands. She's blind. He keeps his grimace to himself; she's still a powerful mage, and she probably figured out how to handle her disability a long time ago.

"Good evening," she says, lowering her arm. "I must be more tired than expected, for I sense two Servants instead of one. I might need your assistance to leave the room."

"Evenin' m'lady! Ye ain't tired, the two ov us are a package deal!” Cú Chulainn replies. “But I'll still escort ye if ye want to!"

"A man with manners, now that is a good surprise. And this accent… you must be Irish. It would seem I have been successful."

"Aye! Cú Chulainn, Lancer class! And me friend's the's Archa'. He doesn't got a name."

The lie doesn't seem to settle well with the woman, but she lets it go. She has two Servants for the price of one, including the one she wanted. Figuring out Archer’s identity at the moment isn't worth the hassle. She takes a sterner pose, although it cannot hide the overall gentleness of her features.

"It's lovely to meet you. I am Lady Helene Beauxmonts. You are in my manor, Pearlforest," she says with the elegance of a noble lady.

"Lady Helene," Archer greets, if only to get her used to his voice, and she nods in his general direction.

"Come with me, I will introduce you to my people."

They follow obediently and find three people waiting outside the attic-like place, which was in reality an old office. He sees a bodyguard first. The man isn't wearing any armour, and if it wasn't for the sword at his hip, he might pass for an attendant. Then come two children, twins, whose genders are a mystery. They both have bright blue eyes and long curly red hair, with freckles covering their faces. Archer feels like throwing up when their lively eyes lit up and happy smiles stretch their chubby cheeks.

Children. Living children. Safe, sound, loved, protected. Not in a cage, not on Alaya's list. He doesn't have to kill them. Archer feels like he's choking. He can't breathe, he can't, there's a rope around his neck – Cú Chulainn's hand on his shoulder brings him back. He glances at the spearman. He's giving him a sympathetic look, without a doubt knowing where Archer's mind is going. The hand on his shoulder tightens ever so slightly in encouragement. The bowman breathes deeply, and swallows everything. He'll have time for that later. For now, he needs to focus on his new Master and the two kids she'll undoubtedly ask them to protect.

He'll protect them either way, if only to ease his crushing guilt. It's selfish, of course, but what is he if not self-centred? He used to think he could save the world, after all.

"Mama! What were you doing? Who are these men? Are they new knights?" one of them asks excitedly as they both run to their mother.

"Children, please settle down,” she admonishes gently. “Do you recall what I told you about the battle between witches?"

"Yes! You will have a hero from History, and they'll help you get a magical object!" the other twin exclaims.

"Exactly. These two gentlemen are the heroes who will be fighting with me. You have to be nice, and you can trust them like you trust me and Ser Addam."

"Yes, Mama!"

"You got two heroes? I thought it was one!"

"Well, yer motha's a great witch, so she can have two," Lancer chuckles, crouching to be at the children's eye level. "What's yer names, kiddos? Mine's Cú Chulainn, but me friends call me Sétanta."

The twins exchange a look of uncertainty, but it barely lasts. Lancer's enthusiasm is contagious, and so is his grin. The children run up to him and start bombarding him with questions all the while giving their own answers. Why he has two names (they're called Lizzie and Zander but their real names are Elizabeth and Alexander, and does this mean he has a twin too?), how old he is (they're five and a half, – the 'and a half' is very important), where he was born (they were born here), if he can do magic (they can), who are his parents (they only have Lady Helene), and a thousand more Archer doesn't really try to keep up with.

Instead, he's focused on Cú Chulainn. He's all smiles and jokes with the children, answering all their questions with an energy matching the twins', acting like their words are the most fascinating tale he's ever heard. It's hard to remember with his demeanour and age, but Lancer is a father and has two children. He never got to see them grow up, but Archer knows without a doubt he still loves them with everything he has. Connla, whom he killed, and Finnscoth, whom he left fatherless far too young. Now that Archer thinks about it, the girl must have been around the twins' age when Cú Chulainn died. It explains why he's so eager to interact with the twins. They must remind him of his own little girl. He looks brighter than the sun like this, and Archer feels like a child murderer like him shouldn't be allowed to witness such a scene. Still, he can't bear to look away.

"You seem uncomfortable around children," says a voice and Archer forces himself to look away from Cú Chulainn; it's the knight.

"Never had any. Nor any siblings. I guess I don't know how to talk to them," he shrugs. "You're our Master's bodyguard, I presume?"

The man chuckles, amused. "Lady Helene has no need of my protection. No, my charges are the children," he explains before offering a hand. "Ser Addam."

"Archer. I don't have a name."

The man nods, almost solemn. He seems to be a quiet person, a good quality in a bodyguard. He'll guard his mistress's secrets as well as her children's lives. Considering Lady Helene is a powerful mage in addition to being a powerful noble lady, Archer assumes Ser Addam is a talented knight with enchanted gear. Especially if he guards her children.

Eventually, the children's curiosity is satisfied enough that they let themselves be put to bed by their mother without too much of a fuss. All this time, Archer observes her; Lady Helene regularly clicks her tongue or taps her foot, which makes the bowman deduce she's using echo localisation to navigate the space around her. Ironically, this means she has virtually no blind spot even in total darkness. She might not be able to tell colours apart, but her ability is impressive.

"Let us talk in my reception room. I would like to speak about strategy and my plans," she says, guiding them to another room. "Of course, I'm open to any input you may have. I have never been a war general or on any battlefield," she adds gently.

The room is richly decorated for the medieval era they're in. There are some paintings but mostly statues that Lady Helene would be able to appreciate. There is a harp near the window, and other musical instruments are stored in glass cabinets. All of them are of incredible quality. House Beauxmonts is no small noble house, that is certain. Lady Helene gestures towards a wall, where a map of the region has been put up.

"The lands on this map are mostly mine, but some belong to our neighbour, the Blackstones. I expect one of them to be a Master as well, although less powerful than I," she says, running her hand on the paper. "There should be a line of some colour showing the boundary."

"Aye, it's right the'. It's a riva', ain't it?"

"Yes. It is called Avon," she says, and Cú Chulainn snorts. "Yes, I know, it is quite stupid in hindsight. Alas, it has been named centuries ago, so the name shall remain."

"Is it large?" Archer asks, not really caring about the origin of the river's name. He assumes it's Celtic if Cú Chulainn knows what avon means, but it doesn't matter in this situation. "The map doesn't indicate its strength either."

"It's powerful enough to tear down trees when the storms are vicious enough. But the season is in a long time, so we don't need to worry. It's mostly calm the rest of the year, although it is deep."

"A powerful Caster or one associated with water could use it. It's better to keep an eye on it. A flood would force the other Servants to come out."

"I hadn't thought of that. I'll send some familiars to monitor it. Even if Pearlforest is far enough from it, I don't want my people to suffer from the War."

"Speakin' ov them, Masta'. What's yer standin' 'ere?" Cú Chulainn asks. "We don't know much 'bout this time and place, just the basic. It's a real pain."

Lady Helene's eyes widen, and she becomes red with embarrassment.

"Oh dear! I apologise. Of course, I should have asked earlier about your knowledge. How embarrassing!"

"It ain't no problem, Masta'!"

She invites them to sit on a comfortable couch and takes the seat across from them. Her real personality seems to shine through as she starts rambling, the mask of the powerful Mage slipping away. Archer much prefers her this way. He's had his share of haughty masters and stuck-up mages. They learn they're in England, in the year 1764, for the Fourth Holy Grail War. Contrary to the History Archer knows, the kingdom isn't united under a single monarch. Instead, the many lords are mostly independent. There is a Prince of England, though, but his power is mostly symbolic. He only calls for his vassals in times of war against another nation.

The biggest city in the region is the one surrounding Pearlforest. It has about five thousand people, and many farmers live further in the countryside in small villages or on their own. They're the ones most at risk, as they could accidentally stumble upon a fight between two Servants. Between that and the river, there's a high chance that several farmers will be collateral damages during this war. Archer doesn't verbalise it, though. He doesn't know Lady Helene enough to predict her reaction to the notion, and he would rather avoid conflicts with his Master, especially on the first night.

"I believe it would be prudent to spend the first few nights observing our opponents. If we are able to identify some of them, it would be ideal, although I'm aware it's up to luck. Still, having a good idea of their abilities seems paramount in order to win as efficiently as possible. If you feel like a Servant would have a clear advantage against you, you must tell me; sending you to lose a battle would be idiotic."

"Aye, seems sensible to me! Whatcha say, Archa'?"

Archer can't help but feel strangely disappointed that Lancer has dropped the nickname. He doesn't even know what Laoch means, but the word makes him feel special, like he means something to the spearman. He knows he must, otherwise Lancer wouldn't have put his Afterlife in jeopardy for him, but Laoch is different. It's personal. It's about him as a person, not about the Counter Guardian Cú Chulainn took pity on.

"I agree," he says evenly. "As an Archer class Servant, I have the best eyesight of us, so I believe I'm the best suited for this task."

"Indeed. Still, I would like Lancer to get acquainted with the landscape."

"Of course."

"We'll start tomorrow night. Dawn is upon us, and I must first have Father Thomas register me as a Master. Archer, we'll keep your presence a secret. I don't trust him with this kind of information."

"Is there a particular reason?"

"I don't know him very well," she replies with a shrug. "He's shown me no evidence of being trustworthy. He's the Overseer, yes, but that doesn't make him an ally."

Their Master has evidently been betrayed in the past, that much is obvious. Archer shares a quick look with Lancer, who almost imperceptibly nods in understanding. She's wary of the people around her, which means they will have to pay a lot of attention to her entourage. The twins' father is notably absent, and Archer starts thinking Lady Helene is not a widow.

"Last priest I met was a downright baste'd, so ye won't 'ear me complain!" Cú Chulainn says with a smile. "Anyone else ye're wary ov, Masta'?"

"My family. When you see them tomorrow, you will understand why. I have to ask you to remain in Spirit Form when they're present, however. They know about the Holy Grail War, but they mustn't know I am a Master for now."

"Understood, Master. We'll keep close just in case, but hidden."

"Thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must confess I am in dire need of some sleep. You may use the antechamber and the library as you wish so long as the maids don't see you. The chamber next to this one is yours as well, should you require sleep or simply privacy."

Once the necessary goodnight wishes are exchanged, Lady Helene retires in her bedroom, and they move to the chamber next door. The furniture is simple; a bed, a table, a couple of comfortable chairs, two of which are next to a fireplace. Lancer drops in one of them while Archer goes to stand near the window, his gaze traveling across the land. Pearlforest sits atop a hill, with the city just outside its massive garden. Beyond the city, the land is flat except for the occasional small hill here and there. The closest farm he sees is two and a half kilometres away, but the river is too far away, even for Clairvoyance. Not that it matters right now; he'll have time to check it out the next night.

"So, whatcha think ov this place, Laoch?"

The return of the nickname makes Archer's cheeks feel warm, and he has to remind himself that Lancer asked him a question and now isn't the time to think about his feelings over a bloody word he doesn't even know the meaning of. For all he knows, Cú Chulainn is calling him a dick.

"Well, it won't be easy to hide the fights. It's flat, and the few woods I can see are small."

"An' we can't count on the Church to hide shite,” Lancer sighs. "Some poor lads are gonna get killed ova’ that…"

"Wrong place, wrong time…" Archer murmurs, his mind going back to France. His hands tighten on his biceps, nails digging in the fabric of his coat. "Lady Helene doesn't seem the type to ask that of us. She might be able to wipe their memories."

It's mostly wishful thinking, but Lancer allows him that delusion.

"Aye. She's a strong mage, that one! Ye think it 'as som'thin' to do with that weird arse relic ov 'ers?" the spearman asks.

"Maybe. I didn't have the chance to take a good look at it."

"Me neitha'. Some flat, grey stuff. Looks old."

"Most relics are. Some look more their age than others," Archer chuckles, turning away from the window to face Lancer.

"Hardy-'ar," the spearman replies, rolling his eyes. "I ain't that old!"

"You're more than a thousand years old."

"I died at twenty-seven!" he replies in mock outrage.

Eyebrows raise in surprise. Archer didn't think he has technically lived longer than Lancer. His surprise doesn't go unnoticed, and Cú Chulainn gives him the grin of a child who knows he's just won the best prize at a competition.

"What about ye, Laoch? How old are ye?" he asks, glee unconcealed.

"... Thirty-two," he confesses after a few seconds.

A bark-like laughter echoes. Cú Chulainn throws his head back.

"See! I ain't that old!"

"Can we go back to our Master and the War?"

"Sure thin', Laoch," he sing-songs. "What do ye think 'bout our Masta'?"

"The kids' father isn't in the picture, but she's not a widow."

"Baste'ds, then. Ye think the knight's the da? 'E looks like he loves 'er."

"No. Otherwise, they'd be married. Bastards destabilise her rule more than a base-born husband would. Same with a former lover. She didn't get pregnant by choice."

Lancer clenches his fists on his knees, his jaw tenses, and his eyes turn a couple of shades darker. Archer wishes he could feel as outraged about what happened to Lady Helene as Cú Chulainn does, but he's lost that ability a long time ago. It's terrible, of course, but he's seen it happened so many times to so many people that he's become desensitised to it. He knows he should be just as horrified and furious as Lancer, but he just… isn't.

If he ever needed proof that he'll never be anything more than a murderer and a monster, here it is. He can't even be properly outraged by other people's fate, just lament on his own.

"Aye. I'd love to meet 'im. Not su'e he'd like meetin' me, though."

"I don't think he would like meeting you either," he replies casually. "That aside, based on what she said, her family isn't her ally. She's a blind woman with two bastards, yet she's head of her house. We can safely assume it's thanks of her magecraft. The War would be the perfect opportunity for any greedy relative to get rid of her and take her place."

"That's assumin' one ov 'em's a Masta'."

"With a large mage family, that's not impossible. If not, they could ally with one who would be lowborn."

"Urgh, I hate politics!" Cú Chulainn exclaims. “I'm glad shite wasn't like that when I was alive!"

"I think it was. Just… not for the local demi-god who single-handedly defeated armies. You just happen to be a bit more threatening than a twenty-something five-foot-two blind woman with kids to protect," he deadpans.

Cú Chulainn gives him a half-hearted glare, annoyed that Archer is right. Then, he grins, all fangs and shining eyes.

"Guess we'll just 'ave to do the threatenin' fer 'er."

Notes:

Emiya when he can't feel bad for someone he's known for a grand total of one (1) hour after being abused physically, emotionally and psychologically for centuries to the point his brain has to pump the breaks on empathy as a defense mechanism: Obviously I'm a monster. There cannot be any other explanation.

Sétanta : ...

------

Avon means river in Gaelic. Apparently, when the Romans asked the Celts "what's the river called?", the Celts were like "Avon???" basically "mate that's just a river???" and it led to many rivers being called Avon because the Romans thought it was the river's name. I'm not 100% sure it's true but it's very funny so let's say it is

------

I hope you'll like Helene and her little family!!! She's the first OC I came up with for this story. She's loosely based on Helaena Targaryen and her children the twins Jaehaerys and Jaehaera Targaryen.

Chapter 11: Day One

Summary:

It's the first day of the Holy Grail War, and Sétanta already wants to kill some people. More specifically, his Master's family.

Father Thomas is a small, unimpressive man in his forties. He doesn't raise any alarms in Sétanta's mind; he mostly seems overwhelmed by the situation he's been put in. It seems he wasn't meant to be the Overseer. Something must have happened to the original one. Sétanta makes a mental note to dig for information on this. If the Overseer died before the War even started, it cannot be a good sign.

The priest bows his head to Lady Helene, his nervosity almost pitiful. When he speaks, he almost stutters. 

"Good morrow, Lady Beauxmonts. It is a pleasure to see you in good health and spirits."

"I am glad you could come so quickly, Father." The lady returns the greeting with a polite smile, although it's not sincere. "I would like to be registered in the Holy Grail War as a Master."

"Yes, of course, right away!" He stammers. The poor man glances nervously at Sétanta, eyeing Gáe Bulg. "M-may I ask your Servant's name and class?"

"First of all, I must ensure something."

"Y-yes?"

"My mother, the lady Samantha Beauxmonts holds a lot of sway over the local churches." Lady Helene's tone hardens significantly, and Sétanta makes sure to stand taller. Her voice is cold enough to frighten the priest into obedience, but it doesn't hurt to be certain. "Despite this, I am hoping you will remember your role in this. There shall be no choosing a side, even if my one darling cousins and half-brothers becomes a Master."

"O-of course not, my Lady!"

"Should they offer a price, I can double it. Keep this in mind."

"Y-yes, my Lady…"

"Perfect!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together. "My Servant is of the Lancer class, and he is Cú Chulainn, from Ulster."

Sétanta doesn't say a word until the priest is gone. He watches him leave in a small carriage, dragged by two horses. He doesn't have a coachman, and the carriage is run-down. Whoever is funding the local churches isn't generous in any way. When the man has left the manor's barrier, Sétanta faces Lady Helene. Archer hasn't come out of Spirit Form yet, meaning he doesn't have much to say. The following conversation isn't going to be fun in any way, but it needs to be discussed.

"Yer motha's gonna be a problem, Masta'?"

"Her, and my half-brothers. Or cousins." Sétanta's raised eyebrow obviously doesn't prompt her to keep talking, but she explains the situation anyway. Whether it's because she deems it necessary or simply because she wants someone to listen to her, Sétanta cannot say. "When my father passed away, my mother married his brother and gave him two sons. I was five years old and by all laws Lady of Pearlforest and its lands but if it weren't for my father's butler, my inheritance would have been stolen from me. Ever since, I was raised in Pearlforest while my uncle, mother and their children left for another of our manors."

"Yer motha married yer fatha's brotha?” Sétanta repeats, incredulous, eyebrows shooting up. "That's…"

"Unbecoming of a lady, to keep things polite,” Lady Helene replies with a knowing smile. "She came with her sons when I was officially chosen as heir to convince me to marry one of them, but they conveniently left when I became pregnant."

About a dozen questions are on the tip of Sétanta's tongue, and he doesn't know where to start. Worse, he's starting to get a good idea of who the twins' father might be, and it's almost horrible enough to send him on a murderous rampage. He's only able to hold himself back thanks to his Master's calm demeanour. If she wants them dead, she needs only ask. He'll be more than happy to enact revenge on her behalf.

"My family's head is chosen through a relic." She takes out the relic they saw the day before from her pocket, holding it up for Sétanta to look at. "It's a dragon scale, from the Age of True Magic. It still has enough mana to wipe out a city or two. The head of the Beauxmonts family is chosen by the relic itself, and only they can wield its power. We constantly pour our own mana into it, and upon our deaths, all our remaining mana and powers go into it. The relic chose me when I was fifteen. My uncle was quite furious with the whole thing. He's older than my father, but the relic never accepted him. He's been bitter ever since."

Sétanta takes in the information. The dragon scale explains why Lady Helene has so much mana at her disposal. She will make a formidable Master in this War, especially with two Servants who don't have to worry about running out of mana. If they play their cards right, victory will easily be theirs. However, her family will be their main opponent, especially if one of them happens to be a Master. With some luck, the Grail didn't choose two of the seven Masters in the same family, but Sétanta isn't too hopeful. Oh well. If they crush her shitty family, Lady Helene won't have to worry about them again, even after the War.

 

---

Their Master's family arrives around noon. Sétanta is standing next to her when Lady Helene’s barrier is breached, and a chill runs down the spearman's back. He can feel Archer tense as well, even though he's still in spirit form. A Servant has entered the barrier. It seems Archer was right.

"Masta', yer family's got a Servant with them."

"Yes. I allowed them entry for denying them entrance would make me suspicious, but I wished they had sent word ahead. Bringing a guest like this one into my house without my permission is quite rude. Will you be able to hide from them?"

"Maybe Archa'. He's a sneaky one, but I ain't. Lancers aren't supposed to 'ide."

"That's a shame. Stay with me, then. It appears we shall be more aggressive than originally planned."

Sétanta doesn't hide the bloodthirsty grin on his face. Archer's mana diminishes, and Sétanta senses the bowman retreating to the confines of the manor, where his mana can be chalked up to being Sétanta's or the result of some failed spell. Still, it's better not to take any risk. If the other Servant is highly perceptive, he can find Archer. Truthfully, Sétanta doesn't particularly care whether or not Archer's presence is known. But it's his Master's wish, and so he will obey. Moreover, if he is found out, Sétanta knows Archer will blame himself, and the spearman cannot allow that. His poor warrior carries enough guilt as it is.

"Masta', I've got an idea. They're bein' rude to ye, so maebe I can put on a little show of mana. That'll help hide Archa' as well."

"Please do so. My cousins will be quite vexed, but I care little and less about their feelings. If we must be aggressive, then we shall do it right."

"Aye Masta'!"

Exuding a large amount of mana doesn't require anything but a bit of concentration, as it's nothing but the Servant equivalent of puffing out one's chest, but Sétanta finds it easier to add a gesture. He breathes in and claps his hands together in a resounding sound, and his mana explodes around the manor. He's never had this much at his disposal as a Heroic Spirit, so he might have overdone it a bit. At least, the other Servant knows they're walking into enemy territory.

"Impressive," Lady Helene comments before making for the main staircase. "Let us greet our guests."

Sétanta makes sure to stand right behind Lady Helene when the guests enter the manor. Right away, he is offended on his Master's behalf; the Throne gave him a limited understanding of the era's custom, just enough so he doesn't cause a diplomatic incident, but it's common courtesy for the guests to greet their host, especially when said host is more powerful. Instead, the two young men look at Lady Helene with barely concealed annoyance, and although the older woman – the mother, he assumes – looks uncomfortable and on the verge of tears, there's something about that feels… off. As if she's putting on a show for the people around her. It's disturbing.

The most interesting guest, of course, is the Servant. He's a man of medium height, with a clean cut chestnut beard and hair of the same colour cut above his shoulders. His eyes are sharp and intelligent, and the colour of hazelnuts. He wears an attire reminding Sétanta of a hunter's one, with a long cape over his shoulder. He doesn't have any visible weapons on him beyond a hunting knife secured on his hip. If he's willing to show his face so clearly, then he's no Assassin. That knife isn't a Noble Phantasm either, so it's not his primary weapon. Rider, perhaps? Certainly not a Saber. He doesn't look like a Caster, but looks aren't everything. He doesn't look nearly mad enough to be a Berserker, but who knows? Maybe he has control over his madness when he's not fighting. He'll have to talk about it with Lady Helene and Archer.

"Mother. Cousins." The lady's voice is cold as ice, and if she could, she would be glaring at the visitors. "I wish you had warned me before bringing a… guest."

"My sincerest apologies, sister," says the taller brother. He looks completely unapologetic. "We didn't think you'd have one yourself. It was careless of me to bring my Servant without forewarning you. I hope you will forgive me."

"Of course. Let us get something to eat."

She turns around without a single other word, and Lancer follows her diligently, one step behind her. He's not used to walking behind people – the only woman he ever escorted to some sort of formal function is Emer, and she was next to him as his wife – and it irks his pride, but he'd much rather have to deal with a small blow to his ego rather than leave his Master – a good one to that – unprotected. Moreover, he likes Lady Helene enough as a person to allow it.

When she sits at a table where food has already been served, Sétanta leans against the wall right behind her and crosses his arms on his chest, giving everyone but the other Servant the impression he's relaxed. In truth, his left foot is against the wall, and he can be across the room in half a second. The Servant stands closer to his Master, hands in the large pockets of his pants. Just like Sétanta's, his posture is a lie. He's ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

"I believe congratulations are in order, dear sister." The Servant's Master speaks with a condescending tone, and his expression is openly smug. He is aware that Lady Helene cannot see facial expressions and takes full advantage of it. "I didn't think you would become a Master."

"Why wouldn't I? A mage of my caliber is all but guaranteed to become a Master."

"Yes, of course. Your power is nothing to laugh at." This time, he is honest. It seems he has some awareness. At least when it comes to mana reserves and magical prowess. "But your circumstances are… less ideal."

"Speak plainly, cousin. Your false concern bores me."

"My dearest love, our concern isn't false." This time, it's the mother who intervenes, voice breaking and tears in her eyes. It all sounds very fake to Sétanta. "We're truly worried. What about Alexander and Elizabeth? If an enemy Servant comes… they could target them."

"No one knows my identity but you three. Will you send this Servant of yours to kill my children in their sleep?"

"Of course not!" the woman recoils, genuinely horrified at the idea. "We would never do such a thing. We only mean… perhaps an alliance might be a good thing. Or… or you might cede your Servant to Alan. He –"

"You must be jesting." Lady Helene's mana is crackling through the air, and Sétanta glares at the three humans. The other Servant tenses even more, looking worryingly at his own Master. "My Servant belongs to me. I summoned him. If that is all you wanted, you can leave right away."

"No, please, my dear… I only worry for you and the children."

"Then give me Jack's Servant. With two Servants, I would be guaranteed to win, would I not? One to keep my children safe, and one to kill the other Servants. With the dragon scale, I would have no issue sustaining them. They would both have more mana than Jack and Alan could ever supply."

Sétanta is surprised when the mother seems to consider her daughter's offer. However, before she can say anything, the eldest brother, Jack, stands up in a fit of rage. His expression is venomous, and his tone vehement.

"You little –! We came to offer you protection and you spit in our face! Do you think I'll allow you to speak of me like this?"

'Aye, that's enough.' Sétanta steps closer and leans forward, putting an elbow on the back of his Master's chair. He makes sure to give the brothers his most bloodthirsty grin, showing off his fangs.

"Allow? Ye'll allow what exactly, boy? Ye're in me Masta's home, and ye're bein' pretty rude if I sae so meself. So how 'bout ye get off yer high 'orse and be a good lad? Unless I've got to teach ye 'ow to be one."

The other Servant puts one hand on his hunting knife and the other on his Master's shoulder. He knows he's outclassed in Pearlforest, but there's still something fierce in his eyes. He will prove to be a good challenge during the War.

"Everybody settle down!" Samantha cries out. "Helene, I apologise. I didn't mean for any of this to get out of hand. I only wished to keep you safe. Holy Grail Wars are never without collateral damages and I didn't want you to be one. Would a truce be your liking? You and Jack can ignore each other until you're the last ones standing."

Lady Helene ponders over the questions for a while, her fingers drumming on the table. 

"That is acceptable, yes." She marks a pause, thinking over something. "Would you like to see Zander and Lizzie? They haven't seen you in a while."

"I would love to, of course." The mother's loving smile and kind eyes are sincere, for once. It seems she truly loves her grandchildren, despite her conflictual relationship with her daughter. "Your last letter said they can do some magic?"

From then on, the room settles down, and the two mothers speak about the twins. It's almost mesmerising, but Sétanta doesn't complain. As much as he would love to rip the bastard apart here and there, he doesn't want Lady Helene anywhere near an enemy Servant when shit hits the fan. As strong as she is, Servants are stronger. The dragon scale is a powerful artefact, but Sétanta has no desire to see if it can hold back a Heroic Spirit.

When lunch is over, Lady Helene leads her mother to the twins' bedroom. The two brothers and the Servants leave, uninterested in the children. Good. Sétanta doesn't want them anywhere near Zander and Lizzie. The kiddos are far too precious to be in the presence of such assholes. Especially if Sétanta's theory is correct. Thankfully, their grandmother is all smiles and hugs, praising them for their display of magecraft – which consists of making little bubbles of light, a pretty sight. She openly gives them love and affection, kissing their cheeks and ooh-ing at the sight of their latest drawings.

He wonders if his mother did this with Finnscoth's own drawings. He doesn't know. He doesn't want to.

"Thank you for earlier, Lancer." Lady Helene is standing next to him, for once not playing with her twins. It's probably due to her mother's presence. "Your support was more than welcome."

"Don't'cha worry, Masta'. I ain't gotta let some dick speak to ye like tha' in yer own home. Me ma would come back from the dead and wack me with ‘er broom if I did!"

Lady Helene bursts out laughing at his words.

"Would she? Was this broom so terrible?"

"That it was! She'd wack me o'er the 'ead with it. She was damn fast, too! War was less risky than makin' 'er mad. Ye should have seen the dae she did it to me da."

"Your father?" Lady Helene looks incredulous. "Isn't he…?"

“Aye, 'e is. An'e got 'is arse 'anded to 'im by a lassie yer size with a bloody broom."

She laughs again, and it sounds like a dozen bells ringing. It's a nice sound, and Sétanta chuckles as well, fondness blooming in his heart. He's quite sure he'll remember Helene Beauxmonts long after this War is over. She's the type of woman men fight over, with the backbone to tell them to fuck right off if they aren't worth her time. Many men are not. Those half-brothers, half-cousins of hers are among the worst kind of men, but he's glad to know she can handle them.

Lady Helene's mother leaves about an hour later, when it's time for the children to nap. She hugs her daughter tight, kisses her ginger hair and wishes her luck in the upcoming war.

"If something happens, you can always come to me. You know this, don't you? I would anything to keep you and the children safe."

"Yes, Mother."

"Good, good." She then glances at Sétanta, and he sees in her eyes the fierce protective love of a mother. Their relationship is a complicated thing, but there is love on both sides, that is certain. Perhaps this War will give them the opportunity to mend what's damaged between them. "You take good care of my daughter and grandchildren, Heroic Spirit. I won't have her harmed in this."

"Aye, m'lady," he chuckles.

When she leaves, Archer takes on a physical form right next to them. He returned to their side when the enemy Servant left, but remained hidden just in case.

"She's not a bad woman," Lady Helene says to no one in particular. She's sniffling, and there are a few tears are rolling down her cheeks. "She's a splendid grandmother, and she loves me, I know it. I just wish she had never left."

Sétanta doesn't reply, and neither does Archer. They allow her to compose herself and wipe her tears on the sleeves of her green and brown dress. After a few deep breaths, she turns to face them and hands them a crumbled piece of paper. The smile on her face is forced, but they don't say anything. She deserves to deal with her feelings the way she wishes.

"She pushed this in my hand, but I cannot read it."

"Allow me." Archer takes it, and unfolds it. "Well, that's unexpected."

"What is it?"

"Your mother gave us the identity of your cousin's Servant. Jean Chastel, Archer Class."

Notes:

Jean Chastel was a French man who killed the alleged Beast of Gévaudan, a wild animal who terrorised the French country side during the Middle Ages. To this day, we still don't know what animal it was. Speculations range from a massive wolf to a dog-wolf hybrid to a hyena escaped from a zoo. Whatever it was, the Beast kill between 88 and 124 people, with some people miraculously surviving the attacks. It was so bad the King himself intervened and sent his best men to hunt and kill the Beast. Jean wasn't one of them, he was just some local man who hadn't done anything remarkable before.

Fun fact: About five minutes before posting this chapter, I went back to Jean Chastel's Wikipedia page because I had forgotten how he died.

And guess what.

THIS FUCKER DIED IN 1789 (⁠╯⁠°⁠□⁠°⁠）⁠╯⁠︵⁠ ⁠┻⁠━⁠┻

Please forgive the anachronism, I've been dying to use him as a Servant (I'm French) and the Noble Phantasm I gave him will be essential for some scenes. I hate myself for not setting the story like... 100 years later. Please assume the Beast of the Gévaudan was during the 15th century or early 16th.

My deepest apologies for this, it won't happen again.

 

-----

Anyways ~ What do you think of Helene's family?

Her mother, Samantha, is the most interesting to write. She has a lot of internalised misogyny and ableism due to the era, but she genuinely loves her daughter. Her reasons for marrying her former brother-in-law will be explained, and I hope you'll understand she did what she thought was best at the moment. That doesn't mean she's done nothing wrong, only that her actions aren't malicious. If it came to it, she'd throw herself between a Servant and Helene.

The brothers are massively entitled jackasses for now, but I'm hoping to make them more complex as well.

Chapter 12: William the Conqueror

Summary:

Archer and Cú Chulainn meet Saber, with devastating results.

Notes:

Fuck Irish accents, trying to convey how I imagine Sétanta talking is a nightmare :')

Basically in my head he pronounces the "r" like a mix French and Spanish "r"s and pronounces the "h" 1/3 time. No "g" is pronounced at the end of "–ing" words, and all the usual abbreviations are used (hafta/gonna/gotta/etc).

I took a look at Irish slang as well and lemme tell you: fuck this. He'll have normal slang because I'm not touching that mess with a fen foot poll. My years of phonology and linguistics are behind me, lol.

The first thing Archer notices as he reaches the river is the mana in it. It's not the divinity of a minor deity, nor does it flow from an ancient source hidden deep in some faraway mountain. It's a war cry, brought upon this land by a Heroic Spirit. Soon enough, the river will escape its confines and bring forth destruction. The nearby villages, lone farms and various wooden hermit houses are in immediate danger. It's quite obvious the people need to evacuate, but the Church will never allow this. Perhaps Lady Helene can do something about it, but he isn't certain. Archer doesn't find it in himself to truly care. Ultimately, humans all die, and mourning every single one of them is stupid. It's not worth exposing Lady Helene's identity as a Master.

'Master, the river is compromised. There's mana everywhere, and I wouldn't be surprised if it floods the area at some point.'

'That is concerning.'

As always, her voice is clear and calm, although Archer can feel her apprehension. I assume it's Caster's work.'

'It's likely. I don't see how another Servant could benefit from a flood.'

'How 'bout a Rida’ on a boat?'

'That seems quite unpractical, but that is a possibility. Nonetheless, a Caster is more likely.'

'Aye, that's fer su'e! Just thought it could be a thin'.'

'We will make a list of heroes linked to water when you both return. I shall start while you finish scouting, but any input will be welcome when you return.'

'Aye Masta'!'

'Yes Master.'

Archer goes back to Spirit From and jumps on the roof of a nearby farm, looking around. He wishes they could hunt the Servant behind the river situation, but doing so without any plan would only lead to failure. Instead, he turns away from the river, searching for another location of interest that might catch a Servant's attention. As his eyes wander across the land, he spots the man he supposes is Jean Chastel about a mile away. He hasn’t had the chance to meet him yet, but he matches Lancer's description. He has a knee on the ground and a rifle in hand. He is scouting as well, and probably learning the different pathways through the forests and fields in preparation for the incoming fights.

It's expected on the first night. Masters are rarely aggressive on day one, although there are some exceptions – Gilgamesh, Heracles and Arturia can afford going all out immediately. Suddenly, Jean Chastel freezes and looks straight in Archer's direction. The bowman stills, impressed that the hunter is able to perceive him at such a distance. His eyes are squinted, as if he's unsure of what he perceives. Standing up, he puts himself in position to shoot, but he isn't pouring much mana into his weapon, nor is his stance the best. It's just a warning. Archer jumps on another roof, a few houses away. He isn't supposed to engage in combat tonight, especially against Jack Beauxmonts' Servant.

'Chastel found me. He didn't see me because I was in Spirit Form, but he knew I was there from a mile away. He has incredible instincts.'

'A mile when you're in Spirit Form? That's…' Lady Helene's telepathic voice is full of surprise. At the same time, Cú Chulainn curses in his head.

'A lot, yes. Much more than the average Servant.'

'Well, there will not be any surprise attacks against him, that is certain.'

'Indeed.'

'It is better to know it now than learning it the hard way later.'

'He's also ready for a fight, he didn't hesitate to take aim. It was a warning, but I have no doubt he would have shot me if I had taken too much time to leave.'

'A confident lad, eh? Maebe he'll take ca'e ov some ov the competition fer us.'

'And here I thought you would prefer fighting everyone yourself,' Archer jokes.

'I love me a fight against a strong warrior! But small fries ain't my thin.' 'E can have them,' the spearman laughs. Before Archer can reply, Cú Chulainn curses. 'Got eyes on Saebe'. Strong lookin' fella. Got some banna' on his armour. I don't know it. Masta', do ye have some list of old banners?'

'There must be a few books about heraldry in the library. I will ask the butler to look for them. I must say, this man is awfully confident to parade his identity for all to see like so.'

'Or awfully powerful' remains unsaid. Whoever this Saber is, he most likely has the strength to back up his open challenge. Archer doesn't put too much thought in his identity yet; they will figure out soon enough. Instead, he keeps moving, looking for any sign of the other Servant. He has little chance of finding Caster, and even less of finding Assassin, but he might be able to spot Rider or Berserker. His senses aren't as good in Spirit Form as they are when he takes a physical form, but he should be able to find Servants.

He spots a tall tree and quickly climbs up. Once on top, Archer closes his eyes and inhales deeply, looking for anything with a massive amount of mana. As expected, he finds Pearlforest first, with its massive bounded field around it. In truth, Lady Helene did a splendid job at hiding herself, and he can only find the field because he's her Servant. Except for Caster, the other Servants are unlikely to find the bounded field, and even less likely to break it. This dragon scale is impressive; Archer doesn't remember encountering an artifact containing half as much mana as the Beauxmonts heirloom.

Pushing the thoughts away, he goes back to looking for the other Servants or Masters. He quickly senses Lancer and, not too far from him, Saber. He's strong, and his mana glows like a beacon. Near him is another mana reserve, much smaller but fierce. The Master, most likely. As for the others, they're too far away. Jean Chastel has retreated. Assassin could be closer, but no one would know. Caster is probably busy building their workshop, and Rider and Berserker are in the wind.

He's about to jump down and look for other vantage points when a bunch of Celtic curses are screamed in his head.

'How the fuck did he fuckin' find me? Bloody Saebe'! Masta', Saebe' found me! And he ain't lettin' me go!’

Shit. Archer sprints towards Cú Chulainn. Saber must be absolutely certain of his superiority if he attacks on the first night another Servant of the three knight classes. Archer feels a knot twist as he summons his bow. If the spearman is hurt… if that swordsman lays his dirty hands on him… Archer doesn't know what he'll do to him, but it won't be pretty. 

He knows. He'll rip him apart, he'll skewer him with dull blades, he'll break all of his bones, he'll torture him until he begs for death.

'Archer, support Lancer! Lancer, you have my permission to engage at full strength. If he wants a fight, we'll give it to him! Tell me about his banner, I'll look for his identity!'

'On my way!'

'Yes Masta'! Two golden lions – fuckin' bastard! – red background!'

There's a pause in the telepathic conversation, just long enough for Archer to reach Lancer and Saber. The best vantage point he can find is a massive oak, taller than most of the other trees. Bow in hand, he fires a couple of red arrows at the swordsman. The man jumps back, the arrows bouncing back on his armour. It could be insulting to see his projectiles deflected so easily, but Archer has long forgotten what pride is. Instead, he analyses the man from his hiding point. He has black hair, and a beard of the same colour. His blue eyes are sharp, and he carries himself with the pride of a man who won countless battles.

"Another foe? Bring it, Archer. I'll make sure to skewer you once I'm done with Lancer over here. Of course, I can take you both at the same time."

"Don't'cha underestimated me, bastard!" Lancer roars as he charges him, using Gáe Bulg's length to his advantage.

"What did you call me!"

"A baste'd, why! Ye deaf, baste'd?"

Lancer, Archer! This is bad! You are facing William the Conqueror!'

Well, they're fucked. Between his deeds, fame, and their geographical position, they're doomed. Cú Chulainn's own fame is nothing to sneer at in the British Isles – and Europe in general –, but it doesn't hold a candle to William the Conqueror's own when they are in litteral England. This fight is going to be a nightmare to win, especially with Lancer having fun aggravating the legendary king. Nonetheless, they can win. Cú Chulainn has already proven himself able to battle King Arthur and Medea, so this should be doable thanks to major advantage: Lady Helene's mana. She easily outclasses every single mage in this competition, especially Saber's Master. 

'Master, we'll have to use our Noble Phantasms.'

'Don't worry about the mana. I shall provide all you may require. Defeat Saber!'

Archer answers by firing more projectiles, trusting Lancer's Protection From Arrows to keep him safe. Nonetheless, he isn't of much help, for the Conqueror has his own protection from projectiles. Anything bigger would cause an explosion, to which his ally isn't immune. Fuck. It's going to be a bloody mess. They won't come out unharmed, that is certain.

The two warriors clash in a lethal dance, each deadly blow finding its counterpart on the opposite side. Saber is broad-shouldered, his strikes strong and brutal, but Lancer is equally fearsome, nimble and precise like a feline. As they clash, the high pitched rattle of blades hitting one another makes for a morbid and distorted symphony. All put together, it's a horrifying spectacle of violence. And yet, Cú Chulainn grins wildly, demi-god attributes on full display. Sharp teeth, slit pupils, dark vein-like marks on his face, skin shining. He looks magnificent.

Nonetheless, Archer successfully looks away and turns his attention to a small house William is doing his utter best to lure Cú Chulainn away from. Through a large window, Archer can see a couple. The man is a mage, and most likely Saber's Master. The woman is heavily pregnant, hugging her big belly with horrified eyes. The clash of weapons, the bursts of mana… She might not see the fight, but she won't forget it.

Not that it's Archer's business. He has a problematic Servant on his hands, and the best way to deal with a problematic Servant is through the Master. He just needs his own Master's approval.

'Master, I have a visual on Saber's master. I can take him down with a single arrow.'

'... Who is he? A lone mage? Is he a noble like me?'

Archer clenches his jaws. There's no chance that Lady Helene will allow him to shoot, but he won't lie to her.

'From what I can see? Married man, with a pregnant wife. No other children. Both of humble descent from the look of their house.'
'Then don't harm him. I won't win by spilling an innocent man's blood. Worse, his poor wife doesn't deserve to be made a widow.'
'Yes Master.'

Archer looks back at the fight. Cú Chulainn and William the Conqueror seem stuck together, weapons clashing upon one another, until Cú Chulainn jumps back, pouring mana in his spear.

'Masta', can I use me Noble Phantasm?'

Go ahead!'

However, as Cú Chulainn channels energy in Gáe Bulg, Saber lets out a scream of pure agony and whirls around. Forgoing the fight, he rushes towards his Master's house. 

Immediately, Archer turns his eyes towards the small house, fearing he already knows what's going on inside. When he sees the scene, his face contorts in unexpected pity. Assassin, most likely lured by the fight, entered the house and killed the Master by slitting his throat with her own nails, judging by the blood on her hand. The Servant, a dark-haired woman, doesn't stay in physical form long enough for Saber to kill her or Archer to shoot at her. She disappears in Spirit Form, leaving the newly-widowed woman screaming and sobbing as she holds her husband's body. Saber comes in with a cry of anguish and fury, falling to his knees by his Master's side.

Lancer enters the house a few seconds after Saber, and Archer jumps down from his tree, approaching the scene as well. When he enters the house, he finds the pregnant woman sobbing in Saber's arms. Regret, anger and grief are twisting William's features, and he holds the wailing woman tightly against him. Archer's entrance elicits a low growl, and the bowman raises empty hands. William might already be fading, but grief has led many men to hold on to life for much longer than they should have been able to. He's seen it many times, and he's been the cause of that grief more often than not.

"I'm not here to fight," he simply says.

'Lancer, Archer, what has happened?'

'Assassin killed Saber's Master.'

There's a silence.

'What of his wife?'

'She's unharmed.'

'Bring her. I don't think that poor excuse of a priest will be able to protect her in any way.'

'Are you certain?'

'Yes. I will grant her shelter until her babe is born, and mayhaps she can work at the manor.'

"Me Masta's offerin' shelter," Cú Chulainn says bluntly. "This place ain't safe, but me Masta can keep the lassie safe."

"Would they, now?"

"Aye. She ain't no liar. If she wanted the lassie dead, she'd be dead."

William seems endlessly frustrated that he must entrust the woman to another Servant. Eventually, though, he relents. "Madame, are you willing to follow them?"

"I… I don't know… I can't… I don't care…"

"I know Madame." The king's tone and demeanour are gentle, a far cry from his attitude on the battlefield. "But you must think about your child."

She brings her hands to her stomach, rubbing it mechanically. Her eyes are hollow, and she's covered in her husband's blood, but she eventually nods. "Yes… you are right. I must… I need to think about my babe." She wipes her face, and some determination shines in her eyes when she turns to them. "You say your Master will keep me safe?"

"Aye. They don't like that Assassin went afta’ yer husband like that."

"I'll gladly accept that offer. May I pack some of my belongings?"

"Su'e," Lancer shrugs. He glances at the disappearing Saber. "A shame we won't get to finish that fight! Maebe in some otha' war!"

"Perhaps. I'm in your debt for looking after Madame, Lancer. I will pay this debt back, one day."

"Name's Cú Chulainn, Conqueror."

"Cú Chulainn? Ireland's Child of Light, eh? I'll be looking forward to our rematch!"

Saber disappears in a myriad of gold and red lights. The woman packs a small bag of belongings, eyeing Archer carefully.

"Archa' o'er here and I got the same Masta', lass. Ye don't need to worry 'bout 'im."

"The same…? I thought it wasn't possible," she replies, frowning slightly.

"The Grail don't care 'bout what's possible and what ain't. Trust me. Ye ready to go?"

"I am."

Lancer takes her in his arms, and Archer goes first to ensure the path to Pearlforest is safe. The woman introduces herself as Mary Ashford, a humble seamstress. Her husband was Lucas, a lumberjack. This Holy Grail War was their golden ticket for a better life, but in one night, Mary has lost everything. Archer tries to feel bad for her and, objectively, he knows she's in a bad situation. However, he cannot bring himself to truly care. Had Assassin killed her as well, Archer knows he wouldn’t have cared. He would have found it unnecessary, yes, but he would have quickly forgotten about the Ashfords.

When Lady Helene welcomes the woman with hot tea, food and a warm bed to rest, Archer finds himself feeling like he's floating outside of his own body. He watches the events unfold, as if detached from reality. He feels like a kite, whose rope is so long he can barely see the other side. It's unpleasant. As such, his presence unneeded, he makes his way to the bedroom Lady Helene lends Lancer and him and goes to the window. He dislikes being with other people, in truth. It painfully reminds him that he's broken, that he's long forsaken what makes a person human. A sigh escapes him. Lady Helene is a perfect reminder of that, with her strength and kindness, her cheerful twins and her oh-so-human complicated relationship with her family. It's unpleasant.

The sun will rise in an hour or two, and he considers getting some sleep. As a Servant, he doesn't need it, especially with the massive amount of mana given by his Master. Nonetheless, it's good for the mind to rest once in a while. He hasn't slept properly in… in a long time, and the big poster bed, with his many blankets and pillows, looks awfully comfortable. Before he can make a decision, though, Cú Chulainn arrives. Archer almost blushes in embarrassment. What if he had gone to sleep? How embarrassing would it have been, to be discovered like that by the spearman? He's already seen him sleep far too many times for Archer's taste.

"Lassie gonna be fine. Masta' checked on the baby's condition, it's good too. We can get some rest fer now."

"You can use the bed. I don't feel tired."

"Ye su’e, Laoch? Bed's big enough fer both ov us."

"I'll take a nap later. Maybe. I think I'll check the library for some clue on who's behind the river problem."

"Want some company?"

"No, rest a bit. You haven't in a while, have you?"

"Aye, but I'm a Servant."

"Still."

Cú Chulainn relents, and dismisses part of his clothes before crashing on the bed with a satisfied moan. Archer tries really hard to instantly forget the sound, as well as the sight of a bare-chested Lancer sprawled on the bed. The spearman is almost instantly asleep, and the only glance Archer allows himself reveals a massive red tattoo on the right side of Cú Chulainn's chest, which goes all the way down his arm, only to stop midway through his forearm. It seems to go on his back as well, but Archer isn't sure. The symbols accentuate the lines of his muscles in a way that makes Archer's heart skip a beat, and he decides he hates it.

When he all but runs to the library, Archer wills himself to forget the image and the confusing feelings that come along with it. Much to his frustration, it doesn't work. All he can do is grab several history books, looking for anyone who might be connected to English rivers or water in general. Morgan le Fay seems like a plausible option, but he supposes the faerie queen wouldn't stop at a single river. The whole land would already be filled with mana. Ironically, she would be too strong for this to be her work. Still, he will mention her to Lady Helene. Merlin is the same, although less linked to water than Morgan le Fay.

Other books are read and, before Archer realises it, he has a list of five names and the sun is coming up. His back hurts from being hunched over for hours, and his head pounds from all the reading. From what he remembers of his life, he's never been very good at studying, or even reading in general. The bowman stands up and puts the books back in their places. Stretching makes a few of his vertebraes pop, and he sighs in relief.

Instinctively, Archer makes his way back to 'his' chamber. He enters silently, making sure to close the door behind him before turning around. Immediately, his cheeks heat up. Cú Chulainn, still asleep, glows under the rising sunlight. His skin all but glitters like a jewel, and his entire body seems to have been carved in marble or some other stone. His tattoo stands out even more like this, a splendid contrast with his pale skin. He's like a work of art. Slowly, pulled by feelings he doesn't understand and doesn't want to explore, Archer gets closer. The spearman has removed the metal bead from his hair, and the lapis-lazuli halo around his head seems made of silk. Archer, entranced, almost goes to touch it, but thankfully gathers enough will to stop himself just in time. His blush deepens, embarrassment and shame like electricity in his blood, and he quickly turns away, electing to rest on one of the chairs.

Notes:

Aaaaaaaand Saber is gone! At first I thought about allowing him to live longer but the drama will be better like this... Sorry William!!!

----

Side-note: Archer having a Moment™ when he sees Sétanta sleeping half-naked was very funny to write.

Chapter 13: Calm before the Storm

Summary:

Sétanta knows jack shit about Christianity. What do you mean there are two of them?

This is easily one the most comfortable beds Sétanta has ever slept in, and he's not about to move or even open his eyes unless he has to. There's enough room for Archer to lay down as well upon his return from the library, although he doesn't expect him to. This cat in human form will never willingly lay down next to someone else, especially not to rest. He hates touch too much, even though he is starved for it at the same time. Sétanta supposes it is natural, after what Alaya has done to him. A spark of anger ignites in his stomach at the mere thought of the being. That bitch, going after what's his to hurt him, all because she's too much of a coward to face Lugh or Sétanta directly. He feels a growl bubbling in his throat, stopped by the sound of the door opening and the smell of Archer's skin hitting his nose.

Instinctively, Sétanta inhales deeply, enjoying the smell of steel and fire. He feels Archer's eyes on him, hears him get closer and stop at the edge of the bed. A hand approaches his hair but flees at the last second, which Sétanta can't help but be disappointed in. He stays still, pretending to be asleep to spare Archer the embarrassment that would come with learning Sétanta has been awake the whole time. A shame, really, because Archer probably looks quite cute when embarrassed. He can almost picture it; his ears going bright red, and his eyes looking away as he moves from one foot to the other. Now that would be a much better sight than the horrible thing he was upon their return from France.

Sétanta almost shivers at the memory. The blank eyes as Archer came out of that room, with blood splattered on him. Usually, Sétanta loves blood; it excites him, even if he is the first to admit it's a bit weird. But at this moment, in that nightmarish French castle, the red liquid almost made him throw up. It has nothing to do on Archer's hands and face, not when his eyes are so blank he doesn't even seem aware of what he did. Not when that bitch is behind it. He could almost see her that day, floating behind Archer, hugging his neck and whispering in his ear as she gave Sétanta a taunting smile. He shifts on the bed, pushing the memory away. Slowly, he opens his eyes, blinking twice to get used to the light. Archer isn't far, sitting in one of the armchairs. His cheek is resting on his fist, and he seems lost in thoughts, eyes on the chimney, staring without seeing.

Sétanta briefly considers sitting up and starting a conversation – for one, he's terrible at keeping his mouth shut, but also because bantering with Archer is pretty amusing –, but he decides against it. The bowman seems to be avoiding conversations and company. The need for peace and quiet is obvious, and Sétanta respects that. He has all the time in the world to tease his feral cat. He keeps his eyes on the immobile form of Archer. Eventually, the other Servant dismisses his coat, revealing scarred arms. Most of them are the result of a fight or another, and Sétanta's eyes are drawn to Archer's inner forearms. He keeps rubbing them, digging his nails from time to time. That's when Sétanta notices them. Small scars, not from a war or an enemy. Or rather, a different war than the ones Sétanta is used to. This kind of battle is against one's own mind. And from the looks of it, Archer lost quite a few battles. The scars must come from when he was still alive, for Heroic Spirits don't keep scars.

Unless Alaya prevents the scars from disappearing. Sétanta has no doubt that she would do something like this. It seems pretty on brand with what he's seen of her. Does Archer do this often? Use blades against himself as some sort of twisted distraction? The thought makes Sétanta want to throw up, stomach in a painfully knot. His mouth and throat tighten. They're dry where his eyes become wet. Frustration and rage want to lash out, but protectiveness and possessiveness want him to comfort Archer. They demand an embrace, require that he takes him in his arms and keep him safe from the world like a dragon would guard its treasure.

Both sides are fighting, and Archer keeps scratching. Sétanta finds himself biting the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. Resisting his instincts is painful, but he knows he has to. If he goes up to Archer right now, he will shut him out, he will run back to his mechanical state of mind to avoid the confrontation. It's a terrible thing, to know he needs to wait, to know Archer doesn't trust him enough or hates himself too much to ask for comfort when he so obviously needs it. When was the last time someone took care of him, before Sétanta came along? A decade? Two? A century? More? Each possibility is even worse than the last.

If only he could rip Alaya apart.

 

---

The cover-up story for Lucas Ashford’s death is simple and efficient. Bandits attacked the couple's home, and the lumberjack was killed defending his wife. It's common enough to be believable, and tragic enough that no one will ask questions. The funerals are organised and paid by Lady Helene, and the man is buried in the local cemetery. It's a nice ceremony, Sétanta supposes, and it allows Mary to grieve properly. Her in-laws endlessly thank Lady Helene for taking her in for the rest of her pregnancy, all promising to visit regularly. Sétanta looks at the scene from the top of the stairs, hidden behind a pillar. He's not worried for his Master, but one can never be too prudent in this situation.

"It's only natural." Lady Helene takes the hand of Lucas Ashford's mother in hers, gentle smile on her lips. "As Lady of this land, it's my duty to keep my people safe. I failed to protect Mister Ashford and as such, I will ensure his wife safely delivers their child."

When they finally depart, Sétanta joins his Master. She turns in his general direction but, contrary to what he's noticed over the last couple of days, she seems unsure of where he is.

"Lancer, will you take me to my office? I need to rest my mana circuits for a bit, and releasing my spell is the best way."

"Su'e!" he gently takes her hand and puts it on his arm, just like when he escorted his mother. "Here ye go. Will ye be fine? Ye can rest more, if ye need."

"I'm grateful for your concern, but I will be fine. There has been a lot of people in the area of my spell today, and it requires a lot of concentration. I prefer taking a break before it causes a migraine. The bounded field is more important."

"Aye." Sétanta sees the logic. Lady Helene has been maintaining a bounded field, a constant localisation spell and supplying two Servants with mana at the same time. Even if it doesn't drain her reserves, focusing on the various tasks is bound to cause some backlash. "Don't ye worry 'bout the localisation spell, then. Archa' and I will take care of things."

She smiles at him, gently squeezing his forearm.

"I have no doubt you will." She stays silent for a few seconds, and Sétanta politely waits for her to find her words. "May I request something?"

"Of course, Masta'! That's whae I'm here!"

"Please keep my children safe. If you ever have to choose, protect them. If anything were to happen to them…"

She doesn't need to finish her sentence; Sétanta knows that fear very well. Medb's rage knew no limit, and he feared more for Emer and Finn than for himself. He would have given his life without a second thought in exchange for his little girl’s safety and happiness, if it had been enough to calm Medb's fury. There's nothing worse than losing a child. Even Ferdiad's death, as painful as it was, was nothing compared to Connla's. The possibility of losing Finn would have been enough to break him. He was here when she was born, terrified he would hurt her until Emer put her in his arms. He held her all night long when she couldn't sleep, played with her, encouraged her to take her first steps. He understands Lady Helene's fear more than anyone.

"Ye know me myth, raeght?" he asks, putting a hand over hers as they walk down the corridor. "What I did to Connla."

“Connla…? Oh!” The sound carries so much compassion it almost hurts. "Yes, I have heard what happened."

"I'll keep the kiddos safe, ye don't have to worry 'bout that." They reach the office but before entering, he gently squeezes her hand one last time. "Ye ain't buryin' a kid on me watch."

"Thank you."

Inside the office is their small team. Archer, Ser Addam, Eliott the butler and Mary Ashford, who enters the room right after them. Lizzie and Zander are here as well, but they're just playing on the ground, giggling to themselves and making small bubbles of light. Sétanta can't help but be impressed; from what he's gathered, no one taught the twins magecraft. They simply mimicked their mother on their own. They will be quite strong in the future, especially with their mother to guide them. Sétanta waves at them, and they do the same with cheerful smiles before going back to their incredibly important task: the bubbles. He guides Lady Helene to her desk and she sits down carefully.

"Alright. Good day everyone. Mrs Ashford, I am grateful that you've decided to attend. I can only imagine how you must feel," she says gently.

"It's nothing, m'lady. You took me in when you didn't have to, and so I will help you. It's what Lucas would have wanted," the woman says.

"Nonetheless, you've just suffered a terrible tragedy. No one would blame you for needing rest." Lady Helene's tone holds genuine compassion and a deep respect for the other woman's strength. It's probably why the widow has decided to help them. "Archer, can you give me a summary of what you've observed until now?"

"As we know, the real Archer is Jean Chastel, in service to your cousin, Ser Jack Beauxmonts. They both reside in your uncle's house, about six miles from here. We also know that Chastel has great instinct, as he was able to sense me from a mile away while I was in Spirit Form. Sneak attacks are out of the question. His primary weapon seems to be a hunting rifle, but considering his story, we can expect some traps as well." Archer's voice is perfectly neutral, as if he's reciting something he's learnt by heart. "Assassin is a woman. She has dark hair and wears noble clothings from about a century ago. She's European, and doesn't seem to be using any weapons. Someone – most likely Caster – is planning on using the river one way or another."

There's a short silence. Ser Addam studies the map, muttering to himself. Then, he turns to Mary.

"Your home wasn't far from the river. Did Saber sense anything particular? Or perhaps your husband? Strangers wandering around? Even a neighbour acting out of the ordinary could be a clue."

"No, not that I know of," she replies, seemingly surprised someone has spoken to her. "Our closest neighbours are half a mile away, we barely see them. Even when we do, we avoid each other. They're quite rude." She furrows her brows, thinking of something. "Ah, wait! We might have noticed something. But I don't know if it's relevant."

"Tell us please."

"It was last Sunday. We went to the service, as always. But we arrived early, and there was this man I didn't know. A monk. Dominican, I think. He didn't do anything weird, but there was something… off, about him. I can't explain the feeling. Lucas didn't feel comfortable near him either, so we went home. He hadn't summoned Ser William yet, so I can't tell if he was a Servant."

Sétanta feels like groaning in annoyance. Christians have several types of priests and monks, now? That religion is a right mess. He's glad he's never had to deal with them. To be entirely honest, he's quite annoyed that Ireland has forgotten its true gods in favour of some shitty demi-god who got himself killed without putting up a fight. Seriously, how lame. And what the fuck is a Dominican to begin with? Is there even an actual difference with the other Christians monks? What's a monk anyway? Ain't that just a fancy way of saying priest? Druids weren't complicated like that, and they minded their own business.

"A popular religious man could join the Throne of Heroes," Archer says, crossing his arms. "The ones who performed miracles, and probably some crusaders. I wouldn't be surprised if the Twelve Apostles could be summoned as Heroic Spirits."

"That could be a problem. The Holy Church is supposed to be impartial but if a Saint enters the War, they won't be anymore," Ser Addam says. "Mrs Ashford, what Church do you go to?"

"Saint Germaine, in town."

"Not Father Thomas', then." The knight studies the map. "Why would that monk risk exposing himself like this? Saint Germaine is in the middle of the city, right across the town’s square. I get he's religious, but he's lucky no other Servant has found him yet."

"He might not be a Servant," Lady Helene intervenes. "It isn't uncommon for mages to make others uneasy with their presence alone."

"I sae it's worth checkin' out, Masta'." Sétanta gets closer, looking at the details on the map. This one has more information regarding the landscape and the people living here than the first one. “If he ain't no Servant, then we don't got nothin' to fear. If 'e is, we kill 'im."

"Indeed." She looks a bit amused, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Tomorrow is Sunday, and there is service anyway. We shall attend and see if a Servant is present. As there will be a high number of potential witnesses, we don't have any attack to fear."

"I will remain in Spirit Form. It will give me the opportunity to look around town as well, in case another Servant is hiding."

"If you happen upon one, focus on tailing them and gathering information. If you happen to find a Master, do so as well."

"Of course. If I may suggest something?"

"Please do so."

"Lancer's appearance is… unusual for the era. If he must appear in public with you, it would be better if he could be given clothes and a cloak to hide his hair."

"Oh!" Lady Helene seems quite surprised, before giggling a bit to herself. "Of course, I had forgotten. Demi-gods are bound to look different. Ser Addam, would your clothes fit Lancer?"

"Maybe?" The knight eyes Sétanta, unsure. The spearman grins, amused by the whole situation. "Some might. They might be a bit tight at the shoulders, but if it's just for appearance, it should be fine."

"M'lady, I'm a seamstress. I can work a bit on Ser Addam’s clothes and make them fit Lancer."

"That would be ideal. Thank you, Mrs Ashford. Would it be fine with you, Lancer?"

"No problem, Masta'! I can just summon me armour back if I need it!"

"Perfect. Then, I will leave you in Mrs Ashford's competent hands."

 

---

The city is awful, and Sétanta hopes not all current towns look like this. It's a nightmare, even in Lady Helene's carriage. The smell is bad, but the noise is easily the worst. People are talking, some preacher is screaming something about the end of the world, some machines are whistling loudly and spitting hot steam, wooden or iron wheels are making clunking noises on the pavement. There are some animals too, mostly dogs barking and horses dragging this and that. Sétanta hasn't been in the middle of such a noisy town's square since he died and even then, Ulster cities were smaller and much less noisy.

Finally, the carriage stops, and Sétanta flips his hood on before stepping out. The smell of horse shit hits his nose, as well as other unpleasant ones. As unpleasant as it is, he looks around, searching for any source of danger. Luckily, the weather is good, and there are so many people around that no Servant will try anything. Even Assassin, for all her stealth, wouldn't be stupid enough to attack in such circumstances.

Lady Helene climbs down, using Ser Addam's arm as a guide. She has no need for it, but magecraft isn't public knowledge. As far as people know, Lady Helene is a blind, defenseless young woman with two children. Sétanta glances at Lizzie and Zander; they seem over the moon at the idea of going into town. Mass doesn't interest the children, of course, but they're still expected to attend once a month. However, until the Church is deemed safe, the twins will be going to the market to buy some trinkets with Ser Addam as their supervisor and Archer to protect them in Spirit Form. As for Sétanta, he will escort Lady Helene and Mary Ashford to church.

After some last advice and recommendations, the two groups make their way to their respective destinations. Sétanta 'guides' Lady Helene through the crowd, ignoring the distrusting looks he's given, most likely due to the hood hiding his blue hair. It's none of his business. Although they are near the church, Sétanta doesn't feel a Servant's distinctive mana signature, and he allows himself to relax a bit. It seems that priest-monk person was no one special. He stops near the entrance.

"I don't sense nothin' special, Masta'. Do we go in?"

"Yes. Service will begin in half an hour, and I might as well attend. If you prefer waiting outside, I would understand."

"Nah, I'll be fine. I ain't gonna prae to yer god, but I'll stae with ye just in case."

The moment they step in, Sétanta feels malicious mana all around them. Mana just like Kirei's. Immediately, he jumps back with Lady Helene against his chest. She yelps in surprise but otherwise clings to his cloak. Mrs Ashford gives them a worried look, stepping away from the church, her hands immediately covering her round stomach.

"Mana. Lots ov it."

"I didn't sense anything. Are you certain?"

"Definitely. That shite was nasty as fuck. Don't get in there 'til I check this place out."

"I will put a bounded field, then. I will tell Archer to be careful but unless the situation escalates, I'd rather he remains hidden."

"Aye Masta'!"

When Sétanta enters the building again, the malicious mana comes back. It bites his skin aggressively, trying to push him outside. With an annoyed tsk, Sétanta removes the hood and slashes Gáe Bulg through the air before planting the tip in the stone.

"Enough with the theatrics, fucka'. Whae don't'cha come out and plae with me?"

Rising from his kneeling position in front of an autel, a man in a brown robe and a Bible in his hand makes a religious sign.

"Such rude words in the House of the Lord. I shall teach you some manners."

Notes:

Ngl, Sétanta dissing Jesus and not giving a flying fuck about Christianity wasn't planned but being a pagan demi-god himself, he's not a big fan of monotheist religions in general.

Chapter 14: Battle at the church

Summary:

Archer enters the fight, and finds himself cursed...

Helene slams her hands on the ground, pouring more mana in the bounded field. Lancer and whom she assumes is Caster are fighting fiercely inside the church, the ripples of their fight threatening to break her spell. If only she had had the time to prepare it, her barrier would be much stronger. She's had to give up on her localisation spell, leaving her unable to be precisely aware of her surroundings. Thankfully, Mary Ashford, kind and brave Mary Ashford, has a hand on her shoulder and the other on her back, acting as her eyes.

 

"M'lady, four people are coming! A woman, three men! They seem to see through the spell!" she exclaims.

"Helene!" it's her mother's voice, recognisable amongst a thousand. Helene hears her fall on her knees next to her, hands hovering above her. "My dearest love, are you well? May I help?'

"Mother, move!" It's Alan. He kneels down, and additional mana is poured in the bounded field, strengthening the foundations like cement between bricks. If she had the time, Helene would be surprised. "I don't have as much mana, but I'll help."

"Archer and Jack?"

"Going to fight. Archer will support your Lancer."

 

Helene nods, panting. Despite the additional mana poured by Alan, the bounded field suffers heavily from the brutal fight inside the church. From what she's heard and been described, the windows shattered, and loud explosions of mana as well as the clash of weapons vibrate through the air, akin to tidal waves crashing again and again on a beach. The bounded field won't last forever and even if it did, the people outside are bound to notice something. Helene raises her head towards where her mother is – or so she thinks, she hasn't had to rely solely on her hearing in years.

"Mother, I need your help."

"Of course!"

"Evacuate the city. People listen to you, you have influence here. Make them leave. Bounded fields can only do so much, and they're in danger."

"I will do my best!"

 

More deafening sounds. Stone breaks, glass shatters, metal clangs, voices clamour. It's disorientating, and Helene hates being unable to understand her environment. She hasn't felt this lost in years, back when the dragon scale hadn't chosen her yet and she couldn't use magecraft to 'see' around her the way she now does. It scares her, twists her stomach into painful knots, and it's hard to remember that she's not a crippled little girl anymore, that she's not being beaten and assaulted in her own bed anymore.

Mary Ashford lets out a sudden scream and Lancer screams in her head to get awae frem 'ere.

 

"Helene, shield behind us!" Alan exclaims.

 

Immediately, Helene whirls around and summons the strongest shield she can, for she doesn't know what's coming. She feels magical projectiles hit the shields, but they're too numerous to count.

 

"Archer, what are you doing!" Alan screams. "Jack! Get your Servant under control!"

 

Chastel is the one attacking them? What is going on? Helene wants to scream in frustration and tear into everything and everyone around her, but she swallows the emotions. She has to think rationally, or she'll die.

 

'Lancer, what's the situation?'

'Casta' took control ov Chastel. Don' know 'ow. He said some shite in some language I don' know. I think it was the spell. Fightin' both is a pain, cuz I think Casta's gettin’ mana from the church or som’thin'.'

 

If he's a religious man, it makes sense. Still, it's not an advantageous situation. Lancer needs to kill Caster, but the Servant must know he'll lose his advantage the second he steps out of the church. His ability to control Chastel probably relies on the mana boost he gets from being inside the building. And Chastel is attacking them, but Lancer cannot come to their rescue for Caster won't let him. On the outside, it looks like a terrible situation, from which she should run. And if she was anyone else, Helene would. But she isn't. Not only does she have two Servants, she Helene Beauxmonts, owner of the dragon scale.

 

'Archer, can you hear me?'

The reply is immediate. 'Yes Master. The twins are safe at the manor. I've ordered everyone to stay inside until the situation is resolved. You can summon me.'

'Good. By the power of my Command Seal, Archer, come to me!'

 

---

 

The twins are dragging Ser Addam from shop to shop when Archer feels Caster's mana. Immediately, he materialises, jumps from the roof he was using as a vantage point, and scoops up the twins. Ser Addam almost slashes him with his sword, taking him for an enemy trying to harm the children, but the knight stops himself just in time. Instead, his usually relaxed expression turns serious and cold.

 

"What's going on?"

"You need to get out of here. I'm taking you to the manor."

"You'll be faster on your own, won't you? Take the twins, I'll grab a horse."

'Master, I'm taking the twins back to Pearlforest. Ser Addam will be behind us on horseback. I'll return when they're safe.'

'Thank you. I'll summon you with a Command Seal if Lancer requires your help.'

 

Archer doesn't bother replying. Instead, he tightens his hold on the two confused children.

 

"Hold on tight to me, alright? I'm taking you home."

"But Mama isn't here!"

"I'll come back to get your mother. Lancer is with her."

 

That seems to persuade them, or perhaps they feel the urgency of the situation. Either way, they both put their arms around Archer's neck. Their hold is tight, almost like a rope, and it takes Archer a second too long to remember he can breathe. He inhales shakily, but doing so calms his panicking mind. He exchanges a parting nod with Ser Addam and jumps on the nearest roof. It will be easier than navigating the streets, uncaring of who sees him. Panic is soon going to engulf the city anyways. The twins shriek in his ears, but they're easy to ignore. It's not nearly as deafening as a battlefield. The shrieks quickly turn to amused laughter, and Elizabeth even exclaims 'Yahoo!' when Archer jumps down the last building and sprints down the road to Pearlforest.

 

It takes Archer a couple of minutes to reach the manor, and he easily jumps over the walls around the gardens. He lands as softly as he can to spare the twins as much pain from the shock as possible. A maid yelps at his sudden appearance, but, upon seeing the twins, the young woman rushes towards him with nothing but a broom for a weapon.

 

"Who are you?! Where do you come from? Unhand the young master and the little lady right this instant!"

 

Archer simply raises an eyebrow, but he puts the children down. At the same time, Elliott runs out of the front door, hailing the maid.

 

"It's fine, Sara! He's a friend of Lady Helene." he stops near them, panting. "Ser, where's our lady?"

"Still in town. Addam is on his way to guard the place. Stay inside, don't come out before we return."

 

The butler nods stiffly, ushering the children inside with promises of candies and cakes. The maid – Sara – gives Archer a confused glance, but she follows Elliott and the twins. Once the door closes, Archer takes his Spirit Form and bolts back to the city. However, Lady Helene reaches out to him before he can run a hundred metres.

 

'Archer, can you hear me?'

'Yes Master. He's been listening to her conversation with Lancer, so he knows what is coming. The twins are safe. I've ordered everyone to stay inside until the situation is resolved. You can summon me.'

'Good. By the power of my Command Seal, Archer, come to me!'

 

Being teleported by the Command Seal's power is similar to being summoned by Alaya. There's a massive mana pull on his chest, and the world shifts around him. Immediately, swords in hands, he sprints towards Chastel. The hunter uses his rifle to barely block Kanshō and Byakuya before jumping back, unleashing a rain of bullets. Archer dodges easily, but the two seconds delay allows Chastel to draw his hunting knife. He's crouched in front of the church entrance, ready to pounce. 

Inside, Lancer and Caster are clashing. Usually, Lancer would make quick work of some clergyman. However, the church evidently acts as a workshop and the magus is stronger within its walls. Archer hates that he can't be with Lancer, can't make sure he's unharmed, can't send Caster back to his fucking maker – He inhales deeply, stopping the thoughts. He has to think. There's an obvious solution to the problem, after all.

 

'Master, permission to destroy the church?

'What?!'

'It serves as Caster's workshop. If we destroy it, he will be considerably weakened.'

 

While Lady Helene hesitates, obviously torn by the situation, Archer dashes forward to duel Chastel. The hunter, not only a competent gunman, matches him strike for strike. It's a bit unexpected, but Archer doesn't waste time dwelling on it. Even though he's not supposed to kill the huntsman due to Lady Helene's truce with her cousin, he doesn't hesitate when an opportunity presents itself. Kanshō shatters the hunting knife and almost severs Chastel’s carotid when scorching flames bursts through the gates, sending Archer crashing a dozen metres from the church’s entrance. Groaning, he gets up and assesses the situation. He has some burns, but they're healing quickly. The sting remains, but he ignores it. He's had worse and as long as his body functions properly, pain is inconsequential.

 

'Archa', ye doin' okay?'

‘I'm fine. What happened?’

'Fuck if I know. I don' understand a word that nutjob's sayin'. Some shite 'bout 'eretics or som'thin' like that. Blasted some fire. Ring any bells?'

'Heretics?' Lady Helene repeats. 'He must have lived during the witch trials. If he's a member of clergy, he must be an inquisitor as well. Perhaps a crusader, but it's unlikely. Can you repeat anything he's saying to me? I'll try figuring out his identity.'

 

Archer fires a bunch of arrows at Chastel before charging the huntsman once more. Having lost his knife, the hunter uses his rifle as a make-shift blunt weapon. After a few blows, he retreats and aims at Lady Helene. Immediately, Archer goes to his Master to deflect the bullets, but Lady Helene summons a wall of flames with a cry, destroying the projectiles. Impressively, the bounded field doesn't even falter. Chastel frowns, and Archer crouches slightly, muscles tensed. Although she can evidently defend herself, Archer refuses to leave her alone. He doesn't want to see what Chastel's Noble Phantasm is.

Lancer's voice suddenly clamours in their head with the poorest Spanish accent Archer has ever heard.

 

'E di-ho Di-oss: sae-a la luz; e fu-ae la luz! Fire spell! Don't think I'm sayin’ it right.'

'It's Spanish. And you have a terrible accent.'

'That language didn't exist when I lived!'

'And the Lord said 'let there be light.' Genesis 1:3:3.' Lady Helene's voice holds some amusement as she interrupts them. 'It does not help figuring out his identity. Every Spanish man knows these words.'

 

A Spanish Inquisitor, then. It isn't surprising; the institution left thousands upon thousands of corpses in its wake, slaughtering and torturing innocents. And with all of this, it is more than likely that this man has never killed a single witch in his life. Even the weakest magus can spell his way out of this kind of situation.

 

'He's got some spikes. Gallows too, and a fuck load of torture devices. How am I the barbarian 'ere?' Lancer groans, half-annoyed, half-amused.

'Tomás de Torquemada was in charge of the Spanish Inquisition when it was at its most brutal. It must be him.'

'Did he have any weaknesses we could exploit?'

'Not particularly. Shattering his faith would work the best, but I'm afraid it cannot be done. He was a fanatic, a stain on his own religion.'

'We destroyin’ the church, then?'

'As much as I dislike it, we do not have a choice.'

'Put up a shield, Master, please. I must focus.'

'Don’t worry. Focus on destroying the Church.'

 

At the same time, Cú Chulainn cackles excitedly in Archer's head. Immediately, there's a loud explosion and Lancer jumps through one of the many windows, destroying what's left of the shattered glass. Twisting in the air, he brings Gáe Bulg down with a roar. The cursed spear tears through the massive stones like butter, and the wall opens. Archer summons his bow, and calls upon one of Diarmuid Ua Duibhne’s spears, Gáe Dearg, which nullifies magic. Spears aren't as easy to make as swords, but being around Cú Chulainn, Ireland's greatest hero, allows him to project such a weapon. Gáe Dearg morphs into an arrow, and Archer aims at the main entrance. He lets the weapon loose, and the projectile goes straight for the church, surrounded by crackling red energy. At the same time, Lady Helene sends a spiral of flames towards Chastel, forcing him to retreat, and she only releases it when Gáe Darg flies through the air with a loud whistle.

The explosion that follows almost tears down the bounded field. Its resistance is a testament to Lady Helene's powers. Had it been made by any other mage, a bonded field so hastily constructed would have been blown away a long time ago, especially when she unleashed two major spells back to back whilst maintaining it. This is beyond the massive mana reserve granted by the dragon scale. She is a one in a century mage. Still, he feels his Master's exhaustion. They need to finish this quickly.

Thankfully, Chastel seems free of his compulsion. Stumbling, he seems pretty confused about the whole situation. Then, he frowns and curses loudly in French. Jack Beauxmonts goes to examine him, strangely fearless after what just occurred, and they have an ushered discussion Archer doesn't bother listening to. Instead, he focuses on the ruins of the church. Caster isn't dead, but he is severely weakened. Eventually, the man emerges from the ruins. Mana flickers on his skin, and any physical damage he's suffered from is gone.

 

"You… you heretics! Demon spawns and witches, all of you! You shall burn in Hellfire for all of eternity!" he roars, enraged.

But Cú Chulainn is on him in the blink of an eye, ready to strike. "I'm a demi-god, arsehole, so shut it!"

 

Gáe Bulg goes down. In what seems a last resort, Tomás de Torquemada exclaims something in Spanish, aiming his rosary at Cú Chulainn's heart. The spell flickers through the air, trying to ensnare the spearman. But, for a reason Archer doesn't have the time to think about, it bounces off of Lancer. And, before he can blink, the spell attacks him and everything goes dark.

 

Archer is in an infinite dark space, his movement restrained by a sluggish black liquid resembling oil. Far away above him, some light allows him to behold the immensity of the darkness he's in. Looking around, he sees nothing, just more infinite darkness. The Counter Guardian tries to take a step, but something grabs his leg. Archer looks down and horror takes hold of him. Little hands reach out and cling to him, the oil-like substance flowing down and revealing pale skin littered with bruises. Eyeless children emerge from the black goo as well, the substance coming out of empty sockets like tears.

 

"N-no… no, no, no, no… "

 

Breath hitches, hands shake, blood runs cold, heartbeat races. The children wail in his head, and the sound rattles his bones. They question him, demand to know why they died, what sins they committed, how they would bring the world's end. Archer tries to back away, but they name him Coward, chant his title. Their little hands pull and he falls to his knees. His arms are made prisoners of the liquid, and he's condemned to face the children coming to the surface. Their screams are almost a song.

Why did we die?

Murderer!

Why did you kill us?

Monster!

Why did you strike us down?

Coward!

What did we do to deserve your blades? Your arrows?

Assassin!

Is this the world’s justice, Hero?

Butcher!

 

"I'm s-sorry, I'm so s-sorry… I didn't… I never w-wanted th-this!"

 

They mock his sobs. They enact judgment, brand him a traitor. The searing pain of white-hot metal burns his back, the pain all-too familiar. He screams, and Alaya sings, calls him her good boy, her dearest knight. Kiritsugu is among the many faces, but he congratulates him – he's a Hero saving the world, bringing True Justice and Peace to humanity. The children keep wailing. Everything is so loud it hurts all the way down to his bones. It tears his muscles apart, it rip the skin off his body. He can only scream.

He can't breathe. A rough rope is tied around his neck, and it tightens, tightens, tightens. It burns his skin, cuts through it, and he feels blood running down his neck while much deserved bruises keep forming on his skin. He tries to get up, to grab the rope, but his arms are stuck, and he cannot stand. Worse, other hands emerge from the oil and drag him underneath the surface. The goo makes its way in his throat, suffocates him while the rope keeps burning him. It burns his lungs, trachea all the way down to his stomach. He tries to scream, to form words – apologies, cries for help, he doesn't know –, but no sound comes out. He can barely move his arms, struggles to lift them towards the surface. It's hard, so hard.

He wants to give up, to let himself drown and die in this endless black ocean of misery. It's what he deserves after all. The children would be avenged, his own pain would end. It's easier to forget, to let Alaya decide and listen only to her song, to bask in her praise and love. She loves him, she told him so many times. It would be so easy. He needs only close his eyes. His eyelids close, and darkness starts engulfing him.

 

'It's alright, Laoch, I'm 'ere now!'

 

Golden eyes widen, and the sun explodes.

Notes:

Sétanta can't speak Spanish to save his life, but here's what he was trying to say: Y dijo Dios: Sea la luz; y fue la luz. (And God said: let there be light; and there was light)

 

Tomás de Torquemada (1420-1498) was the Spanish Inquisitor. This man turned it into the horror show we now remember, and he's responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocents. Torture was common practice. Because being a douchebag was his thing, he also persecuted the Muslims and the Jews and is responsible for their expulsions of Spain (the whole thing is called the Reconquista). He's the definition of a fanatic.

Chapter 15: Caring

Summary:

Sétanta looks after Archer; mana is given, and there's a moment

A roar of rage and frustration bursts out of Sétanta's throat as Caster disappears half a second before Gáe Bulg can tear him apart. Probably the result of his Master using a Command Seal, but Sétanta doesn't care. He's furious, he's frustrated. His prey escaped, and he hates it. Irish curses and expletives are growled as he uses Gáe Bulg to wreck what's left of the church. It barely does anything to ease his anger, but it's better than nothing.

'Lancer, you must calm down! Archer has been cursed by Caster, and he is unresponsive!'

What?! Sétanta whirls around, and his eyes widen. Archer is on the ground, completely immobile. Mary Ashford is trying to wake him up with small slaps, while Alan Beauxmonts just stares in shock. Somewhere, Chastel and Jack Beauxmonts talk. Sétanta rushes to kneel next to Archer and does his best to examine him. It's indeed a curse, and it reeks of corruption and malice. His runes are useless, and the spell is lodged deep within Archer's core. This isn't the place for him to be examined and treated.

"Aye, it's a nasty curse. We gotta get 'im back to the manor. Masta', ye up fer a ride?"

"A ride?" Lady Helene repeats.

"I'll carry ye and Archa'."

Lady Helene frowns, considers the offer, and nods.

"Alan, bring Mrs Ashford and Mother to Pearlforest. It is the safest place for all of you to be. I trust that Jack's Servant will be able to take care of him."

"Huh, yes, sure."

Sétanta considers Alan Beauxmonts for a second. It seems he isn't malicious but rather a sheep, following whoever has the most authority or power. It must have been his elder brother for a while, and he's used to listening to him, but he isn't blind and deaf to other influences. Maybe there's hope for him. Oh well. It's not Sétanta's problem. He gently takes Lady Helene in one arm, sitting her on his elbow and holding her legs tight. Instinctively, she grabs his neck with a yelp of surprise but overall, she settles easily in his hold. Sétanta puts Archer on his other shoulder like a bag, grimacing. It's far from being ideal, but it will have to work.

"Alright everyone, let's go! We don't wanna be 'ere fer the incomin' shit show!"

Three jumps later, he's out of town and rushing through the fields. Usually he would use the road, but they're far too inconspicuous. The Church is already going to have a field day hiding away all of this, he can at least spare them a bit. Plus, it's much faster this way.

It takes him about four minutes to reach Pearlforest, and he finds Ser Addam in front of the doors. The knight's sword is unsheathed, the tip of the blade against the stone stairs and his hands on the pommel. His grey eyes darken with worry as he sees them; he quickly sheathe the weapon and comes down the stairs to meet them.

"Lady Helene!" he exclaims. Sétanta puts her down, and she holds out her arms in search of the knight. Realising she cannot perceive him the way she usually does, he gently takes her hand and guides it to his arm. "I'm right here."

"Thank you. Let us go inside. Archer needs help, and I must rest."

"Of course."

Sétanta readjusts his hold on Archer, carrying him bridal-style and tucking the bowman's head against his chest. He's shivering and twitching, which Sétanta hates. He wants to curl up around Archer, protect him from everything and make his pain go away. But he can't, not right now, not until his Master is safe and resting. It is the rules all Servants must follow, as painful as it sometimes is. 

"I can carry him to bed, ser." Sétanta turns around and a man in his early fifties is standing there, with an apron above his clothes. "I'm the cook, ser. William O’Hanna, but people call me Bill."

As if Sétanta gives a flying fuck. Nonetheless, he lets the man take Archer in his arms and watches him disappear upstairs. His hands feel empty and cold, and he hates it. He's not used to being cold; he's Ireland's Child of Light, son of Lugh the sun god. He's never cold. And yet, with Archer gone from his arms and suffering from a curse, he feels so fucking cold. It's different from touching something which happens to be cold. His own body feels this way. It's awful.

"Lancer?" It's Ser Addam. "Lady Helene would like to speak with you."

Sétanta nods and follows the knight in Lady Helene's room. She's sitting in her bed, a maid offering to run her a hot bath and have some warm soup brought. She gives Sétanta a distrusting look, eyeing him up and down with a frown. The domestics weren't supposed to know about the War, but it seems this rule has been abandoned. Mayhaps Lady Helene will erase their memories, Sétanta doesn't know – nor does he care, truthfully.

"Please do so, Sara. It will do me some good. Have some brought to my guests as well, please."

"Don' need it, Masta'," Sétanta says cheerfully. "Archa's still out, and I'm doin' just fine. Ye focus on yerself, alright?"

"Are you certain?"

"Aye."

"Very well. In that case, I'd like you to tell me what you think of Caster."

"Honestly? He ain't that good. Next time, I'll kill 'im quickly. Without that church ov 'is, he's 'bout as good as dead. And even if he gets anotha' church, I'll blast it away. His spells don't work too well on me. Ain't sure why."

"Indeed. We shall look deeper in this matter once I have rested enough. How is Archer?"

"Still out. I'll be lookin' after 'im if that's alright with ye."

"I would appreciate it. If his condition changes, please come to me."

"Will do, Masta'."

"I have closed the bounded field to any other Servant. Even Chastel won't be able to enter. It required all the strength I had left, so we won't be in fighting condition for a few days at least. But at least, we are safe here."

"Alright Masta'. I'll still check out the perimeta', just in case."

Lady Helene smiles softly, but it doesn't hide the dark circles under her eyes. She's exhausted. The fact that she's still awake is impressive, to say the least. She's one hell of a Magus, and the dream Master of any sane Servant. After some last polite words are exchanged, Sétanta is off to the room he 'shares' with Archer. 

His partner in misfortune is laying on the bed, still dressed. Only his combat boots have been removed by the cook, and they have been neatly put away in a corner. A bowl of now lukewarm water and a towel have been placed on the nightstand, waiting to be used. Sétanta makes a mental note to thank the man as he walks up to the bed, and he starts looking at how Archer's clothing is tied. He needs rest, and keeping all this shit on won't help. The coat is easy enough to remove, even if Archer is a dead weight in his arms. The shirt is a bit trickier, made of some tight fabric and held together by metal clasps. Who the fuck designed this bullshit? Still, he manages to remove it and puts it away with the coat.

A look at Archer's chest makes Sétanta's breath hitch, and not in a fun way. It's littered with scars of all shapes and forms. The most obvious has been left by his own Gáe Bulg, a lifetime ago. It looks like someone ripped barbed-wire from his chest, which isn't too far from the truth. Another one implies Archer has been disemboweled at least once, and others that he's been shot enough times to be see-through. Many overlap, proof that they've appeared after his death. No one survives disembowelment and being shot so many times in a single lifetime. These came after Archer's death. And this bitch Alaya is letting all of this stay. On the ribs and just underneath lie the thin lines of a battle lost to one's own mind, and they're the most painful to look at.

Sétanta traces them absentmindedly, his finger barely touching the tanned skin. Archer shivers in his unconscious state, and Sétanta pulls back, fingertips burning from the feathery contact. A sigh escapes the demi-god, and he runs his hands over his face. He needs to focus on looking after Archer, not indulging in whatever weird impulses his mind comes up with. He probably should ask himself why he has these impulses, but he can't bring himself to care. He's never been one for introspection and all this philosophical nonsense. His instincts have been right more often than not – he can't remember the last time they were wrong, to be entirely honest –, so he listens and doesn't question them.

Archer flinches in his curse-induced sleep, and Sétanta sits on the bed next to him. His eyes fall on the water, and a rune easily warms it so it's not cold against Archer's skin. After lightly dipping the towel in it, he starts gently washing the grim, dirt and blood off the bowman's body. He's extra careful around the scars, especially the ones Archer gave himself. Something in him wails at the sight, but he pushes it away; unless he can focus for once in his bloody life – afterlife? –, things won't get better. Taking Archer's hands in his allows him to feel just how calloused they are, with many small scars across the fingers. As gently as he can, Sétanta unclenches the stiff fingers, and the warm water slowly relaxes the muscles.

When he's done, Sétanta puts the blanket on the unconscious Servant and it's only then he realises that he's been humming a folk song from his childhood all this time. A lifetime ago, he used to do the same for Emer. She had a terrible habit of staying up late embroidering or reading, and he would find her asleep on her chair, whatever work or book occupied her mind abandoned on her laps. He would carry her to bed and put her under the blankets, and she would snuggle adorably against him, seeking his supernatural warmth. Those were the best nights by her side, and they were often followed by a lazy day spent in bed. Until Finn was born, of course, because not even Lugh himself could keep the energetic little girl from running around and causing chaos the second she would wake up.

He misses his little girl so much. He hates that he never got to see her wedding, that he left her fatherless when he knows how awful it is.

Sétanta throws his head back, the heels of his hands digging in his eyes to keep the tears at bay. He has no regret about his life, about his death. But fuck he misses Finn. Emer knew about the prophecy when she married him so, as much as he misses her, Sétanta knows she found someone else to love, someone to grow old with. She promised him years before his death that she wouldn't mourn him forever, and he was glad for it. But what choice did Finn have? When did she agree to lose her father so young? To be quarter-god, with all the bullshit that comes with divine blood? To have no one to tell her what to do with the all-consuming anger that burns everything in its wake?

A pained groan drags Sétanta away from his memories, eyes going back to his present; Archer. He's twitching, sweat running down his temples as his face contorts in anguish. Whatever the curse is doing to him is getting worse. Which makes no fucking sense because Caster is wounded as hell, but what does he know about Christian curses? Dipping the towel in water again, he wipes Archer's face, thinking of a way to help him. His knowledge of runes is too limited to lift a curse put by a Caster using a completely different magecraft as him. Especially since it had no effect on him.

Why, though? Lugh's divine blood protects him from weak spells, and his own magecraft provides some protection, but it is nowhere near enough to deflect a full-blown curse. After some thinking , he recalls the name of the curse: Purgatorio. Purgatory? The fuck is that? After some more digging in the limited knowledge the Throne has given him, he finally remembers – or learns? he's not sure – what it is. Some Christian concept of the Afterlife, where one must face all his regrets and faults.

Oh. That's it. 

Chastel is Christian and Archer is guilt-ridden. But Sétanta is an Irish demi-god who barely knows anything about Christianity. Caster is a Christian Inquisitor. This is how his magecraft works. The magus took control of Chastel so easily because he's a Christian man with no specific protection against magecraft. Archer isn't Christian so he can't be controlled, but other spells like one using his mental state against himself work. Sétanta, with divine blood, no real knowledge of Christianity and no regrets, can't be affected by something so specific. The curse bounced back and probably went for Archer because their Spirit Origins are bonded together. All Archer needs to fight off the curse is Sétanta – or, more precisely, his mana.

"I'm a genius. Teach' and Ma would be so fuckin' proud," he chuckles.

Kicking off his own boots, Sétanta climbs on the bed and sits against the wooden headboard. Gently, he pulls Archer closer to him, carefully laying the bowman's head on his laps. He's still unconscious, but his face is anguished, his mind haunted by whatever he's seeing. Sétanta has an idea of what Archer sees, and he hates it. Bringing his wrist to his mouth, Sétanta bites down harshly, fangs easily tearing through his skin. He brings his bloody wrist to the bowman's mouth and, slowly, blood trickles down in Archer's mouth. The Servant swallows instinctively, although some droplets stay on his lips. Some heat warms Sétanta's stomach at the sight; Archer looks damn good with blood on his lips and his chest naked. The spearman growls at himself, mentally flicking his own forehead. What is he, a teenager? Archer needs comfort and help, not whatever his horny mind is coming up with! After a few more gulps, the bowman’s body visibly relaxes and the anguish disappears from his face.

“It's alright, Laoch, I'm 'ere now!” Sétanta says softly, petting the white hair in the hopes of soothing Archer.

Almost as if he's heard him, Archer opens his eyes wide and sits up frantically, shaking and blabbering in Japanese – Sétanta is grateful that the Throne didn't take away his knowledge of Japanese or the situation would be even worse. His entire body is shaking, and he's looking around, eyes crazed by confusion. He touches his face and neck in a panic, breathing heavily. Almost sobbing. Sétanta quickly reacts, although he makes sure to remain gentle and not use too much strength when he takes Archer's wrist in his hands. Archer's eyes are unfocused, a haze covering the pupils.

"Archa', Laoch, I'm here, it's ova'. Ye're safe. It wasn't real. What ye saw, it wasn't real. Casta' is gone. The curse is gone. Ye're safe."

But Archer doesn't seem to hear his words, instead repeating the same words over and over again. He frees his wrists from Sétanta's hands, and starts clawing at his neck.

"I-I c-c-can’t… I can't b-b-breathe, the r-r-ro-p-pe, i-it’s too t-t-tight!"

A rope? Sétanta doesn't know what Archer is talking about, but what is certain is that he's panicking and isn't calming down.

"There ain't any rope, Laoch. It was a nightmare, it wasn't real. No one's gonna hurt ye, I'm here now."

Eyes seem to focus a bit more on him, but it's not much. Still, progress is being made, and that's all that matters right now.

"That's right, ye're safe. It's ova'. I'm here. Ye ain't alone no more. Do ye recognise me?" A nod. "Good. Ye know where we are?" This time, Archer frowns a bit, concentration evident in his face, his overall expression adorable. He looks around, blinking once or twice. Then, he nods slowly, a bit uncertain. "It's Pearlforest, our Masta's castle. Rememba' her? Lady Helene?" The nod is confident. "That's good. Ye're doin’ great. Rememba' what happened to ye?"

A sob answers him, and Archer tries to bring his hands to his neck again but Sétanta gently stops him.

"Shhhh, it's okay. The curse is gone."

"C-c-curse?"

“Aye. Casta', he put a curse on ye. It's gone, now.”

"H-h-how?"

"I gave ye some ov me blood. Me mana made it go awae."

"Oh."

"I've got a theory why it worked but I ain't sure, I'll ask Masta' when she's betta'." Worry flashes through Archer's eyes.  "Don't worry ‘bout ‘er. She's just tired as fuck. She'll be fine afta' some daes of rest."

"G-good…"

"Ye take care of yerself, fer now. I'll be watchin' ova' ye."

"Y-you should look after Lady Helene… I'm… I'm not…"

Of course. Sétanta should have seen this coming. Archer will worry about the entire world before taking care of himself, because he's long forgotten that he's worth being cared for, long been convinced he's worthless. Gently, Sétanta takes Archer's face in his hands. The bowman stiffens and almost backs away but Sétanta's eyes keep him in place.

"Don't think 'bout sayin' ye ain't worth it, Laoch."

"B-but –"

“Nope, don't wanna hear it. It ain't true. Ye're worth it, Laoch. I said so. Me da agrees. Rin agrees too. Ye're gonna let me take care of ye, alright?"

Honey eyes falter, and Archer slowly nods. His usual mask of indifference and pragmatism can't be put on right now, and Sétanta internally rejoices when the bowman leans in his hands. A thumb moves on its own, running softly under Archer's eyes. The grey-gold orbs close, and a tanned hand comes over his own. Sétanta's breath hitches. There's something going on at this moment, and he doesn't know if he's scared, or excited, or both at the same time, or something entirely different.

There are three knocks on the door, and Archer jerks away from him, quickly wrapping himself in the blankets. The moment is over, and Sétanta feels like mourning.

Notes:

Aaaah, dramatic timing... Such a curse!

And Caster is still around!!!!

Next chapter will have some planning and more comfort.

Chapter 16: Preparations

Summary:

Archer witnesses a fight, and plans are made to hunt their newt targets.

Notes:

So I've been reading some myths to add more characters and I ended reading Diarmuid's one and I have a Question.

WHOMST thinks that Grainne is even remotely to blame for the situation???? That poor girl was sold into marriage, and considering that Diarmuid basically has a roofie on his face, couldn't even really consent to a relationship with him???? Like??? (I'm not calling Diarmuid a rapist btw, he's my precious boi)

Also NGL if I had been in that situation, I probably would have done something similar? She was a young girl, sent to be the third wife of a 50 something man. She must have been terrified, and she took the first opportunity she found to run away.

Anyways Stan Grainne 🙏🏻

Archer’s mind is blurry, his cheeks aflame. In his magic circuits, something warm is singing, leaving tingling electricity in his nerves. Cú Chulainn's mana. The feeling is both pleasant and painful, leaving Archer confused and shivering. Such affection is rare, and he can't remember the last time he was treated kindly. When he was a teenager, perhaps, by Rin and Arturia. Surely there's been more, after, but he cannot remember. Even his many one-night stands can't be described as kind. The sex was always rough, full of teeth, sharp nails and bruising hands. There were rarely names and even less pillow talk. It was meant to scratch an itch, to forget about everything for a while. Some of his Masters were the same, nameless figures he'd sleep with under the guise of getting more mana.

Cú Chulainn's kindness is different from everything he's been used to. The violence, the nameless sex, Alaya's cold arms and colder voice, that's all he knows. Cú Chulainn's smiles, warmer than the sun itself, hurt in the best of ways, just like a hard drug would. And it terrifies Archer shitless because what if it all goes away? What if the spearman disappears and leaves Archer behind?  He knows himself, knows how addicted to Cú Chulainn he can become. If he lets himself slip he knows he would rather be beaten bloody than being left behind. Alaya has proven how much he lets himself be used so long as he's praised for it. He doesn't want to end up like that again. 

He knows just a matter of time before he lets Cú Chulainn do whatever he wants with him. At the heart of things, he just wants someone to need him, no matter how they use him, because he wouldn't know what to do with himself. But this is too hard to accept so he pretends he can stay away and detach himself from everything, he pretends he doesn't care because if he lets himself care it will hurt more than being burned at the stake.

The sound of the door closing is muffled by the storm in his head, but Archer still hears it. Looking up from where Lancer used to sit, he sees the spearman returning to the bed with a pile of clothes in hands. The question must be written all over Archer's face, for the spearman replies before he can ask.

 

"Clothes, frem that lassie Mary. Said it'll be comfia' to rest. Guess it can't 'urt."

 

Archer nods, and picks a shirt from the pile. It's a bit large for him, but it's most likely the point. It is made of white cotton, and it's infinitely softer than his armour. He considers putting it on. He's still exhausted from the curse, and he dreads putting his armour back on. If something happens, he can just summon it. Still, he's unsure. Cú Chulainn, for his part, doesn't hesitate. His armour disappears in blue motes, and he throws on a brown pair of pants. No shirt. Archer swallows painfully and quickly puts on the shirt in a weak attempt at distracting himself from Cú Chulainn's tattooed chest. It gets harder when the spearman stretches, popping a few vertebrae before slumping back on the bed with a delighted sigh. Archer stubbornly looks at the window and the land beyond the glass.

 

"Ye wanna talk about it?"

 

Archer freezes. Eyeless children scream in his head, and Archer tightens the blanket around him.

"It ain't yer fault. What ye saw. It ain't yer fault."

"How would you even know what I saw?"

 

A flat look.

 

"I ain't no genius, but I ain't an idiot eitha'."

 

Archer doesn't reply, and the children wail louder. Despite his attempts at comforting him, Lancer is wrong. He's the one who killed them, who left their bodies to rot, who murdered so many he can't even remember all of them. Too many are faceless, nameless. He can't even recall the number of times he's been sent to slaughter this city or that village, to execute one family or another. A part of Archer appreciates Cú Chulainn's kindness. The rest of him finds it undeserved.

 

"I guess so."

"Ye guess so?" the spearman gasps.

 

Archer knows that Lancer isn't really offended, that he's just bantering for the sake of it, but he can't help but feel guilty because what if he is? Guilt, guilt, guilt, always and forever, neverending and all-consuming, only half of him on good days, and today isn't a good day. Archer looks down and his right hand goes to grab on white hair, seeking some pain to alleviate the storm in his head. The pull isn't nearly hard enough to truly help, it's not the razor blades, but it's better than nothing.

 

"I'm sorry…"

"Hey, hey, stop that, Laoch!" There's a sudden move on the bed and a hand grabs his wrist. It's gentle but firm. "Gimme yer hand. C'm'on, gimme yer hand. None ov that."

 

Shaking, Archer allows Cú Chulainn to gently pull his hand away from his hair. He glances at the spearman, and there is so much compassion in the red eyes that Archer immediately looks away. It's unbearable. He doesn't deserve it. Not when he can still hear the children wailing, when he can hear Alaya's voice, feel her arms. Not when he still longs for her praise and love.

 

"Ye sure ye don't wanna talk 'bout it?"

 

Archer shakes his head. Cú Chulainn stays silent for a few seconds, studying him. Eventually, he lets Archer's hands go and he sits back, hands planted behind him on the mattress and legs crossed. His muscles stretch under his pale skin, all in full view of Archer. The bowman stubbornly looks away.

"Who do ye think we should deal with first? Casta' or Chastel?"

Archer blinks a few times. He appreciates the change of subject, although it takes a few seconds for his brain to focus on the War and its participants. It's like remembering something he's forgotten a long time ago, and the many pieces of information swirl in his mind. It isn't exactly hard to piece everything back together, but it annoys Archer that he has to do it to begin with. The information remembered, he crosses his arms on his chest. The blankets fall from his shoulders, and he goes to stand near the window. Thankfully, Lancer doesn't say anything about it.

 

"If it were up to me, Chastel. In terms of raw power, Caster is more dangerous. However, Chastel knows about our Master and the twins. Caster knows her face at best. Moreover, he's wounded."

"Huh. I was gonna say Casta' cuz he cursed ye, but yer idea makes more sense. Do ye think she'll let us kill the Masters?"

"Maybe Jack, because she hates him. But Caster's Master is more uncertain. She might take pity on them if they're miserable enough."

"Aye… that fucka' will get what's comin' fer 'im."

 

Archer shrugs. What happened to Lady Helene is awful, yes, but he's not going to put the War in jeopardy because of it. It would be different if she demanded vengeance, but she doesn't seem to mind much. So, Archer doesn't think about the situation nor does he have any opinion on it. It's not his place to decide how Lady Helene should feel about it, and he's too broken to feel genuine empathy for her, even though he went through similar events once or twice – he can't really remember. All in all, instead of thinking about this shitshow, he focuses on what he can do.

 

"We still have one major problem: the river."

"Right… if Casta's not usin' it then who is?"

"We can cross Chastel and Assassin from the list. Saber is dead. That leaves us with Berserker and Rider."

"Huh. That ain't helpin' much. We didn't see eitha' ov 'em yet."

"It's rather strange, from the Berserker. A Rider staying hidden isn't exactly unheard of, but a Berserker?"

"Maebe the summonin' failed and they're already dead?"

"It's not impossible, but it's unlikely. I think their Master has them on a very tight leash."

"Kinky," Lancer chuckles.

 

Archer doesn't dignify the joke with a response nor any sort of acknowledgement.

 

"They must be a powerful mage to stop Berserker from going on a rampage for three days straight."

"The otha' mage family, ye think? I don't see a nobody magus controllin’ a Berserka' like that."

"It's likely. But if they stay hidden, we can leave them be for now.' He pauses, thinks about what their Master will do. She's a kind and honest woman, meaning she'll want to honour her fragile truce with her half-cousin, half-brother. "Lady Helene isn't breaking her truce with Jack Beauxmonts, so I think she'll want to start by finishing off Caster. Without Chastel, obviously."

"Aye, don't need the lad to get mind fuck'd agaen."

"Hunting Caster it is."

 

---

 

When night comes, Archer scouts the lands. He's hoping to find Caster, or at least clues about his whereabouts. Lancer stays in Pealforest to guard their Master and the twins. He's also added some of his own magecraft to the bounded field, simple runes made to warn them about intruders. It's not nearly as powerful or efficient as Lady Helene's own magecraft, but their Master wanted to make sure it was as safe as possible. She's shaken by the day, especially by the fact that Caster was able to hide so well, and as such won't send both of them out until she's fully recovered. It makes sense, and Archer would have suggested it if she hadn't.

Sadly, he doesn't find much. Caster was teleported by his Master's Command Seal and as such didn't leave a trail. Archer investigates the local hermits and other lone houses, but he doesn't find anything other than some drunkards the world would rather forget apart and the odd madmen who've taken too much cocaine and brandy. None of them are magi, and even if they were, their mana would be too busy keeping them alive to summon and sustain a Servant. All in all, nothing worth remembering.

It's when the clock hits two in the morning that things get interesting. A large explosion shakes the ground, coming from that fucking river. Archer sprints towards the source in Spirit Form, although he makes sure to stay half a kilometre away. Better be safe than sorry, and he's not supposed to fight tonight.

On the river is a massive phantasmagoric boat with the flag of Joseon. Two men stand atop of it. One wears protective leather and chainmail. He also has two axes, one in each hand. His face is covered in war paints, and his long blonde hair is braided. He's tall and large. A Viking, and the Berserker of that War. The other man, Rider, is wearing steel armour and brandishes a sword, not at all deterred by his opponent's fearsome appearance. Judging from their mana signature, it will be his downfall. Berserker has easily twice as much mana, and Vikings know how to fight on ships. Adding the fame boost from being in Europe, this fight is already over.

 

'Archer, I felt a disturbance. What is happening?'

'Rider and Berserker are fighting. Rider was the one behind the river situation, he has a ship.'

'I see. How do you think the fight will go?'

'Rider will lose. Berserker is a Viking, and they pretty much invented the concept of berserkers. He'll know how to fight and move on a ship as well, so Rider has lost his only advantage.'

'A Viking?!' Lancer exclaims. He sounds excited, just like a child. 'Masta' lemme fight 'im! Please!'

 

Fucking Christ. Of course Cú Chulainn would be over the fucking moon at the prospect of fighting a Viking. It's honestly a miracle he hasn't shown up to steal the fight.

 

'When I have recovered, he will be all yours,' Lady Helene chuckles. 'It would be dishonourable to intervene during his fight with Rider, and disrespectful to fight him with anything but your full strength.'
'Aye, ye're right… I'll wait 'til ye feel betta'. Archa', ye better not tell me nothin' 'bout 'is fightin' style!  It wouldn't be faer.'

 

Archer can't help but chuckle. Lancer's enthusiasm at the possibility of a good fight is amusing, to say the least. He easily pictures him jumping eagerly in Lady Helene's office, his grin bloodthirsty.

On the ship, the battle has begun. The two men battle each other and Archer has to give credit when credit is due; Rider is holding on pretty well. He moves swiftly and reads all of Berserker's strikes. He must have been a renowned warrior during his lifetime, and an even better strategist. His blows are precise and dealt quickly. Berserker's blows are avoided or deflected. It's impressive. However, he's quickly tiring. This boat must consume an enormous amount of mana, but he cannot dismiss it without losing his strength. 

Eventually, there's a shift in Berserker's mana. Rider notices as well and adjusts his pose. He channels his mana in his sword, and Archer braces himself for the impact.

 

'They're going to use their Noble Phantasms. Brace yourselves.'

'Thank you. Retreat if you feel like you can be harmed.'

'Noted.'

 

Archer isn't worried; in Spirit Form, he won't suffer any damages. Moreover, even if he wanted to run away, it would be too late. Both Heroic Spirits have finished channeling mana.

 

"Fara á brott med vikingum! Valhalla!"

"Jorip! Daehanmingukui namjadeul! Myeongnyang Daecheop!"

 

A thundering explosion blinds and deafens Archer for two seconds. Even after that, his ears still ring, and his vision is blurry on the edges. A groan escapes him, and he's forced to take a corporeal form to properly see what is happening. Obviously, the ship is gone, and so is Rider. On the riverbanks Berserker is catching his breath, drenched in water. He has a few wounds, but nothing major and when he stands, he doesn't seem hindered in any way. Archer can't help but curse. This Berserker is one hell of a tough bastard! Not many Heroic Spirits can tank a Noble Phantasm to the face and look barely phased by the ordeal. However, it narrows down the possibilities for his True Name.

 

'The fight is over. Rider is dead. Berserker is fine, and he's going to be a tough enemy.'

'Fuck yeah! I can't waet te fight 'im!'

'This isn't supposed to be your reaction,' Archer groans, massaging his temples while Lady Helene giggles.

'No worries, Archer. Lancer's enthusiasm and confidence are most appreciated. I look forward to witnessing such a battle.'

'See? Even Masta' agrees. Don't think 'bout ruinin' me fun, Archa'.'

'I won't. I’m not getting anywhere near Berserker. He would obliterate me. However, I have a few theories about his True Name.'

'Tell me when you return, please. I will have Elliott bring out our history books regarding Viking history. I must forewarn you, however. The twins will want to hear everything you know about Vikings. Especially Zander; they are his latest obsession.'

 

Upon his return to Pearlforest, Archer goes to Lady Helene's office. The woman is sipping some tea and giggling at one of Lancer's many stories. It is a nice sight, and Archer leans a shoulder against the nearest wall. Cú Chulainn is apparently retelling some hunt that went horribly wrong, with him and all his party ending lost in the woods for two days straight.

 

"Me Ma's the one who found us. She was right angry, that she was! Dragged by me neck like some pup, yellin' 'bout 'ow worried she was. I didn't get to hunt fer three months straeght! 'T'was fuckin' embarrassin', that it was! Me uncle Fergus, laughed 'bout it fer months, even though it was his fault we got lost in the first place."

 

Archer chuckles; Deichtine sounds like she was a force of nature. A weaker person wouldn't have been to raise a child like Cú Chulainn, with divine blood and a wild temper. He supposes a weaker person wouldn’t have interested a god like Lugh to begin with.

 

---

 

They meet the next day in the library, the twins eagerly waiting for stories about the Vikings. Thankfully, Cú Chulainn successfully distracts them with his own stories to let Lady Helene and Archer talk. The magus is wrapped in a warm and simple dress, underlining how exhausted she still is from the battle against Caster.

 

"I believe there are two possibilities for Berserker’s True Name: Ragnar Lothbrok and Harald Sigurdsson. The Vikings have no shortage of heroes, but these two are the most famous, especially in England."

"Indeed. Can you describe to me Berserker's style of fighting and appearance? Perhaps there is something that will give us a clue."

 

Archer does as he's told, making sure to recall every detail of the fight. The description of his armour doesn't help, as Berserkers rarely have the best armour – when they have one. Same with his fighting style. It’s only when he describes his Noble Phantasm that Lady Helene has a reaction.

 

"Valhalla? Then it cannot be Harald Sigurdsson. He was Christian." Archer can't help but be surprised; he thought that the man followed the Norse Gods. "This is why he's called the Last Viking King."

"Then he must be Ragnar."

"Indeed. This won't be an easy fight. I'll put up a strong bounded field to protect the population as much as possible. However, all must wait until I have fully recovered."

"Of course."

 

---

 

"We must eliminate Caster."

 

This is what Archer expected from Lady Helene; it is easy to see that he's the biggest threat right now. After a few more days of recuperating, she has invited them to dine with her and her family in order to discuss their plans. Berserker has gone back into hiding, and Assassin hasn't reappeared. Caster is still in the wind.

 

"Aye, that's fer sure. He's a problem, that one. Nasty arse curses too."

"Indeed. Jack, will your Archer be able to resist Caster's next curses?" Lady Helene asks bluntly. "If not, it's better to keep him away from the battlefield."

"I'm not as powerful as you but I can help my Servant increase his mental defenses. Especially now that we now what we're against. Speaking of Archers, how did this happen?" Jack exclaims, gesturing at Archer and Cú Chulainn.

"My Servants are tied. They share a Spirit Origin, meaning they're summoned together. It may sound like an advantage, but that means they require twice the amount of mana other Servants need. Moreover Archer doesn't have a name, meaning he receives no fame boost."

 

Jack Beauxmonts narrows his eyes and studies Archer and Lancer for a few seconds before sighing heavily.

 

"It's not like I can do anything about it, anyway. And for the time being, I won't be complaining. For the sake of simplicity, call my Servant Chastel, or Jean. Your Lancer is…?"

"Cú Chulainn."

"For fuck’s sake!" Jack exclaims, throwing his hands in the air, frustration all over his face. "We have one Irish ancestor and you pull it off. No offense, Chastel, but this is ridiculous."

"I'm aware that Cú Chulainn is a stronger hero than I, Master. Don't worry."

 

Archer can't help but be surprised. The Master and his Servant seem to be getting along fairly well. Perhaps there's more to Jack Beauxmonts than he initially thought. A quick glance at Lancer tells him that the spearman doesn't seem to care in the slightest. He has his opinion on Jack Beauxmonts, and it isn't going to change no matter what. If his theory is correct, Archer understands why. He supposes they shall see during the hunt for Caster.

 

"If that is settled, let us get to work," Lady Helene declares. "Elliott has compiled all the information we could find on Tomás de Torquemada. Something might tell us where he would hide."

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed that chapter!!! Jack Beauxmonts is ending up more complex than I thought he would! I'm not changing my plans for him, but you know, I'm adjusting a few things.

Rider was Admiral Sin Yu-Sin! (April 28, 1545 – December 16, 1598). He was an admiral during a war between Joseon (Korea) and Japan and he was an absolute BEAST. This man won 23 naval battles at least. His most impressive victory is the Battle of Myeongnyang, where he won a 13 vs 133 without losing a single ship. He's still a national hero in Korea, which is definitely deserved.

RIP, Admiral, you deserved better than losing your first battle in the War. His master here was a nameless magus who didn't have enough mana to properly power him. He would have still lost to Ragnar because the match-up wasn't in his favour, but it would have been much harder for Ragnar.

His Noble Phantasm is "Assemble! Men of Joseon! Battle of Myeongnyang!". The Korean translation is courtesy of DeepL.

Berserker is the one and only Ragnar Lothbrok who made the entirety of Europe his little bitch in the 9th century. His Noble Phantasm says "Sail to distant shore! Valhalla!" The words are from the Old Norse version of "My Mother Told Me" by Peyton Parrish, which I recommend you listen because it's so BADASS.

Chapter 17: Ragnar Loðbrók

Summary:

Tomás de Torquemada is dealt with.

Sétanta finally gets a worthy battle.

After some reading and debating, they conclude that the penitentiary is their best bet, although a couple of abandoned buildings catch their attention as well. Knowing Tomás de Torquemada and his obsession for torturing folks, a prison filled with criminals would be Tír na nÓg for a nutjob like him; in addition, he can quickly gather mana from prisoners no one gives two fucks about. Sétanta almost growls at the mere thought of the guy; he can't wait to kill the fucker. What he did to Archer is still fresh in Sétanta's mind, and the spearman won't be satisfied until the Caster is dead, preferably impaled on Gáe Bulg. Sétanta wishes Chastel wasn't coming; he doesn't trust the Frenchman, no matter what his scumbag of a Master says. But Lady Helene has agreed to let him come, and Sétanta won't disobey her. He'll just stay ready to cut off Chastel's head if he gets controlled again.

Their group starts moving at nightfall, with Lady Helene on the back of a horse behind Jack. For all she can do thanks to her magecraft, horse-riding isn't one of them. The three Servants are on foot, since they can all outrun a horse. Before they can depart, Chastel lets out a loud whistle and two massive hounds emerge from his shadow.

 

"They'll sniff out any hidden traps or spells. They're also fierce lads," he adds with a grin.

 

The hounds snarl and bark at Sétanta, who can't help but growl right back at them. Archer gives him a look that clearly means 'seriously?', and Sétanta narrows his eyes at him. "What? They started it!"

 

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response. Let's get going."

"Hey!"

 

But it's too late, Archer has turned away to follow Chastel's lead. Sétanta growls in annoyance before following the two Archers, the stallion behind them. He allows Chastel and his barking hounds to take the lead. The spearman is easily the fastest, but Chastel is a better hunter. Archer falls in line next to him, sharp eyes on the lands.

All in all, it takes them fifteen minutes to reach the penitentiary, and, to Sétanta's surprise, Caster isn't there. A quick inspection in Spirit Form confirms the building doesn't have a shred of mana in it. No Servant came here. The hounds are unhappy that their prey is absent, snarling and barking in discontentment. Chastel silences them with a quick order.

 

"We'll try the nearest building of interest," Lady Helene decrees. "Jack, is the horse fine to continue?"

"Yes. It's a war horse, it will be fine for another trip or two before needing a break. I picked it on purpose."

"Perfect. Let us go, then."

 

The second building turns out to be the right one. It is an old chapel, left to crumble and wither away, devoid of believers. Alone in an empty field, it radiates mana from half a kilometre away. Chastel's hounds snarl and growl at the limit of the boundary, pacing back and forth. Sétanta hears a crow above them. He glances around and sees the bird landing on a tree. It tilts its head and screams once before flying away. The spearman tsks under his breath. Bloody goddess.

 

"Found him," Chastel says simply.

"Jack and I will set up the bounded field," Lady Helene decrees. "But first, Archer, please come here, I want to place some protections on your mind."

 

Sétanta watches her work in silence; her spell is made of words in several languages, and she casts it by putting a finger on Archer's forehead. The bowman hisses in discomfort and stumbles a bit, but he's otherwise fine. Through their connection, Sétanta can feel a difference; it is as if a defensive wall was built around his mind. Not indestructible, but sturdy enough that it will fend off a good deal of curses.

 

"Thank you, Master."

"It's only natural. Jack, do you require my assistance?”

"No, I do not,” the magus growls as he does the same with his own Archer. "Chastel will be fine."

"I sure fuckin' 'ope so…" Sétanta grumbles. Then, resting his spear on his shoulders, he puts on his usual cheerful grin. "Alright, lads, let's get goin'. We've got a Casta' to kill."

 

One of the hounds goes first, searching for traps and tracking anything that might even remotely cause them harm. The other stays near Jack and Lady Helene in case Assassin decides to show up. Sétanta doesn't like that, but he trusts his Master's ability to dispatch this kind of familiar if need be. His apprehension must be palpable, because he hears Lady Helene's soft voice in his head.

 

'Fear not Lancer. I shall be just fine. Such a simple dog won't be able to hurt me. Focus on Caster. '

'Aye Masta'!'

 

The first spell comes when they're halfway through the field. Sétanta, who is at the vanguard, easily deflects the metal chains hurling towards them. The hound growls and snarls viciously, wrestling something on the ground. Several spikes shoot up from the ground, impaling the shadow beast. It whines in pain before disappearing, but Chastel isn't bothered. He whistles once more and this time, three hounds jump from his shadow, all barking and growling. They start running, and Lancer follows, the Archers behind him. More traps shoot up from the ground, but the trio of Servants dispatches them easily.

 

---

 

Eventually, they reach their destination. An exhausted-looking Caster awaits them at the entrance of the small chapel, dark circles under his eyes. He makes a sign with his hands at the sight of Lancer, eyes squinted.

 

"So, you have come, demon. I had hoped to curse you, but your demonic blood seems to make you impervious to the Lord's words."

 

Sétanta ignores his words and instead goes straight for the kill. Everything happens in the span of two seconds. The hounds follow him, going for Caster's limbs. Archer's arrows whistle right next to his ear. Sétanta trusts him; he's yet to miss a single shot. The projectile goes straight through the chapel wall, blowing it up. At the same time, the hounds are dispatched by Caster's magic. Chastel unleashes bullets which crash on Caster's poor protections, blowing them to smithereens. 

Some of the spells burn Sétanta's skin and the blades from the various torture instrument cut his unprotected skin but it isn't enough. The memory of a distressed Archer is too fresh in his mind. His spear and Lugh's blood, empowered by his anger, make quick work of the protections desperately put up by the magus. In half a second, Gáe Bulg slashes a perfect line on Caster's chest. Blood spurts out of his mouth and his wound. He curses in Spanish. Sétanta doesn't relent, though. 

Using the momentum of his first attack, his second slash swiftly beheads Tomás de Torquemada.

The body and its detached head fall to the ground before disappearing in a myriad of golden lights. Just like Sétanta thought, Caster wasn't this strong once away from his workshop. Above him, more crows are heard, and Sétanta stubbornly ignores them. As he enters the ruins of the chapel, he hears Archer's voice in his head.

 

'Master, Caster has been dealt with.'

'Fantastic. Is his Master present?'

'Doesn't look like it.' Sétanta looks around; there's no trace of a human being around. 'I don't got the faintest clue of who controlled that fucka', Masta'.'

'I see. It is a shame, but there is nothing we can do. Please return. We must discuss our future moves.'

'Sure thin'!'

 

The shadow hound jumps happily when they arrive, going to Chastel to ask for pets and other treats. The hunter starts speaking in French, and Sétanta tunes him out.

 

"Everythin' was fine fer ye, Masta'?"

"Of course. I have taken down the bounded field, and we may return to my lands. Lancer, if you feel confident, I suggest provoking Berserker when we've returned. The sooner we can draw him out, the better. I shall wait inside Pearlforest. I cannot afford to be vulnerable when Assassin has yet to be dispatched."

A solid plan Sétanta doesn't disagree with. Assassin is a problem they will have to deal with sooner than later. He helps the woman get on the horse behind her brother, and they make their way back to Pearlforest. The trip is uneventful, boring even, but Sétanta prefers boring to Assassin showing up and attacking Lady Helene. He doesn't worry about Berserker. This kind of setting isn't favourable for him; everyone would sense him coming from a good kilometre away.

It's when they reach a fork in the road that something happens; Jack Beauxmonts stops the stallion, looking at something in the distance.

"What is it, cousin?"

"I've had Chastel track Caster's Master. His hounds have found something."

"Caster's Master? Why?"

"I want to know their identity. You needn't come; Chastel and I will be fine."

 

Lady Helene's hesitation is palpable. She seems aware that Jack won't bring the magus to Father Thomas. It's much more likely that he'll have Chastel kill them. Not that Sétanta truly cares; it's the harsh reality of Grail Wars. But Lady Helene is kind, and she doesn't want to see innocents die. Caster was a massive dick who got what he deserved, but it doesn't mean his Master is.

 

'Sae the word and we follow them, Masta'.'

She remains silent, wielding her options. Eventually, though, she shakes her head. 'Berserker and Assassin are more important.'

 

"Fine," she tells her half-cousin, half-brother. "Lancer, could you help me down, please?"

"Of course." He takes her by the waist but, instead of putting her down, he moves her to hold her bridal style. "It will be faster like this."

"You're right. Cousin, Chastel, I wish you a good evening. Do not intervene in the fight between Lancer and Berserker; I would be very much displeased if you did."

"Don't worry. I'm not throwing my Servant in that kind of fight," Jack replies coldly. "Chastel?"

"Ready when you are, Master."

 

The horse neighs and the two are off. Sétanta watches them for a few seconds before taking off with Archer. Pearlforest and the safety of its bounded field are only two or three minutes away like this, and the spearman will be much more at ease when Lady Helene will be safe there. He has a bad feeling about Assassin; her attack on Luka Ashford was risky, even if it paid off. If she had been a second slower, Saber would have sensed and killed her. And going straight for the strongest Servant on the first day? It doesn't make sense. She should have remained hidden longer, especially considering she's been in the wind ever since. Something is off.

Before he can share his feelings with Lady Helene, however, the twins demand their mother's attention. Of course, she showers them with it, kissing their chubby cheeks and asking about their days. Not that Sétanta begrudge her; no War is more important than the smile of your child. He watches the interaction from the playroom entrance, a bitter smile making its way to his face. Sétanta can't help but think about his beloved Finn. She would have gone exceedingly well with the twins, dragging them on one adventure or another, playing knucklebones or catching bugs. A lump forms in his throat, and when little Lizzie comes running to him to show him her latest drawings, he almost recoils.

 

"What did ye draw, lassie?" She hands him a piece of paper with several characters; he recognises himself with the blue hair and clothes, Archer due to his exotic colouring and finally the twins themselves in the middle. Lugh above, these children are adorable. "Is that me?"

"Yes! And that is mama, and that is mister Archer, that is Zander and me, and that is Ser Addam!"

"Ye draw real good, Lizzie. Ye wanna be an artist, laete'?"

"No, of course not." The look she gives him is appalled, and she speaks slowly to make sure she is never so grossly misunderstood again. "I'm going to be a witch, like mama."

"Of course. Me bad."

She nods with all the wisdom of a six-year-old. "That's fine. Zander will be my assistant."

"Naturally."

 

---

 

Sétanta eagerly twirls Gáe Bulg in his hand. Time for his fight against Berserker. Ragnar Loðbrók, the Viking King who conquered Europe; he cannot wait to fight him. This is going to be amazing. After a strategy meeting with Lady Helene and Archer, they have decided to stick to a simple plan. Sétanta will send a powerful challenge in the hopes that Assassin will be interested enough to come and observe the fight with Berserker. Meanwhile, Archer will remain hidden and take her out the second she shows up. They don't worry about whether or not Berserker will show up; they know he will. This way, Chastel will be the only one left, and he will be easily defeated. If Assassin doesn't show up, they will start hunting her at dawn. Either way, Sétanta is excited; he's having a good fight tonight.

Berserker appears quickly, just like Sétanta hoped. Although he's a bit shorter than Sétanta, he's broader, and his twin axes each look about as heavy as Gáe Bulg. The spearman grins excitedly.

 

"Evenin', Berserka'!"

"Lancer." His voice is predictably gruff and rough, like he's smoked his entire life. Still, he's grinning from ear to ear. "I hope you're not too tired, after dealing with that Caster fucker!"

"Ha! I’m offended, Berserka'! Ye think a weaklin' like that could do anythin' to me?" Sétanta exclaims, getting into position.

"Good!" Berserker laughs before getting in position. "I am Ragnar Loðbrók, son of Sigurn and Conqueror of Europe! Who faces me, Lancer?"

"I am Cú Chulainn, son of Lugh and Deichtine! They call me Ireland's Child of Light!"

 

Sétanta concludes his introduction by charging Ragnar. Gáe Bulg's first blow is deflected by one of the axes and Sétanta swiftly dodges the second one. The weapons clash against each other in a perfect melody, and sparks fly. A trust of Gáe Bulg slightly cuts Ragnar's cheek. But the Berserker doesn't even slow down or try to remain at a safe distance from the spear. No, he charges straight for Sétanta, and one of his axes comes down on Sétanta’s shoulder. The spearman reacts instantly, swinging Gáe Bulg and sending the Berserker crashing several metres away with a couple of smashed ribs. Of course, Ragnar lands on his feet without difficulties and, true to his class, goes right back to assaulting Sétanta. 

Quick trusts won’t do the trick; the Berserker doesn’t mind getting hurt if it means inflicting damage himself. And with two weapons, he can afford using one for defence and still be on the offensive. Sétanta's grin grows; this is exactly what he's been after. A fight where he can go all-out, where he doesn’t have to worry about being interrupted by anything or anyone. His blood thunders under his skin, and he cackles excitedly as he vaults himself in the air, using Gáe Bulg as a pole. The move sends him right above Ragnar, and he slams his weapon as hard as he can on his opponent. Twin axes meet Gáe Bulg. The shockwave blasts away everything twenty-five metres around them as the two warriors roar their determination.

A twin axe shatters. Sétanta twists and turns to aim Gáe Bulg directly for Ragnar's heart. But the Viking grabs the blade bare-handed and hurls Sétanta away, throwing him easily twenty metres away with a roar. Sétanta twists in the air, lands on his feet, and welcomes Ragnar with a wide swing of Gáe Bulg. The Viking roars when the blade goes through his armour and his stomach, guts threatening to spill out. Of course, he doesn't stop. Ever faithful to his class, the Berserker jumps forward and swings his axe, almost slashing Sétanta who avoids just in time by ducking. Gáe Bulg might have been able to block the weapon, but he doesn't want to test his raw strength against a Berserker.

Ragnar jumps back, and mana flickers on his injured stomach. The wound partially closes, proof that his Master is no third-rate magus. Sétanta feels Lady Helene's mana doing the same for him, mending his flesh and armour. The feeling is pleasant, akin to being given fresh water after a hot day. He grins and gets back in position, ready to charge Berserker once more. However, before he can do so, Ragnar roars. The thunderous noise is enough to wake the dead, and Sétanta tightens his hold on Gáe Bulg. The Madness is taking over.

"Finally gettin' serious, Ragnar? Guess I should do the same!"

Blow after blow, feint after feint, assault after assault, Sétanta still grins. There is electricity in his veins; nothing will ever surpass the euphoria of fighting a strong opponent, of going all-out against someone who does the same, of always having to improvise and find new strategies to win. Someone is laughing, and it takes Sétanta three whole seconds to realise it’s him. But he doesn't care. All that matters right now is his fight against Berserker. It’s been so long, and he’s having so much fun, like he hasn't had in centuries or perhaps millennia. He doesn't want the fight to stop, he wants to keep experiencing this euphoric thrill of battle, but at the same time, he wants to win. He has to. Mana rushes in his veins, the desire for victory burning and over-consuming.

Suddenly, there’s a voice in his head, one Sétanta takes a few seconds to recognise. It’s Lady Helene's.

 

'Lancer! Lancer, can you hear me?'

'Aye Masta'?'

'Oh Lord Above! You weren't responding. Archer says Berserker is channelling more mana in his axe! He's preparing to use his Noble Phantasm!'

 

Sétanta frowns and focuses on Berserker's mana. It is true. A curse escapes him. No Berserker in their Madness state would be able to do such a thing; his Master is behind this. Fucking magus, can't they let Ragnar and Sétanta have their fun? It’s a one-in-lifetime battle! Growling lowly in his throat, Sétanta observes the field around him and analyses the flow of mana going in Berserker's axe. This is going to cause a lot of damage.

 

'Can you withstand the attack?'

'I'd rather use me Noble Phantasm too. Safe' this wae.'

'Do what seems the most appropriate.'

 

Sétanta nods; if it's a battle of Noble Phantasm that Berserker's master wants, he'll give him one. Ragnar isn't Gilgamesh, with his Gates of Babylon, nor is King Arthur whose luck surpasses Sétanta’s margin. Gáe Bulg isn't going to miss. He vaults back to gain some momentum as he runs towards Ragnar and jumps as high as he can, channelling his mana in Gáe Bulg. Red energy crackles in the air, and he feels his muscles painfully swell under his skin while his right eye spasms. When Gáe Bulg leaves his hand, Ragnar brings his axe down in a movement that reminds Sétanta of Artoria.

 

"Gáe Bulg!" 

"Fara á brott med vikingum! Valhalla!"

 

Everything goes white, and Sétanta hears a crow sing the Morrígan's name.

Notes:

The war is coming to an end pretty soon!!

***

I've started playing FGO and god this game is so funny. Here are a couple of my favourite things :
- Cu Alter "my spear got shaper. wanna see?" when you upgrade him had me screaming
- Fionn dissing Diarmuid for the whole Grainne situation and Diarmuid trying to change the subject was hilarious. Also if this is how he is, I blame Grainne EVEN LESS for nopping out of the situation. I too would have run away from the delusional twink. Him proposing to Mash was also very funny.
- "They're a bunch of airhead berserkers" is painfully accurate. Like the chillest Celt is Diarmuid and he killed entire armies in his legend. Also during his time on the road with Grainne, he once killed a guy who was hitting on her because he was jealous. Iconic.
- Geronimo going "I feel like I know why the Roman empire collapsed" after seeing Nero in action is the funniest line in history.
- Honestly the America singularity in general is hilarious. Why didn't we get a movie of it?
- Hector running away when you have Achilles
- Achilles wanting to beat the shit out of Hector for the crime of breathing

Chapter 18: Aftermath

Summary:

The aftermath of a battle, and the beginning of another. It turns out Berserker wasn't the most dangerous opponent of the War.

Notes:

This chapter is a bit shorter, but I love writing cliffhangers 🥰 Don't worry, everything should be resolved next chapter :3

Archer watches the fight unfold in silence, searching for Assassin. Her presence is naturally hidden, but after spending eons serving Alaya, he is quite adept at finding what is hidden. Spirit Form isn't ideal, but it is manageable. His senses are attentive to any and all movement or other signs of life. Regularly, his attention is taken away from his task, stolen by Cú Chulainn's roars as he fights and he finds himself entranced. They are equal in strength with Berserker's, and somehow even fiercer. Each of them makes Archer's heart thunder in his chest, threatening to rip itself out.

 

'Archer, can you reach Lancer? He doesn't answer me.'

 

Lady Helene's mental voice is worried, and Archer frowns, focusing on Lancer's face. His heart drops; his skin is turning redder by the second, and the faint vein-like marks around his eyes are getting pronounced. Vague descriptions of the ríastrad come to his mind. Shit. He tries to call for him, to pull on the bond between them, but no response. Focusing and staying calm is hard; panic strangles his throat, just like a coarse rope did once. His hands instinctively come to his neck, scratching and massaging the skin. It takes him a few seconds but eventually, his thoughts settle, and he's able to breathe again.

 

'I apologise, but it seems I cannot reach him as well.'

'Is he well?'

'He seems to be close to a ríastrad. For now, he seems to be in control, albeit a bit closed off from us, so he might calm down on his own once the fight ends.'

Lady Helene considers the situation for a few seconds before replying. 'I would like you to focus on him instead of Assassin then. If he gets out of control, please warn me. We will try to calm him down through normal means; if all fails, I will use a Command Seal.'

 

Archer nods and hums in agreement. Cú Chulainn going on a rampage would be a disaster for the region. Without a strong enough opponent to stop him, he would ravage the countryside and the city. Monitoring him takes priority over Assassin's movements. Archer allows himself to get closer to the fight, although he safely stays half a hundred metres from the two warriors. Even from this distance, he can feel the impact of the blows in his bones. He cannot tell who's more impressive. Cú Chulainn for matching a Berserker strike for strike, or Ragnar for keeping up with Ireland's Child of Light. Both are impressive in their own way.

It's only when Ragnar channels more mana than strictly necessary in his remaining axe that Archer tenses. This is the same feeling as when Valhalla was cast.

 

'Master! Berserker is going to use his Noble Phantasm!'

'Understood!'

 

Somehow, perhaps by using more mana than necessary or thanks to the bond between a Master and a Servant, Lady Helene gets through to Lancer. He sounds a bit disappointed when he decides to use Gáe Bulg, almost as if he doesn't want the fight to end. It's likely true, knowing him. Archer can't understand this love for fighting, for the battlefield. What is so thrilling about it? Especially as a Heroic Spirit. They're but powerful familiars, with nothing to lose and nothing to win. The Grail will never be theirs. Cú Chulainn knows that. He looks magnificent, yes, but Archer hardly thinks this is Lancer's reason. So why?

The answer doesn't come, of course. He only watches as Gáe Bulg is ready to be thrown from the sky as Cú Chulainn jumps. The crackling mana draws his silhouette in the sky, red lighting reflected on his pale skin and blue armour. His wild grin exposes sharp fangs, and red eyes shine like burning rubies. He's the most sublime sight Archer has ever seen, far more magical than Alaya has ever been. His voice echoes in Archer's bones and thunder in his veins, all the way to his heart.

Gáe Bulg meets Berserker's Valhalla halfway through, and the sun seems to explode between the two warriors. Archer is frozen in awe, paralysed by the star coming to life and immediately dying before his eyes. The shockwave destroys everything in a hundred metres radius, sounding like Susanō himself is summoning a storm, and Archer has to protect his face from the incoming energy.

And then, everything settles down.

The silence is deafening, the darkness of the night blinding. Archer coughs a few times, for dust fills the air. He gets closer on instinct, looking for Cú Chulainn. The bond between their Spirit Origins is weakening, and bile rises in Archer's throat. If Lancer is gone, if he's dead… The dread knots his stomach and makes him nauseous. He feels like throwing up. Croaks are heard, and he looks up; two crows circle above something he cannot distinguish in the wreckage brought by the two Noble Phantasms. Nonetheless, hope ignites in his chest, and he runs towards whatever the crows are showing him.

Cú Chulainn is lying on the ground, covered in his own blood and coughing even more. Ugly, deep gashes draw bloody lines on his chest, and one of his eyes is gone. Instead, a thick wound cuts his face, a white and red goo-like substance running down his face and mixing in the wound.It's awful. It's disgusting. Archer hates it. Cú Chulainn shouldn't be harmed. He should be safe, sound, he should be shining brighter than the sun, he should be standing tall and proud. His hands shaking, Archer fearfully helps Cú Chulainn up. What if he hurts him? What if he makes things worse? What if, what if, what if? But the spearman simply wipes away the blood on his face and points to something behind Archer.

 

"I… got… 'im…" Archer turns around and sees Ragnar impaled on Gáe Bulg, slowly disappearing, surviving through sheer force of will. "'Elp me… get… to 'im…"

 

Archer complies, acting as a living crutch for Cú Chulainn. They stop a metre from Ragnar, who looks up from the ground. He doesn't look much better. Half of his guts are on the ground, his left arm has been obliterated, and what's left of his body is a patchwork of bruises and bloody wounds gushing with blood.

 

"Vikin'... Kin'..." Cú Chulainn croaks.

"Hound… of… Ulster…"

"T'was a… a hell ov a fight…" His words jumble on each other, barely pronounced. Yet, they're still understandable.

"Aye…"

 

They shake hands, and Ragnar disappears. Gáe Bulg vanishes as well, costing too much mana to the wounded hero, and Archer reaches out to Lady Helene.'Master, Lancer requires healing.'

Instantly, Cú Chulainn's wounds shine as Lady Helene's mana mends them. They close slowly, and Lancer hisses at the undoubtedly strange sensation. Archer cannot help but stare as his eye is repaired, the sclera reforming with a disgusting squishy sound. Cú Chulainn blinks a few times, readjusting, but he grins and takes a step back from Archer. He moves his limbs, testing them with an appreciative whistle.

 

'Ooh, that feels amazin'! Thanks Masta', ye're incredible!'

'I didn't want to heal you too soon and dishonour your long-awaited duel. My sincerest congratulations for this victory.'

'Thanks! Ragnar was a 'ell ov a fighta'! It's been a long arse time since I've 'ad that much fun fightin'!'

'I am glad. Now, why don't you two return home? I have asked the cooks to prepare something filling and warm. You may not need food, but a feast is expected after such a fight. We ought to celebrate today.'

 

They are welcomed by Lady Helene herself, who leads them to the dining hall with a smile. Archer expected Ser Addam's presence, but the twins being here surprises him. He's never taken care of children – as far as he recalls –, but shouldn't they be abed? It's close to four in the morning. Oh well, he's not their parent, it's not his problem.

 

"The children were woken up by the mana in the air, and wouldn't go to sleep. I thought they might enjoy a retelling of the fight. Only if you're willing, of course!" she added quickly.

"Me pleasure!"

 

Cú Chulainn quickly takes the spot across Lizzie and eagerly begins his tale. The children ‘ooooh’ and ‘aaaah’ at what he says when they're not asking a million questions per second. He matches their enthusiasm, of course. Archer chuckles once more. It is perhaps his favourite sight of Lancer; recounting tales to children. 

 

"My apologies for not finding Assassin," he tells Lady Helene as they sit. "If she was present, then she's incredibly good at hiding. I believe it would go further than a regular Assassin's ability."
Lady Helene waves his apologies away with a gesture of the hand. "There is naught to apologise for. We have claimed two victories today, against quite the opponents. I have sent a familiar to Jack. Chastel's hounds will make a good asset in tracking Assassin."

"It seems like the best course of action. However, we need to be cautious; after Assassin is dealt with, Jack and Chastel will be our last opponents."

"Oh, I fully expect them to betray us. There is no love between Jack and I, no matter how much my mother begs." She sounds amused, and her tone is almost cruel. "When he does betray us, we will be victorious. You two can easily dispatch Chastel, and I could kill Jack with a flick of my fingers."

 

Archer is relieved. His Master is a kind woman, yes, but she isn't stupid. She won't show mercy to an enemy, even if they're related.  This is good. Mercy isn't a bad thing per say; but like bravery, it mustn't make one stupid. He glances at Cú Chulainn; the spearman doesn't lack courage, so much so he can be reckless and stupid sometimes. What is defying Alaya for a stranger – at best – if not stupidity? The thought is more painful than Archer expected, so he looks away from the spearman.

 

"Perhaps we could prepare a trap." It is Ser Addam who speaks. "Your cousin will expect a betrayal from us as well, I suppose. Being prepared cannot hurt."

"Indeed. Archer, what do you think?"

"It all depends on the way we handle Assassin." A thought comes to mind. "Master, Jack and Chastel might decide to ally themselves with Assassin. He knows he will soon be outnumbered. In terms of raw power, he already is. Even I alone can kill Chastel, and they know it."

"I see. It's a plausible theory. How would you suggest we proceed?"

"I believe we should visit him, just like he did to you. Lancer was able to hide me because of his mana burst and the… ah, peculiarity of our situation. Chastel wouldn't be able to hide Assassin. If we're in the same building, Lancer and I will find her."

 

---

 

The second manor of House Beauxmonts is nothing to laugh at, although it is far less grand than Pearlforest. The gardens are poorer, and the stones cheaper. It is also more recent, and hasn't withstood the trials of time. The mana in the air is much weaker as well; the dragon scale is a beacon on Lady Helene. Servants of all kinds watch her with more or less discretion, clearly unaware she can feel their gaze. Archer resisted the urge of rolling his eyes; it doesn't require mana to feel everyone looking at you. His master is blind not stupid, for fuck's sake. In the back of his head, he can feel Cú Chulainn's annoyance. He's on the verge of taking a corporeal form to give these idiots a well-deserved scare. Before Archer can admonish Lancer, the large doors of the manor open and an unknown man comes out, smug smile on his face. Lady Helene freezes.

 

"Why, if it isn't my darling niece! You didn't visit me in such a long time, I was starting to think I had done something wrong."

"Uncle." Her voice is ice-cold, and her mana already starts crackling in the air. "Where are your sons?"

"You're not even bothering to be polite, are you?"

 

The smug smile is still here, and Archer tenses. Wrong, wrong, wrong, something is wrong. But what? What is going on? He doesn't sense anything coming or nearby.

 

"Why would I be? You've never hidden your dislike of me."

"Pah!" The man shrugs. "I still try to be cordial. But if we're doing this, tell your two guard dogs to manifest. I dislike invisible guests."

 

Lady Helene nods quickly, and Archer manifests. Lancer does the same, spear balanced on his shoulders. His eyes are cold; this isn't a battle he's excited about. This is a prey he wants to hunt and execute.

 

"Much better. Now, why don't you come in? Jack and Alan are absent, but they will return soon enough. You wished to see Jack, did you not?"

"I will have wine."

"I'll have my finest vintage brought from the cellar. Only the best for the head of House Beauxmonts, don't you agree?"

"I do."

 

They're brought to a reception room where a maid serves two glasses of red wine.

 

'Master, something's wrong.'

'I know. As much as I would like to leave, we have no idea where my cousins are, and I'd rather we don't run around pointlessly like headless chickens. Yohan is proud, and he loves nothing like the sound of his own voice. He will end up spilling his plan sooner than later.'

"An excellent wine, uncle. I scarcely drank a wine half as good."

"Now you're just flattering me, Helene!"

"I'm complimenting the man who made the wine, not you. Having coins is no accomplishment and if it was, it wouldn't be yours."

"Now that's the niece I love and loathe. Tell me, girl, what do you want from Jack?"

"I don't want anything from him. It's his Servant's hounds I'm interested in. Tracking Assassin is dreadfully long and boring, and dogs will be perfect for the job."

"Ah, yes, Assassin. Beautiful woman, she is."

 

Time freezes. Nothing comes. Archer doesn't sense anything. He doesn't sense anything at all.

One second. 

Oh. Oh, no.

Two seconds.

 

"Master, Chastel isn't here!"

 

Three seconds.

Archer summons Kanshō and Byakuya. Lady Helene's screech of wrath forces her uncle to his knees, pure mana crushing the man like gravity. The magus tries to resist, but this only further enrages the lady. She snarls something, and Archer hears bones breaking. The man howls in pain before gripping his arm, internal bruises blossoming on the visible skin. Gods above and below, she just shattered his bones with a single word.

 

"What have you done?!" she roars.

"Me? Nothing much," he pants. "You know, last night, I had a lovely conversation with the boys. I reminded my sons that if you cannot defeat an opponent in a contest of raw mana, you need only take away their motivations."

Lady Helene's incomprehension only lasts half a second. Yohan’s smug smile grows. Archer has half a mind of butchering him where he stands.

 

"Lancer!" his Master screams, hysterical fear twisting her voice in something inhuman.  Archer doesn't bother looking; he knows the spearman is already gone. "You wretched monster! How could you?!"

"But I've done nothing." Despite the bones further breaking in his limbs, the man doesn't lose his smile. "You only have yourself to blame, entering such a competition despite having two –"

 

He doesn't finish his sentence. Powerful curses erupt from Lady Helene's throat, tearing themselves free from her chest like hellish creatures of hatred ready to devour everything in their paths. And they do. Bones break, the fractures so horrible that the skin is pierced. At the same time, Yohan's body starts heating up and melting, his eyes first. White goo leaks from his skull. His scream ends quickly, perhaps too quickly. But Archer doesn't dwell on that. He focuses on his Master, whose face is stained with hysterical tears.

 

"Master, my lady let's go. I'm sure the children are fine. Lancer is fast, and Ser Addam is with them."

 

It takes a bit more coaxing to get her to react. Archer takes her in his arms and jumps through the window Lancer broke on his way out, making a bee-line for Pearlforest. Let the children be safe. Please. Please.

Notes:

MWHAHAHAHA 😈

Chapter 19: Ser Addam

Summary:

Ser Addam defends the manor, and it turns out that Alan Beauxmonts isn't the second worst person around.

Addam can't help but smile fondly as he watches Lizzie and Zander play with Mrs Ashford, all the while asking her dozens of questions about her baby. The soon-to-be mother is ever so patient, acting like a de-facto nanny for the twins and humouring them with a gentle smile. It's such a sweet sight; he can easily picture them acting just the same if Lady Helene was the one pregnant. Sadly, this will never come; the birth of the twins was too hard on her young body, and despite the physician's best effort, she will never be pregnant again. Addam has no idea whether or not magecraft can do something, for he knows little about it, but he assumes it's been tried and failed.

 

Suddenly, Adam feels like a hush of wind in his back, and all his hair rises on his neck. The twins both look up and yelp in surprise, their big blue eyes widening. 

 

"Ser Addam! Ser Addam! Mama’s spell is broken! Someone mean is coming!" they both exclaim.

 

Lizzie clutches her doll against her chest while Zander points at something behind Addam. The knight whirls around, unsheathing his sword. There's nothing visible, but something is coming . He trusts the children's magecraft and, above all, his instinct. He has a couple of minutes, even less, until the enemy reaches them. Sheathing his sword, he quickly goes to them and crouches before the twins.

 

"Children, I want you two to lock yourself in your bedroom. Lock the door. Don't open to anyone who isn't your mother, Lancer, or Archer. Do you understand?" The twins nod, as serious as six-years-old can be. "Mrs Ashford, you can hide in Lady Helene's office."

"Can't I stay with the children?" she asks, surprised.

"No." He smiles sympathetically as he escorts her outside the room. Lizzie waves at them because closing the door, and he hears the tell-tale click of the lock. "I don't want to suspect you, but there's likely a traitor," he explains. "I cannot leave anyone with the children."

"Oh… I see. I will hide, then. Go do your duty, ser."

 

He gives her a nod and an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. Then, supported by the enchanted equipment Lady Helene gave him, he takes off. Jumping down the stairs, his landing is cushioned by the spelled boots as the stone floor cracks beneath him. Using the cracked stone as a make-shift tramplin, he propels himself towards the door. Elliott has opened it, giving him a quick nod of encouragement as Addam passes by him. The knight lands in the front garden and unsheathes as he sees three silhouettes approach. They're not hard to identify. Jack Beauxmonts, his Servant, and a woman he assumes is Assassin.

 

Addam takes a deep breath. He cannot win this fight, but he'll be damned if he doesn't delay the two Servants. Lady Helene must be on the way with her own Servants. He needs only hold them back, not win. Calmly, he lists what he knows about his opponents. Jack Beauxmonts, a good mage who specialises in fire magecraft and reinforcement of his own body. Not a danger in close combat, and Addam isn't scared of his spells; Lady Helene's enchantment will protect him. All in all, not a danger.

 

Jean Chastel, Archer class. He uses a rifle and a hunting knife. The rifle doesn't need reloading, and he can fire waves of bullets. He can also summon hound-like familiars. They're not very durable, but fierce. And he can summon them again. His physical abilities are evidently much superior to a regular man's. Lady Helene's Archer theorised he can use traps since he's a hunter. Finally, Assassin. Name, unknown. Abilities, unknown. She can kill a mage barehanded. Naturally good at hiding. Jean Chastel is stronger than her, but she's still the biggest problem for Addam. He's no mage, he only has his instinct to know where she is, and it can only do so much.

 

"Addam! Why don't you get out of the way? We'll spare your life!" Jack Beauxmonts exclaims. "You're a strong knight, I could use a man like you."

 

Addam spits on the ground.

 

"That's what I think of your offer, Jack. I'm Lady Helene's knight, her children's protector. Do you think I'll abandon them?"

"Eh, I knew you'd say that. You're her loyal dog , after all."

 

Anyone else would have been offended, but Addam isn't. Being Lady Helene's dog is much more than he ever hoped for. She found him in fighting pits, undefeated but almost feral. She brought him back to her manor, nursed him back to health and sanity, armoured him, armed him, and made him her children's guardian. ' I need someone strong to watch over them. Someone who will fight until the end if something happens. Someone unafraid to die. Someone who doesn't care they're bastards, that I'm a woman, and blind on top. Will you be that someone?' He agreed, and she gave him a name . And Jack thinks being called a dog would offend Addam? 

 

"Chastel, kill him. Assassin, you know what to do."

 

Strangely, Assassin gives him a venomous glare. Addam doesn't stop to wonder why. Instead, he attacks her. He has no doubt her goal is the twins. Rushing forwards, he swings his sword, hoping to at least bruise her ribs. Cutting her in half would be ideal, but she is a Servant, and sturdier than a human. Taken by surprise, she barely blocks his attack with her arm, although she's sent flying. She lands on her feet, of course, but she hisses as she holds her arm against her chest. Addam doesn't give her a second to rest, charging again and hoping to impale her.

 

This time, she knows what's coming, so she avoids his attack in a movement that reminds Addam of a dancer. He shifts his weight, swinging again, this time in a diagonal on her chest, from her right hip to her left shoulder. The blade makes contact, draws blood. Assassin screams and jumps backward, eyes widening.

 

"What the hell is up with this guy? Beauxmonts, this isn't what we talked about!"

 

Addam doesn't let her continue, attacking again. But he hears whistling, followed by several barks. The knight stops his charge and whirls around. Four of Chastel's hounds are attacking him, their master aiming with his rifle. Addam inhales deeply; this is going to hurt. Four dogs in one swing is too much, especially with the bullets raining down. 

 

He ducks and stabs one of the dogs in the plexus. The beast whines but the wound isn't lethal – not yet, at least. Using it as a shield for the bullets, Addam tries to charge forward. But the other hounds attack, their massive jaws closing on his limbs. Addam curses in pain, tries to kick them away. Thanks to his equipment, he isn't dismembered alive, but he still feels fangs digging in his skin, and some bullets graze his arms and thighs. The wounds aren't enough to impede his movements, but he hoped he would stay unharmed longer. He needs to keep fighting, to keep them occupied, long enough for the real heroes to arrive.

 

With a scream of determination, Addam throws the dying hound away and, with a broad swing, cuts through the three others. They whine as they disappear, but Addam doesn't wait to see how it happens. Getting back up, he charges Chastel. The man fires again, but Lady Helene's protections flare to life around him, and the bullets are deflected. Eyes widen, the rifle is discarded, and Addam's sword is stopped by a hunting knife. Using all his strength, Assam is able to create a crack in the hunting knife, but it isn't enough.

 

Chastel delivers a brutal kick to his guts, and Addam is sent flying backwards. He crashes against an olive tree with a grunt. Some of his ribs crack, one shatters. He falls to one knee, panting. His muscles are aflame, his lungs burning. He spits some blood and a tooth, and his vision is blurry.

 

"Stay down, knight. You and I both know you've lost," Chastel says as he approaches him. "I don't like killing, so let's stop here."

 

Using his sword as support, Addam forces himself to stand up. His right ankle is bleeding profusely, and so is his left calf, courtesy of the hounds. But who cares if he bleeds out? He has two little ones to protect and a wonderful lady to serve. A taunting grin twists his face.

 

"Why, you afraid I'll win? Come on Chastel! Or is a Heroic Spirit afraid of a regular human!"

 

His roar reverberates around them, and Addam can see that Jack Beauxmonts looks ready to piss his pants in fear. Addam locks eyes with him, grinning even more, before looking back at Chastel, who frowns. But the huntsman gets in position with his knife. Addam tightens his hold on his sword. His vision is poor, his ears still ringing. He probably has a concussion, or maybe all the wounds he got in the fighting pits are finally catching up with him. Who cares?

 

His eyes finally find Assassin. She's finished healing herself, meaning she's ready to go after the twins. Focusing all his strength in his legs, Addam propels himself forwards and, using a feint, runs past Chastel. Assassin lets out a scream of frustration when she realises he's once again after her. Purple mana circuits flare to life on her arms, and she grabs his blade with a grunt. Her fist tightens, but the enchanted steel doesn't break. Letting go, she follows with a high kick to the ribs faster than Addam can react. He curses as his already damaged ribs break. It doesn't stop him from punching the woman straight in the face, breaking both her jaw and cheekbone.

 

"I'll never let you hurt the twins!" he roars.

"I don't have a choice!" she wheezes. "I have someone to protect too!"

 

Then, Assassin, a being of legend and mana, draws her arm back and stabs him straight through the chest. Blood erupts from his mouth, and he coughs more. His lungs are crushed. He's going to die. Fuck. Addam supposes he should have seen it coming. His body is at its limit, and so are the enchantments. Assassin removes her arm, and he falls to the ground wheezing as more and more blood leaks from his wounds, mouth and nose. He needs to get up. He needs to fight. He needs to protect the twins. He needs to… to…

 

"Your heart is mine! Gáe Bulg!"

 

An explosion of mana. Red energy crackles everywhere. Addam is deaf to the world around him. Pain is disappearing, which is a bad thing. It means his body is shutting down. He'll be dead in a few minutes at most. But that alright. Cú Chulainn is here. The twins will be safe. No one will be able to harm them with him around. Addam allows his eyes to close, his consciousness begins to slip away. But before death can take him, someone calls out his name.

 

"Ser Addam!" He forces his eyes open, and a figure rushes to his side. Mana is poured in his body, allowing him to cling to life. The voice belongs to a man, but his vision is too blurry to identify him. "For fuck's safe, you're out of your bloody mind. Fighting two Heroic Spirits?"

"The… twins…"

"Don't talk!" The man snaps. "I can barely keep you alive. Helene may save you, but I'm not sure. But I'll keep you alive as long as I can. She's on her way, I think."

"The… twins…" he repeats.

"Don't talk, I said!" Addam can finally see the man's face. To his surprise, it's Alan . "Lancer is here. The twins are safe. Mother is slapping the shit out of Jack, I think. Lancer already killed Chastel, so Assassin is the only one left."

"Mhm…"

"Don't you die on me, alright? Helene will blow up the bloody manor if you bite the dust."

 

---

 

Sétanta wants nothing more than brutally torture Jack Beauxmonts for his actions, but he doesn't have the time. The twins are his top priority right now. Using Gáe Bulg as a pole, he launches himself in the air, crashing through the third floor window. He lands in an office where a couple of maids are hiding, and the poor girls scream in fear. Ignoring them, Sétanta rushes outside the office, looking for Assassin. He can sense her presence, but it's diffuse, akin to a mist of some kind. Breathing deeply, he hastily traces a couple of runes in the air. Perthro, for mystery, secret. Hagalaz, the forces of nature. Together, they're perfect for tracking a being like Assassin. 

 

Immediately, the symbol flares to life, and a pull sends Sétanta running. Led by the magic, he quickly finds Assassin standing in front of the twins' door. In the corridor, some maids and other employees are lying down, dead. He recognises William, the cook who carried Archer and put him to bed, and Elliott, the brave elderly butler. The sight of the dying Addam in the destroyed garden comes back to his mind, and he growls furiously. He's going to rip her apart .

 

Assassin whirls around from the door and curses as she sees Sétanta. Her hands are covered in blood. The purple mana circuits flare to life, vibrant despite the blood covering her skin. She glances around her, looking for an escape. Like hell! Rushing forwards, Sétanta swings Gáe Bulg. Usually, closed spaces like this would be disadvantageous for a two-metres spear, but he isn't any spearman. The stone walls are no more than butter for him, and Assassin screams in surprise, ducking just in time.

 

"Seriously?" she exclaims, outraged. "Between you and that bloody knight, this place is filled with monsters!"

 

She tries to kick his feet, but Sétanta avoids her leg, instead turning her attack back on her by brutally stomping on her ankle. She screams in pain and lays down for a second, panting. She looks up, eyes filled with tears. Despite the pain on her face, her brown eyes are still fierce.

 

"Don't misunderstand me, Cú Chulainn. I have nothing against your master and her children. If anything, I quite like them. But my master needs the Grail," she pants.

Sétanta raises her spear. "They all do."

She shakes her head. "No, you don't understand. He's ten. He doesn't even know what's going on. What he knows, however, is that he's dying . He's sick ."

 

Sétanta stops for half a second before raising his weapon again.

 

"Sorry."

 

It's all he can say. He'll tell Lady Helene about the kid. Maybe. It all depends. Assassin seems to sense he has no mercy, because she screams in rage and uses her unharmed leg to kick his knee. Sétanta hisses, and she uses that moment to call her Noble Phantasm. In hindsight, she has probably been getting it ready when she began talking to him.

 

"Suffer, writhe and rot away! Aqua Tofana!"

 

A dark mist explodes in the corridor, temporarily blinding Sétanta who finds himself coughing, lungs afire. The purple-ish cloud slowly burns his exposed skin, irritates his eyes and gums. Blood fills his mouth in record time. It's poison, and a damn efficient one to boot! With a curse, Sétanta rushes forward to grab Assassin. She's waiting for him, though, and despite her broken ankle, she avoids a swing that would have cut her in half. Still, she's fucked. Sétanta's divine blood is enough to keep the poison at bay longer than she planned. Twisting Gáe Bulg, he impales her straight through the heart. She gasps and coughs some blood. Her hands grab the spear, and she looks at Sétanta, eyes pleading.

 

"Please. Help my Master. He's just a child. He doesn't know what I'm doing, just that I'm trying to help him."

"That ain't my choice to make. And ye've tried to kill me Masta's kids. Ye've chosen the wrong ally, lass. Ye only got yerself to blame."

"I could never win against you. But I could have won against them… if we had killed you, then…"

 

Sétanta doesn't say anything as Assassin finally fades away. She was in an impossible situation, forced to bet her master's survival on a risky plan. Sadly for her, the gamble didn't pay off. Sétanta allows Gáe Bulg to disappear before rushing to the twins' door. He tries to open it, but a bounded field burns his hand. He draws it back with a hiss before pounding on the wood.

 

"Lizzie! Zander! Ye in there? It's Sétanta. Can ye open the door fer me, kiddos?" He hears shuffling behind the door, but the children don't talk. "The bad lassie's gone, kiddos, ye're safe now." Still no answer. Fuck . What if the mist went through the bounded field?

 

Before he can try anything else, however, Lady Helene's horrified scream echoes in the corridor. He whirls around and finds her sobbing, shaking in shock and horror at the slaughter before her.

 

"Sorry, Masta', I got there too late to save them."

 

She doesn't say anything, instead rushing to the doors and dispelling the bounded field with a gesture of the hand and a word. The door unlocks on its own and she runs inside, calling for the children. They wail as they see her, and Sétanta exhales deeply, relieved. They are unharmed, just shocked and scared out of their mind. He watches the mother and children hug each other, committing to memory the sight of Lady Helene kissing the twins' chubby cheeks and curled hair. He’s only brought back to the cold reality by Archer’s voice.

 

"Lancer, we should clean up here. The twins don't need to see what happened."

 

Wordlessly, Sétanta gets to work. He carries the bodies to a nearby room and lays them down gently, closing their empty eyes and putting their hands on their stomach. Archer imitates him, looking entirely unaffected by the whole thing. Sétanta doesn't doubt for a single second that he is. His wild cat doesn’t have it in him to feel bad for strangers, because it demands too much empathy, more than he can muster after spending so long under Alaya's thumb. Sétanta doesn’t blame him. He doesn't particularly mourn the dead; war is war, and casualties are inevitable. However, it enrages him that he hasn't been able to protect his Master's beloved people. That Ser Addam has been forced to fight two Servants, when it's not his job. It's Sétanta's .

Notes:

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the potential traitor 😉 Next chapter, the grail war ends!

Assassin was Giulia Tofana, who lived in the 17th century. She was an Italian woman who sold a poison called Aqua Tofana to women who wanted to murder their husbands because of domestic abuse. She sometimes gave the poison for free to women who didn't have the money to pay her because she took pity on them.

Aqua Tofana contained mostly arsenic and lead, and maybe belladonna. Since it was colourless and tasteless, it worked like a charm.To this day, we don't how it was prepared so we can't recreate it. Giulia helped murder around 600 men, although the exact number is unknown since the poisoning could go unnoticed.

Her master is an orphan who summoned her by accident while wishing for someone to save him. Considering Giulia Tofana helped murder abusive husbands (mostly) and she's a rather weak Heroic Spirit, she was the only spirit who could be summoned. Her periods of inactivity are because she had almost no mana and had to find ways to gather it. She was also looking after her ill young Master.

Chapter 20: The Grail

Summary:

The Grail is found, and a wish is made.
Helene unexpectedly reconciles.

No matter the era or world, funerals are dull, sombre affairs. Tears are shed, there are songs and prayers to help the deceased find peace and happiness in the afterlife, the body is prepared to look as alive as possible before being placed in a coffin. Some cultures burn their dead, yes, but it's all the same. Life comes from the earth, and the dead must return to it. Archer does his best not to look too indifferent when the coffins are laid in the ground, opting instead to entirely close his expression. It's more polite, he supposes, than bearing his indifference for all to see. Next to him, leaning against the church wall, Cú Chulainn looks more affected by the funeral, although not much. He stares ahead at the dozen coffins, muttering some things under his breath. Perhaps his own prayers, perhaps something else entirely. Archer doesn't pry. Still, Cú Chulainn must feel eyes on him, because he looks up and nods at Archer with a small smile on his lips. Archer looks away; there's nothing to say. They're just here to make sure the funeral goes smoothly.

 

The people weep as the priest reads from his Bible and prays over the coffins. He's a small man, unaffiliated with the Holy Church who controls the Grail Wars. Lady Helene herself called him to officiate, implying she knows him some way or another. Perhaps he officiated her own father's funeral, or perhaps is he simply a good man. Archer doesn't know, and it's unlikely he'll ever know. He and Cú Chulainn aren't meant to stay much longer in this world, after all. The few days it took to organise the funerals have already extended their presence longer than necessary, but they will soon be gone.

 

Archer doesn't really know how to feel about it; Lady Helene is a good Master, a kind and strong woman he will surely remember fondly. But, eventually, he will forget her. She will blend with the other hundreds of people he met over his afterlife. However, things might be different this time. Cú Chulainn is here, and the hero won't let him drown in apathy again. He might end up remembering Lady Helene, at least more than he recalls his other masters – Rin excluded, of course.

 

The ceremony over, they begin making their way back to the manor, where Jack Beauxmonts is detained, and Ser Addam is recovering. The fact that the knight is still alive baffles Archer. He will be disabled for life, yes, but that is a small price to pay considering the extent of his injuries. Punctured lungs, shattered ribs, pierced stomach, massive blood loss, some fractures on the skull… Archer is impressed the man is still breathing. To be entirely honest, he cannot tell who's the most impressive. Lady Helene, for saving him – after Alan Beauxmonts used all his mana to keep him alive – or the knight, for clinging to life like this. Archer can't picture himself being this stubborn. He would welcome death, nothingness , with open arms. The chance to rest… He closes his eyes, trying to picture the feeling. But, as always, nothing comes. Rest isn't for him, it never was, and Archer can't help but be jealous of mortals. Don't they know how lucky they are? Being able to rest forever, isn't it such a blessing?

Despite the attack, Pearlforest still looms over the land, massive and ancient. The destruction is hidden by the high walls. The surviving staff will begin cleaning the place up soon enough but, in the meantime, they must live in rooms that were left untouched by Assassin's last effort to get to the twins. Her rampage took the life of twelve people, all of whom foolishly tried to stop her. Why did they hope to accomplish? They didn't have Ser Addam's enchanted gear, didn't have Lady Helene's magecraft. Many would call them brave, but Archer thinks them stupid. Still, he knows better than to voice his thoughts out loud. Cú Chulainn would be mad at him for disrespecting the dead, and Archer doesn't want that. The mere possibility is enough to send a shiver down his spine.

 

When they reach the manor, he notices Father Thomas waiting for them at the entrance. Lady Helene stops two metres from him, mana flaring to life. But the priest merely bows his head, respectful and probably frightened by the woman.

 

"What is it you want, Father? You will find that I'm lacking in patience."

"My lady, you have won the Holy Grail War. The Holy Grail has appeared in my church, and it awaits your wish," the man says, trying but failing miserably at sounding charismatic.

"I am aware. I shall come once I have gotten myself rid of Jack."

"My lady –"

"If you even attempt to defend him, I will dispose of you as well."

 

The priest nods quickly and backs away from the doors. They both open on their 'own', moved by Lady Helene's magecraft. Wordlessly, she makes her way to what is left of her office. Inside, Jack Beauxmonts is tied, covered in filth from the last few days – blood, sweat, dirt. Funerals take several days to be organised, and Lady Helene didn't want to waste time interrogating him before. Her people's rest is more important than whatever Jack will say to them.

 

"Ah, Helene. Finally came to visit me?"

"Ye'd betta' re-evaluate that attitude of yers, lad, or ye'll start losin' teeth," Cú Chulainn snarls.

Jack's glare is venomous, but he doesn't dare say anything to the spearman who slaughtered his Servant and captured him. "Why am I still alive?" he ends up asking.

"Who was it?" Lady Helene asks coldly, before clarifying herself. "The one who came to my room all these years ago."

"You already know it's me."

"Why?" she croaks, voice breaking slightly. "What had I ever done to you?"

"If you were broken enough, then Father or I could have been chosen by the scale. It was the simplest way."

"You drugged me so I wouldn't be able to fight back, and then you forced yourself on me. All for this? All for the scale?" she asks in a high-pitched tone that borders panic. Cú Chulainn takes a step towards her, but he doesn't say a word, nor does he touch her shoulder like he so clearly wants to. "You did all this for power?"

"I did this for our House!" Jack snaps back. "You're a crippled woman, you'll lead our House to nothing but misery! Father and I, we would have been a thousand times the lord you'll ever be."

"And yet, the scale chose me." Her voice is cold, almost devoid of any emotion, but it's not strong either. It sounds almost… tired. Turning around from Jack, she moves towards the door, only stopping at the entrance, a hand on the doorframe. "If your words are true, then the twins are yours. And yet, you would have slayed them to defeat me." She pauses, closes her eyes and breathes deeply. "Lancer, Archer… Can you…?"

She doesn't need to say the word. "I will take care of it," Archer says. "Lancer, escort Lady Helene to the children."

 

Cú Chulainn hesitates, probably recalling the events in France, but he complies after a few seconds. The door closes softly, and Archer goes to stand right in front of the chained man. Contrary to other mages who die their heads held high, this one shakes in fear, tears running down his cheeks. He looks pathetic.

 

"Please, please don't kill me…"

"It's my master's wish that you die. And even if it wasn't, letting you live would be a mistake." Summoning Byakuya, Archer raises his arm. "Be grateful she doesn't want you to suffer."

 

His arm goes down. Blood erupts, a head falls to the ground, a body slumps forward, only held back by the chains bounding it to the chair. Archer contemplates the scene, the blood gushing less and less from the neck as the heart stops beating, the widened eyes of the severed head, forever staring at the void. He's never enjoyed killing, he abhors it in fact, but he won't regret ending that man's life. Who would mourn someone like him?

 

Byakuya disappears from his hand, and Archer leaves the room in Spirit Form; it will get rid of the blood splattered on him. Not that he personally cares, but it would upset the twins, and possibly Lady Helene.

 

Archer shifts back his corporeal form before entering the room where Lady Helene and Cú Chulainn are, judging by the voices he can hear; it's Ser Addam's room, whom the children refuse to leave ever since he was wounded. After knocking twice, he enters and quickly scans the room. Lizzie and Zander have fallen asleep right next to their guardian knight, and Mrs Ashford is embroidering something, possibly out of anxiety. Alan Beauxmonts is here as well, silent, sitting across the room from his mother. Strangely, he seems to avoid looking at her. Lady Samantha isn't speaking as well, eyes downcast.

 

As for Lady Helene, she has her hands above Ser Addam's body. Glowing mana flows from her palms to his wounds, slowly but surely mending them. The man has yet to open his eyes again, but it's probably better like this. It spares him the pain that comes along with open wounds.

 

"Master, I have fulfilled your request," he says calmly.

"Thank you, Archer." Lady Helene gives him a small but grateful smile. "Would you like to sit?"

"No, thank you."

"Aright. I must finish Addam's treatment. Then, we will head for the Church and claim our victory."

"Yes, Master."

 

There's a pause, the only sound in the room the transfer of mana.

 

"What will you wish for?" Alan eventually asks, voice hoarse.

"I meant to wish to see, at first. But I will instead wish for Ser Addam to make a full recovery. Magecraft can only do so much, and I have handled being blind my whole life. I shall be fine."

"Yes, you will," the young man says bitterly. The tone makes Lady Samantha look up with tears in her eyes.

"Alan –"

"No. Don't talk to me. I don't want to hear anything from you again," he hisses.

 

Archer raises a confused eyebrow.

'Ye've miss'd some fuck'd-up family drama, Laoch.' His mental voice is strangely exhausted. 'The lad and Lady Helene asked their motha' why she married the fucka'. An' that was a shitshow. 'parently, she wanted to make sure he wouldn't get no allies to steel Lady Helene's seet at the 'ead of the 'ouse. So she married 'im cuz she was a powerless widow. That, an' marryin' yer brother's widow's bad fer yer public image so 'e didn't get no outside 'elp eitha'.'

'She tricked him into ruining his reputation by sabotaging her own? That's…'

'Bloody insane, to sae the leest. The lad realised his motha' neve' really loved 'im. Only reason she 'ad 'im an' 'is brotha' to furthe' shame the man. Can't sae I blame the lad fer not wantin' to speak to 'er. It fuckin' sucks.'

 

That's… That's insane, and absolutely not what Archer was expecting of Lady Samantha. His eyes instinctively land on the woman. Her expression is one of grief and mourning. He doesn't know what to make of her, nor if he should even bother. Soon enough, they'll be gone and what happens here won't be his problem anymore.

 

Lady Helene spends a few more minutes healing Ser Addam before ending the session. The glow around her hands disappear, and the flaring mana circuits disappear under her skin. She leans down to kiss her children's forehead and caresses their chubby cheeks before straightening. Nervously, she smoothes her dress and turns to Archer and Cú Chulainn.

 

"Let us go. We have wishes to make, and a Grail War to end."

 

---

 

The Grail is inside Father Thomas' church. It rests upon the altar in its ethereal glory. Shining like a second sun, it emits a low hum, beaconing all those who would gaze upon it to get closer and be tempted. It is as tall as Archer recalls, the memory of that fateful day engraved in his brain. His chest tightens as the mana caresses his skin like a cold lover's embrace. It reminds him of Alaya's affection, and bile rises in his throat. He forces himself to swallow the acid, shakily following Lady Helene and Cú Chulainn as they advance in the church. The priest, who stands by the altar, bows his head respectfully.

 

"Lady Helene, my sincerest congratulations on your victory. The Holy Grail is yours to make a wish."

 

Lady Helene nods before turning to them.

 

"Would you like to make your wish first?"

 

Archer grimaces and glances at Cú Chulainn. The spearman looks down, unable to face their master. Archer sighs; he supposes he will tell her the truth.

 

"We cannot make a wish. The Grail needs all Servants to be returned to it to grant a wish."

Lady Helene stumbles where she stands, baffled. "What? That is not possible. You are meant to make a wish as well! This is… this is why Heroic Spirits make contracts with mages!"

"And that is what most Servants believe as well. But that's not true. No Servant can make a wish. We are dead, my Lady. We cannot wish for anything."

A tear rolls down Lady Helene's cheek. "It's unfair." She wipes her cheek furiously, but more tears come. "Father, did you know?"

"Yes, my Lady. But I was forbidden to tell you the truth."

“I…” she stops herself and turns back to the Grail. “Will you disappear as soon as I make the wish?”

"Not necessarily. We may have a few minutes if we resist the pull."

 

This is met by a sudden hug. Lady Helene has flung herself against them, her small arms tightening against them as she stands on her tip-toes. Archer freezes for a second before returning the affection. Cú Chulainn does the same, even nuzzling his nose in her red hair.

 

"Thank you. Thank you. I will never forget you, I promise."

"We won't eitha', Masta'."

She tightens her arms. "Call me Helene. Please."

"Aye. We won't forget ye eitha', Helene."

 

They stay like this for what seems to be forever and not long enough at the same time. When Lady Helene steps back, tears are soaking her face. But she wipes them away and gives them a bright smile. Then, she turns around and opens her arms, palms towards the Grail.

 

"Holy Grail! I wish for my knight, Ser Addam, to fully recover from the wounds he's suffered from at the hand of Archer and Assassin!" she proclaims.

 

Mana hums louder, whistling in the air and pulsing like blood in a vein. Already, Archer can feel his body starting to fade. The Wish is being granted, and they are being sent back. It is, he must say, a Wish worth dying for. This is a genuine desire, born from kindness, empathy, and love. Not something the Grail can twist. It's just one person caring for another.

 

"Ye'll tell the lad he's a hell ov a fighta'!" Cú Chulainn exclaims.

 

Lady Helene turns back to them, and her tears have returned tenfold.

 

"I will!"

"An' the kiddos I'll miss them," he adds with a chuckle. "Specially Lizzie! She reminds me ov me Finn, that she does!"

 

The woman's giggle is tainted by tears. Archer fondly shakes his head, and says his own farewell.

 

"It was an honour fighting for you, Helene."

"It was an honour having you as my Servants," she replies, forcing a smile on her face. "Archer?"

"Yes?"

"I hope that, whatever it is that haunts you, you will defeat it. The guilt you carry, it is too heavy. Please, let yourself heal."

 

Archer's eyes widen and, if half of his body wasn't already gone, he would stumble back. But he is frozen where he stands, chest so tight he chokes on his own breath.

 

"I will," he croaks out.

"Good. Fare well, my heroes, my friends."

 

The world dissolves.

 

---

 

Helene stumbles out of the church, tears running down her cheeks. She will miss the two heroes dearly; she only hopes Archer will find the peace he so badly deserves. Perhaps she will meet them again, perhaps not. Most likely not, of course, but hope and dreams cannot kill her. She will have to make sure the twins remember them as well; they were so fond of Lancer's stories after all.

 

There's movement ahead, and Helene recognises Alan's breathing pattern and presence. He is leaning against a tree, playing with something in his hand. She stops in her tracks, waiting. She has never been fond of her cousins, but after their mother's confession, she will do Alan the courtesy of listening to what he has to say.

 

"Have you made your wish?"

"I have. Ser Addam should be healed by now. How long have you been there?"

"Five or six minutes at most," he shrugs. "I'll take you home, you can't ride a horse."

"I appreciate it." She follows him to the stallion ahead. The animal neighs a bit at their sight, blowing air at Alan who playfully caresses him. Helene can't help but be surprised; she didn't know Alan is good with animals. "But that isn't the real reason you came, is it?"

He briefly pauses. "No, it isn't. Mother will probably want to live with you again, and I would rather she leaves my house. I can't… I cannot have her around, I cannot even look at her. Not right now."

"I understand." He helps her get on the horse, and the animal begins walking from the church. Instinctively, Helene wraps her arms against his torso. "Someone from my household was spying for Jack, weren't they?"

"Yes. A maid, Sara or something. She thought Jack would marry her." Helene made a choking sound, baffled at such stupidity. "I know, she's dumb as a rock."

"I shall deal with her." She pauses, thinking about what Cú Chulainn told her about Assassin's master. "Have you had any luck in finding the boy?"

"Mhm. I have a good lead. What do you intend to do with him?"

"Myself? Nothing much. But I thought you might be lonely. Wouldn't you like a student?"

Alan's breathing hitches and, for a while, he says nothing. Helene bites the inside of her cheek. Has she gone too far? Has she assumed too much? It has always seemed to her that Alan would make a good teacher. He likes children and, contrary to her, his magecraft is subtle. She is a storm, and he's a tranquil lake. In a way, he's better than her, able to perfectly manage his low amount of mana to cast precise spells.

"Yes, I think I would like someone to keep me company," he eventually says. "What if I had refused?"

"I would have handed him to a good orphanage."

"I see. It's better for him to stay with me, then," he concludes, and Helene smiles. "Ah, I can see Pearlforest."

A couple of minutes later, he helps her down. The moment her feet touch the grounds, her spell shows her the world around her, shapes of various sizes forming in her mind. Her hands linger in his arm for a minute too long.

"Will you visit?"

"Would you like me to?"

“I wouldn't be opposed to it." She pauses, thinks about the matter. "In fact, I would like it. The twins would love to have an uncle."

"Then, I will visit."

Notes:

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand it's a wrap for this war!! I hope you all enjoyed this arc.

Next arc will be a return to Counter Guardian business.

~~

A couple of 'what-ifs' for this arc:

• Berserker was actually supposed to save the twins at some point, but his death ended up happening before
• Lizzie was at first supposed to die but I got too attached
• Alan was almost Caster's Master but having the two brothers be evil was redundant so I scrapped the idea and gave him his "redemption" arc
• Lady Samantha almost died at the hand of Chastel (or rather, his hounds) to protect Helene
• Archer almost faced Chastel and would have lost an arm to the hounds. I ended up switching with Ser Addam
• Giulia Tofana wasn't supposed to be sympathetic but I ended up giving her this story because I thought it would fit the mood
• William the Conqueror was almost Suleiman the Magnificent

 

See y'all in the next arc!!

Chapter 21: Clouded sun

Summary:

Two bros chilling in a reality marble, five feet apart cuz they're not gay!

Featuring: Archer in denial, and Alaya being a cockblock.

Notes:

Sorry about the stupid summary but I needed to make that joke!! Hope you enjoyed it.

Unlimited Blade Works hasn't changed. The cogs in the sky click and turn, and Sétanta instinctively looks up when one is louder than another. It's one of the biggest cogs, and it looks rustier than the others. Is it because it almost never moves? Or is it older than the others? Have the cogs always been there? Reality Marbles are a representation of their creator's mind, and Sétanta likes to think that Archer wasn't always so miserable. He used to be a cheerful, brave boy who wanted nothing more than to help others. His headspace must have been different at some point, right? 

 

Sétanta dismisses the thoughts; it's pointless and he would end up going around in circles. He couldn't even ask, because he knew Archer wouldn't answer. The object of his thoughts is a few metres from him, examining a sword he plucked from the dusty ground. With the desolate scenery of Unlimited Blade Works as a background, it makes for a grim painting. He can easily picture Archer all alone in here, with no company but thousands of swords, forced to look at a sun that never sets and listen to cogs that never stop. It's heartbreaking, in a way that makes Sétanta almost angry at the unfairness of it all. 

 

Alaya used a naive boy's genuine wish to trap him forever. Then, she abused him in all the ways she could to mold him into her killing machine. She even took his name from him, the most important thing to have in order to establish an identity, a sense of self. It's painfully efficient, and Sétanta would say Alaya mostly succeeded at what she wanted. 

 

But in the end, Archer is just too kind to be thoroughly broken. He cares too much about others, and he'll never be the perfect emotionless weapon she wants. It's soul crushing to imagine that, before Sétanta came along, Archer had nothing and no one. He was doomed, a lost soul that only destroys and never gets to see the worlds he's saved, just the bodies he leaves behind.

 

Sétanta walks up to him and swings an arm around his shoulders. Archer almost jumps out of his skin in surprise, before settling for a half-hearted glare. Sétanta grins, beaming. Looks like his wild cat is getting used to him. And that alone gives him hope that, one day, he'll be fine again.

 

"What are you doing?"

"Just lookin' at whot ye're playin' with, Puisín."

"Pu – what?" Archer frowns. "That's new."

"Aye. New nickname for ye. Fits ye betta' than the last one."

"Do I want to know what it means?"

"Dunno. Do ya?"

 

Archer frowns again, weighing his options, before turning back to the sword he's still holding. Sétanta looks at the steel. It's a nice sword, but definitely not European. It's thinner than the ones he used back when he was alive, and the handle is different.

 

"It's Rider's sword. I memorised it out of habit, but it has nothing special,” Archer explains with a shrug. “It's just a good sword."

"Does it got a name?"

Archer shakes his head. "No. It wasn't his Noble Phantasm. The boat was."

 

He plants the sword back in the ground, and Sétanta removes his arm; he doesn't really have an excuse to leave it here. He'd love to, because he loves physical contact, but he doesn't want to make Archer uncomfortable. Putting his arm around him like that was already pushing it, and he'd rather not send him running back to his shell. He stretches, his back popping delightfully.

 

"Ah, that feels good." There, he turns to Archer with a grin. "So, what didja think ov that War?"

“Well, it definitely went better than the previous one.”

Sétanta throws his head back laughs. "That's fer sure! Had some real nice fighta' too! 'Specially that Berserka'."

 

Archer nods and turns around to look at the never setting sun. Dry wind makes some dirt fly, and the tiny grains swirl in the air. Archer's long coat slightly flies up as well, although it doesn't move much. Sétanta doesn't know how long he stares at the other Servant, but he's eventually startled by his voice.

 

"I thought Berserker had killed you."

"Huh?"

"Berserker's Noble Phantasm, Valhalla. It blew Rider to smithereens, and I thought you were dead too." Archer pauses and grabs his coat right above his heart. "I… the connection, it was… it was wavering."

 

Sétanta swallows painfully. He knows the pain that goes with losing the other. And that was before the War, before France. Before they shared something. 

 

"I could've. If Helene 'adn't 'ealed me, I would've bitten the dust."

"I couldn't find you." Realising Archer doesn't seem to hear him, Sétanta reaches out and grabs Archer's hand. It's crushed with all the grip strength that comes with using a bow, and Sétanta returns the desperate strength in kind. "The connection was weak, and there was mana everywhere. And then… then there were crows. Two of them, circling above something. I went to check it out, and it was you. Without them…"

"Without 'er," Sétanta corrects automatically, and their fingers are now laced together. He doesn't know when it happened, and he doesn't care. "Must've been the Morrígan. T'was the kind ov battle she likes."

"Is she going to follow us around all the time?" Archer asks, eyes still lost far away.

"Dunno. She's weird, an' she might fuck off for months or never leave us alone."

"Isn't that weird? Being loved by a god? I mean… Love stories with gods aren't exactly famous for their happy endings."

"She ain't as bad as Medb," Sétanta jokes.

"Didn't she try to kill you?"

"She wasn't tryin' real 'ard," he shrugs, remembering the event. "She's the Goddess ov Massacre and War an' all that shite. If she'd really come to kill me, I couldn't 'ave done nothin' 'bout it. Otha' gods, aye. But 'er? Nah."

"Ah… did you… did you fight other gods?"

"Not really? I mean… I 'ad beef with Manannán at some point."

"Who?"

"Sea god. I huh… I may have slept with 'is wife."

"You slept… with… a god's… wife…"

"Aye. Can't really remember it though. I know it 'appened but 'e used magic to make us forget. Emer wasn't 'appy with me."

"You don't say…"

"Things were different in me time!" he whines in defense. "T'was normal fer men at war to fuck around. It ain't no more in yer time, but in mine t'was like that. Doesn't mean I didn't love Emer. An' if she had wanted 'er own lover when I was awae, I wouldn't've minded."

 

There's a silence, and Sétanta glances at Archer. He seems deep in thoughts, like he's absorbing what Sétanta has just told him. 

 

"Do you still love Emer?"

 

The question surprises Sétanta. This isn't what he expected. But he supposes it's worth asking. Does he still love Emer? When he died, he was still madly in love with her. But over time, with an eternity spent in the Throne of Heroes, things changed. He cannot remember his time there, but the feelings linger. And he's spent a long time in the Throne. It's not far-fetched that his feelings would slip away, like an old memory. That, and he supposes dying changes a man. He can say with certainty that he still cares very much about Emer; he'd be ecstatic to see her again. But in love? No, this is too much. Fondness would be a better term.

 

"Not as me wife," he eventually says. "She's a good woman, and it would be nice to know what 'appened afta' me death, but that's it. She knew I was gonna die young anywae, an' she said she'd find someone else to love. Ye see what I mean?"

 

Archer nods, and it's only now that Sétanta realises that they're still holding hands. The whole conversation they've just had feels a thousand times more intimate now, and a blush creeps its way on his face. Paradoxically, he wants to both hold Archer's hand tighter and rip his own hand free. His skin is aflame where their hands are touching, and he doesn't know whether or not he loves the burn. He clears his throat on instinct, and Archer seems to be struck by lightning. He jerks his hand free from Sétanta's and takes a few steps to the side. Sétanta can't help but look at his face, and he's pleased to find it burning red. The sunset makes the colour brighter in some way; Sétanta finds that Archer looks beautiful, like this. 

 

He wants to grab the hand back and hold it some more, but he can see that Archer has reached his limit. More affection would make him run away. Instead, he plasters a bright grin on his face.

 

"Wanna spar, Puisín? To kill some time before we're summoned again?"

 

Archer seems surprised by the offer, eyebrow shooting up as he turns to face Sétanta. Eventually, though, he nods.

 

"Sure, why not. But you are aware I'm in control of the space around us, right?"

"Well, don't go droppin' them big arse cogs on me 'ead an' it'll be fine."

The bowman snorts at the idea. "Alright. How do we do this?"

"Gran'! 'and-to-'and."

 

Archer grumbles something, but he gets in position. Sétanta grins and sprints towards him. They exchange some basic blows, each trying to gauge the other's abilities and technique. Sétanta quickly determines that this isn't Archer's forte. He isn't bad, but it's clearly not how he prefers fighting. His physical strength isn't the best for a Heroic Spirit, barely half of Sétanta's. However, he makes up for it with impeccable reflexes. He only blocks if he can't dodge or deflect, and he targets specific spots. 

 

As for Sétanta, he knows his own technique is different and frankly not very good or elaborate. Although he's been taught by Fergus and Scáthach, his superior strength and incredible durability never made subtlety a requirement to win. Being able to punch or tear his way through most opponents has stuck with him. Still, if need be, he can be smart about his blows. He doesn't really need it against Archer, who's too slow to be a real threat, but it doesn't matter. He's having fun. Not as much as when he's risking his 'life' in a death match, like when he fought Ragnar, but he definitely enjoys the spar. 

 

So much so that, when he trips Archer and they roll to the ground until he can finally restrict Archer's movement, it takes Sétanta three seconds to realise their position. Archer already has, however, because he's blushing so much it disappears beneath his shirt. Sétanta feels a blush crawl up his own cheeks, and he finds himself frozen as they both pant. Their faces are close, close enough that Sétanta can feel Archer's ragged breathing on his skin. Their lips are barely inches apart, and the slightest movement would result in a kiss. Instinctively, Sétanta wets his lips, running his tongue over them. Archer's pupils blow wide at the sight, and he visibly swallows.

 

'I wanna kiss him,' Sétanta realises, dumbfounded by his own realisation. 'I wanna kiss 'im 'til 'e's a mess, 'til we're both outta breath.' But Archer suddenly turns away, eyes fixated on the many swords uphill.

 

"You won." His voice is hoarse, like he's just run a mile. "Can I get up?"

 

Sétanta all but scrambles away, heart hammering in his chest. Archer sits up, eyes strangely dazed and blush still there. What was this? He's… he wanted the kiss too. So why has he ended the moment like this? Sétanta doesn't understand. But he feels like asking would be pushing things too far. And, if Archer isn't interested, he's not sure he wants to hear it. The silence is uncomfortable, and it seems to stretch forever; it's impossible to say how long. Time is a strange thing in the reality marble, with its never ending sunset and its cogs. Unless he counts the second, he cannot tell how long has passed.

 

 

It's a glittering of mana that breaks the tension. Alaya is summoning them. Archer sighs and stands up. Sétanta does the same; wherever and whenever she sends them, it isn't going to be a nice place. As his body glitters away, Sétanta can't help but wonder. What will it be, this time? A wasteland? Another castle of horrors, with innocents to murder? A battlefield?

 

He materialises next to Archer, in a random street. All he can tell is that there's a lot of nasty mana, and it's the middle of the night. Information comes to his mind, and he hisses; it's uncomfortable. Fuyuki, 1994, during the Fourth Holy Grail. A corrupted grail has erupted, corrupting both the city and its inhabitants. Defeated Servants have returned as well to act as its protector. The goal is simple; destroy the Grail, kill the Servants. Sétanta looks around; although he does recognise the overall look of Fuyuki, the city looks abandoned and desolate. It's not a wasteland, sure, but it's not much better.

 

"Let's find a vantage point to figure out what we're dealing with," Archer says. "Corrupted Servants are a pain."

"Ye did shite like that before?"

"Once or twice. It was never a full on Holy Grail War, however. It will be trickier."

 

They settle on the roof of a mansion in the hopes of at least seeing something, but the city is eerily quiet. Shouldn't corrupted servants be rampaging in the streets? Shouldn't half of the buildings be destroyed? Sétanta has a hard time believing a corrupted Berserker would do anything beyond fuck shit up. He balances Gáe Bulg on his shoulders, a bit disappointed.

 

"Huh. Was expectin' more destruction frem corrupted Servants."

"Not all of them are corrupted."

"How do ye know?"

"The Fourth Holy Grail War is the one my father participated in, and the one just before ours."

"Aye, I got that."

"Meaning Gilgamesh was around as the Archer Class Servant. And, although I can't stand him, his massive ego has a use in this situation. He can't be corrupted."

"Ye're tellin' me Goldie is so fuckin' egocentric he can't be mind controlled? Even by the fuckin' Grail?"

"Yeah. He's probably the one keeping the rampaging Servants in check."

"Then why does Alaya need us? He could've obliterated the whole lot ov them, right?"

"Because he's probably unable to destroy the Grail for one reason or another. Or maybe he died."

"Against who?"

"Artoria, maybe. I don't know who the other participants are."

"That's fine we'll –"

 

Before Sétanta can finish his sentence, he feels something hurling towards them fast. In one swift movement, the spearman whirls around and deflects the projectile with Gáe Bulg. The sword is sent flying and falls to the ground, clattering, before glittering away. Sétanta narrows his eyes. He knows that type of attack. Looking up, he tightens his hold on Gáe Bulg.

 

The King of Heroes is standing on a lamppost in all his golden glory. Multiple gates open behind him as he prepares to launch another attack, and Sétanta gets ready to defend himself and Archer. Alaya's orders be damned, all he can think about is that bastard cruelly killing that young girl and Archer sacrificing himself to stop him. He wants to rip him apart, and his blood boils in his veins. He can feel his muscles swelling under his skin, and only Archer's voice snaps him out of the incoming ríastrad.

 

"Wait! King of Heroes, we've been sent to assist you!" the bowman takes a few steps forward. "Alaya sent us."

 

This makes the gates close, and Gilgamesh approaches, red eyes narrowed, snake-like pupils splitting them in half. Sétanta doesn't trust him but he lowers his spear nonetheless. He doesn't dismiss it though, because one wrong word and Goldie will try to kill them.

 

'Mana. He needs mana. Give him. Hunt the Servants. Kill them. Find the Grail. Destroy it. Mana. He needs mana. Give him. Hunt the Servants. Kill them. Find the Grail. Destroy it.'

 

"We get it, shut yer trap," he growls, jumping on the roof where Gilgamesh has stopped. If the King of Heroes heard anything, he doesn't react to it.

"So the World has sent you two mongrels to assist me?" His expression is just as pleasant as always, and light reflects on his earrings as he slightly moves his head to analyse them. "Has she gone daft over the years? I have no need of a broken sword and a rabid dog."

"Yes, you do. With Ea, you could end this whole thing in a blink, but you haven't."

The Gates of Babylon flare to life as Gilgamesh all but scream in rage. "You cur! Do you think I would use my most precious treasure on corrupted weaklings and taint it with their blood?"

"So ye're gonna squat this world 'til… what, ye change yer mind? Didn't know ye liked the place that much, Goldie."

 

Usually, he wouldn't say something like that to Gilgamesh when they need to win him over, but Sétanta can see it. The sweat running down the King of Heroes' forehead, the darkening circles under his eyes, the paleness of the skin that goes beyond the divine blood. Gilgamesh is exhausted. Sétanta is ready to bet his right hand that the ancient king has no Master and is staying in this world thanks to his own mana and force of will.

 

"Ye can't use it. Ea, I mean. Ye're runnin' outta mana. An' honestly, ye lasted a fuck load ov time, that's a hell ov a massive mana reserve ye got there."

 

Gilgamesh seems to be hesitating, pride and common sense battling each other. Eventually, the Gates close and the golden armour glitters away, replaced by casual clothes fitting the era.

 

"It is true that I do not have the means to efficiently replenish my mana. I assume you have been sent here to settle this issue?"

"That an' killin' the corrupted Servants once the Grail's destroyed."

Gilgamesh nods and gestures for them to follow him. "Come mongrels. I will show you to the last safe haven of this wretched city."

Notes:

Puisín means Kitten in Gaelic! It's pronounced "pushin"

 

Some of FGO stupid adventures that no one asked for:
• I pulled Saber Diarmuid and let me tell you the noises I made where not in the bible. Why is he wearing a crop top??? Once again, I relate to Gráine on a spiritual level.
• Obviously I maxed him at level 90 in like two weeks
• How come the mini bosses were harder to kill than Tiamat?
• Quetzalcoatl's angry sprite will haunt my nightmares
• Ereshkigal is so precious
• Caster!Gil and Ishtar need to do something about the tension between them, this was embarrassing to watch
• Cú Chulainn's "Death probability" worked on Quetzalcoatl and Enkidu, which is absolutely hilarious

Chapter 22: Trip down memory lane

Summary:

Archer breaks, but Sétanta is here to put him back together.

Alternatively: how bad can Archer day be?

Because of course it would be, the last 'safe haven' of Fuyuki is the Tohsaka mansion. With its ancient wards and the other spells woven in its very bricks, it probably withstood the initial corruption. The fact that it's still holding should be impossible considering the constant onslaught of malicious mana, but as they get closer, Archer recognises Gilgamesh's unique mana. Is he the one powering the massive bounded field in addition to fighting off the corrupted Servants? This display of power makes Helene's magecraft look like child's play in comparison. The theoretical gap between the King of Heroes and other Servants has always impressed Archer but seeing in person what he's actually capable of is almost discouraging. Some beings are just favoured by the universe, the world, gods, whatever.

 

"Why do ye keep that shite up all the time? Ye don't need it, do ye?" Cú Chulainn asks.

"Of course I don't require it, you half-wit mongrel. However, the humans who survived the first wave of corruption do."

Cú Chulainn makes a noise of disbelief and shock. "Ye're protectin' people? Ye, ov all people, are protectin' humans?"

 

A couple of golden portals flicker to life as Gilgamesh's snake-like pupils slit in anger.

 

"I am a King. Therefore, I require subjects. As they survived the mud, they proved to be superior to the rest and are thus worthy of serving under me."

“I give up on eva' tryin' to understand ye," Cú Chulainn deadpans. "An' close that shite before ye disappear. I ain't carryin' yer ass to a bed."

 

Surprisingly, Gilgamesh doesn't answer. Instead, he waves his hands and the Gates close. They finish their short walk to the front gates of the mansion, and Archer can feel the tingling of the powerful bounded field on his skin. It's simple in the way it's constructed, but as long as Gilgamesh has mana, it will hold. Speaking of him, Archer glances at the King of Heroes. Simply opening two gates has clearly taken a toll on him, because his skin looks even paler than before. They need to give him mana quickly, or both he and the bounded field will vanish.

 

"The humans are asleep. Make sure you don't wake them, I have no patience for their incessant squabbling and obnoxious conversations," Gilgamesh announces when they enter.

Cú Chulainn rolls his eyes. "Aye, aye, yer majesty. How do ye wanna do that, by the wae? I personally don't really give a shite."

Gilgamesh studies them for a second. "Neither of you are worthy of sharing a bed with me, but it will be the fastest and most efficient way."

 

Archer wants to vomit. Can't they just donate blood? Next to him, Cú Chulainn is frozen, not saying a word either. Or, if he does, Archer cannot hear him. All he hears are Alaya's orders. Give Gilgamesh mana. The method is of little importance to her, and it wouldn't be the first time he is used like this. He's never really minded; it's just a mana transfer. It's just sex. So why does it make him want to puke this time? Why does it bother him so much? Why does he feel like washing his skin with acid at the mere thought of Gilgamesh – or anyone else – touching him? Before he can understand his revulsion, Cú Chulainn steps forward, hands in the pockets of his pants. Somewhere in the far recess of his mind, Archer thinks he didn't even know that thing had pockets. Isn't it too tight?

 

"That's easily the worst wae I've been 'it on," he jokes with an easy going smile. "Lead the wae, Goldie, and let's get this ova’ with."

"Mhm. I guess a demi-god, even a barely civilised one, is better than a nameless sword. There are empty bedrooms you may use if you so wish, and a library on this floor," he tells Archer before going up the stairs.

 

Cú Chulainn sighs and turns to face Archer. His eyes hold something that Archer doesn't understand, something sad and yet as warm as his hugs.

 

"Ye'll be fine on yer own Puisín?"

"Y-yeah, I will…" he says, and his voice is weirdly hoarse. Why?

"Good… I'll, huh, I'll be back soon."

 

He scratches his neck awkwardly, moves from one foot to another. Their eyes meet, and Archer's breath hitches. Cú Chulainn takes a step closer and leans towards him. Archer does the same, attracted like a magnet to metal, like a moth to a bright flame. Their foreheads meet gently, then their noses. A tilt of the head would mean a kiss. Archer's mind is both blank and running through every possible outcome at the time. A hand cups his cheek, and his eyes close Instinctively as he leans into the touch. He wishes the moment would last forever.

 

"Mongrel! Do not make me wait, I have other businesses to attend to."

 

They jerk back, and Archer feels his cheeks burn. Cú Chulainn's face is equally red, and he looks away, adorably awkward.

 

"Huh… I gotta… I gotta go. I'll be back soon, aye?" the Ulsterman says before almost fleeing up the stairs.

 

Archer stands there and watches Cú Chulainn disappear upstairs. He feels numb, like he's floating outside of his own body. He's cold, but it's different from Alaya's embrace. It's like the sun has set abruptly, like it's been swallowed by an unforgiving moonless night. He remains where he stands for what seems to be both eons and merely a few seconds. His blood is hammering against his temples, his heart is thundering in his chest and he's deaf to the world around him. Until he hears a voice. A voice he knows. A voice he's known for as long as he can remember, a voice he's never forgotten, no matter what Alaya did.

 

"Oh! Good evening. You must be one the person Lord Gilgamesh sensed!"

 

Archer slowly turns around, eyes widened in absolute shock and dread. There is a woman in the kitchen doorway, with bright red hair and grey eyes. She has a kind and welcoming smile, although she sports a couple of bruises, courtesy of the apocalypse outside. But Archer can't even begin to care. Everything starts falling apart in his head, crumbling like a house of cards. She can't be here. She can't be here. She can't be here. She can't be here. She can't be here. She can't be here. She can't be here. She can't be here. She can't be here. She can't be here. She can't be here. She can't be here. She can't be here. She's dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.

 

She's alive.

 

It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl.It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl.It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. It'S nOt ReAl. 

 

It's real.

 

HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me, HeLp Me.

 

She can't help him.

 

WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY wHy WhY.

 

He'S bReAkInG.

 

He runs away. His feet take him to the library he spent hours in when Rin was asleep. He stumbles in the room like a drunken man and clings to its familiarity like a lost sailor to a wooden plank. The many books are organised as he remembers, but his vision is blurry and his brain unfocused. He collapses on an armchair, the rope tightens around his neck, hands claw at his face, his scalp, his neck. He's babbling something incomprehensible, he doesn't know what, doesn't know why, how, where or when. Everything hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts. He hears the screams of distress and the collapse of buildings. He smells the burnt corpses and the mud. He tastes his own blood and the ashes of his parents' cadavers on his tongue. He chokes on his sobs.

 

MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp, MaKe It StOp.

 

His chest heaves, his stomach twists, his head spins. He feels terribly small, trapped in his own body, in his own head. All alone and lost and with no one to help him and protect him. Where is Cú Chulainn? He said he would help Archer. Where is he? Has he left too? Has he realised that Archer is too broken and not worth his time? No, no, no, he promised! He said Archer wouldn't be alone anymore. But he is, so Cú Chulainn must have left him, and it hurts so much, like his chest is being pried open and his heart ripped out while it's still beating.

 

It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh, It'S tOo MuCh.

 

Around him, the world is silent. It's cold, it's dark, he's all alone. Just like he deserves. And yet, Archer misses the sun, his sun. Cú Chulainn. He wants him back, he wants to hide from Alaya's cold embrace in his arms, he wants to follow him everywhere, he wants to crawl in his core and never leave so that no one can hurt him ever again. Archer sobs and pulls his hair harder as punishment for his own selfishness. He's tainting Cú Chulainn's light enough at it is, he's a dead weight, he's –

 

Someone grabs him and he's pulled into a tight embrace. Archer fights back for three seconds before the fog in his brain lifts enough for him to recognise these arms, this warmth. Cú Chulainn is here, holding him tightly and whispering sweet nothings as he kisses his hair. Archer feels like he's breathing for the first time in years.

 

"Shh, shh, ye're safe Puisín, it's okae, I'm 'ere, ye're safe… no one's gonna hurt'cha, I'll keep ye safe…"

 

The words only make Archer cry harder and he desperately clings to Cú Chulainn. He tries to articulate something – anything, really –, but his voice fails him, and he can only croak out a few meaningless sounds.

 

"It 'urts, bein' back 'ere, I know… but I'm 'ere, I ain't goin' nowhere, ye're not alone no more…"

 

Cú Chulainn carefully lifts him up in his arms, and Archer clings to him like an infant clings to their mother, sobbing in his neck and digging his nails in strong shoulders.

 

"Let's find a bed an' get some rest, aye Puisín?" the spearman gently says.

 

Archer doesn't really know how long it takes Cú Chulainn to bring them to a bedroom, nor does he have any idea of where they are in the mansion. All he can say is that he's laid down in a bed. When Cú Chulainn makes a movement to stand, panic seizes Archer and he painfully gasps two words as he digs his fingers in Cú Chulainn's arms.

 

"No! S-stay…!"

 

Warm hands cup his wet cheeks, and he looks up to see Cú Chulainn's sad, sad smile.

 

"I ain't goin' nowhere. Just gettin' on the otha' side ov the bed. Okae, Puisín?" Archer reluctantly nods, and his grip on Cú Chulainn eases. "Why don't cha take ov that shirt and those boots ov yers? It'll be comfia'."

 

Wordlessly, Archer complies. Because he cannot focus enough to dismiss the garments, he removes them like a human. The shirt almost rips as he takes it off, but he doesn't care. All he wants is to hide back in Cú Chulainn's arms, fall asleep and never wake up. He hurries back into the offered embrace, and the scorching heat of the demi-god’s skin feels like salvation. The hand caressing his hair are blessings, and the whispered comfort the grace of a god.

 

"Did somethin' 'appen? Did ye see the little lady or somethin'?"

 

Archer wants to ask who the little lady is, but his brain is too fuzzy. He can only think about the corpse that still lives, down in the kitchen. The taste of ashes hasn't left his mouth, and he can still hear the cries of the dying. A hand cups his cheek and makes him look at shining rubies. Archer wants to drown in them so much he barely notices that Cú Chulainn's skin glows softly, like a star in the night sky. He's beautiful, so beautiful. Archer wishes the hero would swallow him whole, like a black hole does to anything in its path. He'd be more than happy with such a fate. Swallowed by Cú Chulainn, basking is his radiance forever. It would be heaven.

 

"Puisín, can ye 'ear me? Did ye see somethin'?" When Archer struggles to form words after a longer struggle to return to reality, Cú Chulainn encourages him with a kiss on the forehead. "It's okae, ye can tell me."

Articulating is painful, like he's swallowing glass shards, but Archer finally forms a word. "M-m-m-mum…"

"Mum?" Understanding flashes through Cú Chulainn's eyes. "I'm sorry, Puisín. It's gonna be okae."

 

He hugs Archer tighter against him, and the bowman can feel a kiss on top of his head. 

 

"Do ye wanna tell me 'bout 'er?"

 

Yes. No. He doesn't know. He can't talk. His tongue is heavy, his brain still foggy. Perhaps writing would work? Carefully, Archer focuses and traces a few kanji on Cú Chulainn's chest.

 

"A-ya-ka?" Archer nods against him. "That's a nice name. She was a cook too?"

 

Archer freezes. He doesn't know. Or, rather, he can't remember. He can't think of a single thing his mother enjoyed, a single hobby of hers. He doesn't even remember how old she was when she died. He searches, digs through his fragmented memories, all mixed together, days indistinguishable from one another, but nothing comes. His breath hitches, his heartbeat picks up. Why can't he remember anything else? Why, why, why –

 

"Shhh… it's okae."

 

Cú Chulainn's voice snaps him out of the incoming spiral, and he sighs in relief, hiding once more in the warm chest as long fingers softly play with his hair. Archer wants to thank him. No, he needs to.

 

"C-Cú Chu-Chulainn…"

"Sétanta, Archa'. Me name's Sétanta…" the demi-god's gently says.

"S-Sé-tan-ta…" he stutters.

"Mhm?"

"Th-thank… you…"

"Any day, any time, Puisín," he croons.

 

Then, after a few seconds of blissful silence, Sétanta begins humming a song in Gaelic that Archer has never heard.

 

"Dacw 'nghariad i lawr yn y berllan,

Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal

O na bawn i yno fy hunan,

Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal… "

 

Slowly but surely, Archer finds himself lulled to sleep by the lullaby – or perhaps it's a ballad, he cannot say. It's not like he wants to be awake anyway. He doesn't want to be here, to be now. This year, this month, this day, he hates them. Sleep is better, it's safe and painless, especially when he's in Sétanta's arms and the sun sings for him.

Notes:

I promise they will kiss soon :') Third time's the charm as they say!!!

And yes Gilgamesh is a dick, but he's just trying to be efficient, not cruel. Considering the situation they're in, he can't exactly afford to be considerate about everyone's feelings. And it's not like he's into Sétanta or Archer either lol.

I hope you ""liked"" Archer's breakdown and the way I wrote it!!! I wanted to convey how stuck he gets when he spirals, how he brain becomes completely unable to form coherent thoughts and just goes in circle. The only ""good"" side of this meltdown is that he didn't think about relying on Alaya's ""love"" to feel better, instead clinging to Sétanta. I'm not sure I portrayed it well???? Please tell me (>⁠﹏<)

Sétanta sings "Dacw 'Nghariad" ("there is my sweetheart), specifically Eve Goodman version. Did the song exist when he was alive? No idea and, to be honest, probably not. But it's beautiful love song so let's say it did!

Here's the translation of the part he sings in the chapter:

"There is my sweetheart down in the orchard,
Oh how I wish I were there myself,
There is the house and there is the barn;
There is the door of the cow house open."

And here is a link to the full song in Gaelic and English: https://lyricstranslate.com/en/dacw-nghariad-there-my-sweetheart.html

Chapter 23: Too kind for his own good

Summary:

The morning after.

Music recommendation: Compass by Sail North

Notes:

This chapter was brought to you by Compass, by Sail North. It's also the inspiration for the fic's name and overall existence

The dream begins in a cell, and it takes Sétanta a few seconds to understand that this is a memory. Not his, but Archer's. The bowman is sitting on the hard bed of the small room, busying himself with some knick-knack he must have found. He's covered in dust and, more importantly, bruises of all shapes and sizes. It makes Sétanta's blood boil and he instinctively reaches out, only for his hand to go through Archer. Of course. He cannot interact with the scene, it's just a memory. Some brown water dripping on the dirty ground counts the seconds that pass, and Sétanta can only watch as Archer repeatedly fiddles with his thingy.

 

One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three… over and over and over again. 

 

Sétanta uses the opportunity to observe Archer, back when he was Emiya, a living person who breathed and lived. He's identical as his Heroic Spirit self, but so different at the same time. His skin carries the marks of battle and everyday life, his eyes are slightly watery because of the dusty air, his hands slightly shake because of tiredness. He wrinkles his nose from time to time, because of a smell or another. Sometimes, he rolls and massages his shoulders or neck because he spent too much time in this or that position, and he wipes his face regularly. If his hand touches a bruise, he slightly flinches and scowls a bit, brows furrowing. It's adorable.

 

Sétanta tries a few times to brush his hand on the tanned, dusty skin, but he fails each time. In the end, he sits down, crossing his legs and losing himself in the contemplation of Archer. Eventually – and much to Sétanta's surprise – Archer starts singing to himself in a low tone.

 

"Ran out the door some years ago

Slingin' words at my old man

Like thistles and stones

Said, 'No need to worry,

I'll never come home'

My mum cryin', 'Don't go!'

As I raced down that road

 

Straight through 'til sun fell

I kept up the pace

'Til darkness embraced me

And I lost my way

Weary from travel

And wet from the rain

I stopped at a tavern

In Broken-Mast Bay

 

Where a rough-cut man

Said, 'What's your business, lad?'

'I can't find my way back home

It's cold, it's dark, I'm all alone.'

He said, 'My boy,

You're not lost yet

Just follow the compass

That beats in your chest.'"

 

Sétanta feels a single tear rolling down his cheek. This song is lonely, terribly lonely. And it matches Archer so horribly well, making it all the more heartbreaking. Sétanta wants to reach out, hug the man facing him, end the crushing loneliness he feels as if it was his own. But he can't. He can only listen and watch. And it's not fucking fair.

 

Then, there is noise outside the cell. Archer looks up, sharp eyes squinting to distinguish the newcomer in the dark corridor. Sétanta does the same; it's a man with tanned skin, dark hair and green eyes. He wears a uniform, and a firearm is strapped to his side. A name comes to Sétanta's mind – David –, alongside peaceful acceptance.

 

"Hello David. Is it today?"

"Shut your trap, you fucking traitor!" David bellows, banging his fist on the bars. "You're going to get exactly what you deserve, Emiya, and I'll be cheering."

 

Archer doesn't say anything. There's not an ounce of anger or resentment in him; just sadness that his friend has been fooled and will forever be in danger. Sétanta doesn't understand; why isn't he fighting back? Even when he was alive, Archer was a competent magus – or at least an unconventional one. Getting out of this place and making a run for it is firmly within the realm of possibilities. So why? Why doesn't he resist as they drag him outside, shackle him like he's some criminal? 

 

But no answer comes. Just more of that calm acceptance and compassion for his fool of a friend. Sétanta follows, moved by the will of the memory. He's forced to watch, doomed to live the scene. He feels the chains as if he was the one being shackled, the dig of the steel as it cuts through Archer's skin, the harshness of the dry wind as they go outside. Then, his eyes fall on what awaits Archer.

 

Gallows.

 

Fucking. Gallows. They're going to hang him. THEY'RE GOING TO HANG ARCHER. Sétanta roars and jumps forward, instinctively trying to rip the chains off Archer. But he once again goes right through the white-haired magus. His heart breaks. He cannot do anything but watch. Sétanta feels like throwing up, his knees buckle and fail him. He falls to the ground, eyes widened in horror as he remembers Archer's obsession with his neck when he's having an episode. His panicked babbling back in Helene's castle about a rope… it wasn't just a nightmare. Ar cher had been remembering the feeling of choking to death, his body dangling from a rope as people cheered for his death.

 

Why isn't he angry? Why isn't he fighting back? Why is he so calm? Why doesn't he resent them? Why, why, why? Sétanta looks around, searches for someone, something who will intervene and save him. But, deep down, he knows this is where Archer's life ends. Tears start flowing down Sétanta's cheeks as Archer climbs up the stairs to the gallows, allowing the executioner to put the rope around his neck.

 

"Any last words?" David asks harshly.

"No, not particularly."

 

David makes a gesture, and the hangsman pulls a lever. The wooden platform under Archer's feet opens, and he falls down. Sétanta feels the coarse rope snap around his neck and he instinctively reaches up to grab it. But there's nothing to hold on and he chokes, unable to breathe. His lungs burn from the lack of air, and he can feel Archer's heart rate pick up in an attempt to stay alive. His throat is afire because of the coarse rope, but it's almost trivial compared to what he's experiencing. It's nothing like his own death, like bleeding out.  This is unforgivingly slow and painful; it's torture. It lasts and lasts and lasts; he chokes, and chokes, and chokes. The pressure of the rope is unforgiving, the fire in his lungs excruciating. Sétanta has one hand on his neck as he gasps for air, and the other digs in the ground in search of respite.

 

The  ordeal is agonising, and there are tears running down his cheeks as he slowly suffocates.

 

And yet, there's no anger, no resentment coming from Archer. Just the reflexes of a living being trying to survive, and nothing else. Slowly, everything fades to black. The cheering of the crowd grows distant, his vision goes blurry, the pain seems far away. He's losing consciousness, he's dying.

 

Sétanta sits up quickly, covered in sweat and panting. He can still feel the rope around his neck, the lack of air, the burn in his lungs and muscles. Instinctively, he reaches up to massage his own neck, expecting to find it bruised and painful. Of course, the skin is smooth, without even a hint of soreness. A movement near him catches his attention, and Sétanta looks down; Archer is sleeping soundly, curled up like a cat. His brows furrow slightly in a way Sétanta would usually find adorable. But at the moment, it drags a sob out of his chest. Instinctively, maybe because he couldn't do so in the memory, Sétanta takes Archer tightly against his chest, shaking. It wakes the bowman, who grumbles something, half-asleep, but he eventually returns the hug.

 

"S-Sétanta…? Is everything okay?"

"T-they hanged you," Sétanta articulates, and he feels Archer go stiff against his chest.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," he whispers.

Sétanta jerks back and takes Archer's face in his hands, tears filling his eyes. Grey eyes widen slightly in surprise, but there is no resistance. "Don't ye fuckin' apologise!" he exclaims firmly. "Ye did nothin' wrong! Those fuckin' bastards should've been on them knees beggin' fer forgiveness!"

"I'm not mad at them. I accomplished what I wanted, and that's all that ever mattered."

 

Sétanta knows. He bloody knows, and he fucking hates it. Because Archer is kind and gentle, far too much for his own good, and so stupidly selfless he'd probably doom himself all over again to save the world. Sétanta loves and hates this side of him at the same time. Loves because how could he not cherish someone so genuinely kind? But fuck, Archer needs to learn he can be selfish sometimes, or at the very least have some basic sense of self-preservation.

 

"I don't give a shite," he proclaims bluntly. "I want'cha to be selfish now. No more… no more dyin' fer the greater good or some bullshit like tha'. I'll show ye how."

Archer looks surprised by his words, and he even chuckles a bit. "Alright, oh selfish one who died to protect his country. Enlighten me."

 

Sétanta chuckles as well, and bumps his forehead against Archer's. He can see that the bowman isn't in the mood to be reminded further of his life, so he lets it go. It doesn't mean the shared tenderness, the closeness, has to go.

 

"T'was different!" Then, because he doesn't want to mention Archer's death ever again, he decides to switch the subject. "Didja know the Morrígan showed up when I died? Landed on me shoulder an' all tha'."

Archer chuckles, slightly leaning away. Sétanta lets him go. They're still close, but Archer's face isn't in his hands anymore. "Really? So the part about nobody coming near your body for three days is true?"

"Well, it did take me three day to bite the dust, but I got no idea what 'appened when I died. Last thin' I remember is 'er landin', and me dyin' right afta'. Fuckin' stalka', yikes."

"As far as a god loving a mortal goes, she sounds pretty mild. Zeus was… huh… not as receptive as her to rejection."

"Aye, I've 'eard some stories. Man was weird. Even Ferdiad was betta' at gettin' 'ints, and that man wouldn't understand subtlety if it slapped 'im in the face with a hamma'. Watchin' 'im gettin' ‘it on was wild."

"Wasn't he your lover?" Archer asks with his adorable confused half-frown.

"Fer a while," Sétanta shrugs. "Then I got married, and then, well… life wasn't on our side anyway."

 

Archer nods. He's probably familiar with this part of Sétanta's story. For some reason, Sétanta still finds himself rambling about it.

 

"I didn't wanna kill 'im. It pissed me off so much, when 'im and Fergus left Ulster for Connacht. I threatened to beat'em up and lock them so they wouldn't leave. But in the end, I didn't do it, I let them leave cuz they were free men." He sighs and close his eyes, remembers Ferdiad's green orbs and freckles. When he opens his eyes again, he's met by concerned honeyed silver. "Then I 'ad to fight them, fer Ulster. I didn't 'ave to kill Fergus, but I killed Ferdiad. Took me three days and three nights. In the end, I was so mad, I didn't even recognise 'im no more. 'E wasn't me Ferdiad no more, just some guy I 'ad to kill. When I woke up, 'e was dead and there was blood everywhere. Buried 'im meself, cuz it felt faer."

"Why didn't you leave Ulster? I know you and Medb hated each other but…"

 

'But you would have been with them. Did you hate her more than you loved them?' is left unsaid.

 

"Conchobar was me uncle, me Ma's brotha'. No way I'd eva' betray 'er! I know he wasn't the best guy eva', but 'e was family. And 'e was neva' scared ov me."

"Scared? Why? Fergus and Ferdiad… they were afraid of you?"

There is some indignation in Archer's voice, and Sétanta smiles softly. "Aye and nah. It's just… well… ye know, us demi-gods aren't always perfect blends. Sometimes ye're more man than god, and sometimes it's the opposite. I'm the opposite. And the Tuatha Dé, me gods, they don't look like people, ye know?"

"Mhm, sure, but you look pretty human. I mean, save for the eyes and the hair colour."

 

Sétanta hesitates for a second. Can he show Archer what he truly looks like? The question sounds ridiculous as soon as it's asked. Of course he can. He trusts Archer with everything he has.

 

"I huh… me Ma. She taught me 'ow to look human. I ain't used to walk around without me glamour, to be faer."

"Oh," comes the reply. "What do you really look like, then?"

 

Sétanta brings his hands to his face, runs them from forehead to chin. Taking off a glamour doesn't require anything but the slightest amount of will, but he much prefers using gestures when it comes to magecraft. The glamour slowly disappears, and he can feel his other eyes open. He has to blink a few times to get used to them; eight more. Two pairs on his forehead, two on his cheeks. They're smaller than his main pair, but they're still here. As for his mouth, it opens more now; all the way to his ears, if he wants to. The lips don't go all the way; the mouth isn't naturally open that much, but his cheeks can split easily. His tongue is more snake-like now, and his small fangs have become much sharper. His nails too are longer and sharper, and they've turned black. Same for the sclera of his ten eyes, which is as black as ink. His skin glows slightly, his tears are pointed, his muscles swell under his skin, bulging in some places, especially his biceps.

 

It takes Sétanta three seconds to look at Archer and his reaction. He's looking at the demi-god with slightly wide eyes, but there's no repulsion, just fascination. And maybe something more…? But, before Sétanta can dwell on it, Archer raises a hand to touch Sétanta's face. The demi-god leans in the touch when Archer stops a few centimetres away, nuzzling the warm hand. He hears Archer's breath hitch, and looks at the bowman. He seems entranced, carefully running a thumb underneath Sétanta's lowest eye. His other hand comes up as well, cradling the other side of his face. Silver eyes meet rubies, and Sétanta forgets how to speak.

 

"I'd never be afraid of you," Archer whispers, as if speaking louder would break the moment, and maybe it would. "They were stupid for being scared."

Sétanta can't help the sappy smile that comes on his face. "Thanks, Puisín," he says in the same tone. "Glad to know I'm still as dashin' as always," he adds with a wink – so half of his eyes.

Archer chuckles. "Yeah, you're dashing alright." He pauses for a few seconds. "It must have hurt. When they got afraid of you, I mean."

"It did. But they got used to it."

"Still. It's awful. What does it matter, that you have more eyes?"

"It's not just eyes," Sétanta replies. He opens his mouth wide, reveals the fangs and snakes out his almost animalistic tongue, long enough to wrap around a grown man's wrist – no matter how much he wants to, he doesn't wrap it around Archer's wrist. Maybe another day. When he's done showing just how inhuman his mouth is, he closes it and swallows back his tongue. "It's all that." He pauses. “Mostly. The claws don't help either."

 

The way Archer looks at him makes Sétanta melt, and he never wants it to end.

 

"I think it suits you just fine," he finally says.

 

Then, slowly, the thumb that was under his lowest eye comes to his lips, caressing them. Sétanta's many eyes close instinctively, and he leans even more into the touch. He hears Archer inhale sharply; it's a nice sound. Lifting a hand and covering Archer's own, Sétanta places a chaste kiss, barely more than a peck, on the offered palm. Because Archer doesn't fight back, he does it again. Once, twice, thrice. His skin tastes like honey, and it's hard to stop kissing it. Sétanta feels like he could devour Archer and it wouldn't be enough.

 

His face is gently lifted up, and the demi-god opens his eyes. Archer is staring at him with almost dazed eyes and, when he licks his lips – probably out of nervousness – Sétanta cannot stop himself. Taking Archer's face in his and running his fingers through the silky white hair, he locks their lips together.

 

And oh gods above. He tastes like love itself, like honey and many other spices Sétanta doesn't know, like peace and kindness. His lips are just as soft as him, and he returns the kiss gently, oh so gently. Arms wrap around him, with one hand on the small of his back and the other losing itself in blue hair. Strangely, the hunger and desire Sétanta expected don't come. The kiss, albeit intense, doesn't turn into a frenzied, heated moment of passion. It stays soft, almost chaste.

 

When they part to catch their breath, Sétanta closes the eyes on his forehead and gently puts it against Archer's. The bowman's cheeks are almost as red as his coat, and he looks adorably embarrassed. He's very obviously trying to make himself smaller than he truly is, and it's so cute that Sétanta can't help but plant another chaste kiss on his lips. This time, Archer jerks back to hide his face in his hands, mumbling a whole lot of nothing. Sétanta smiles wildly, cheeks splitting 

 

"What's wrong Puisín? Ye didn't like it?"

Archer's mumbles are almost incomprehensible as he hides in his hands. "I d-d-did…"

 

Sétanta chuckles and gently takes his lover's – is it the correct term? it feels like it – hands in his. Archer glances at him, trying but failing to glare at him.

 

"Don't hide, Puisín. Makes me wanna kiss ye more, an' I already don't need no motivation."

 

Conflicted emotions and feelings flash in Archer's eyes. His mouth opens and closes, confusion evident as he furrows his brow. Sétanta leans forward and kisses the tanned forehead.

 

"Stop thinkin' too hard, Puisín."

“How can't I…? You, you said I'm not selfish, but I am. I want to keep you with me forever, even if that means we're never free… what is it, if not selfishness?"

"Love, I'd sae."

Notes:

THEY KISSED!!!!

Screaming and giggling at my own fic, yes please. I hope the romance felt natural enough, although the mutual obsession will have a more in-depths explanation (⁠◡⁠ ⁠ω⁠ ⁠◡⁠)

Archer sings part of "Compass" by Sail North, hence why I'm encouraging everyone to listen to it (also because this man deserves so much love, he's amazing)

Of course, after such a sweet chapter, you know more angst is coming (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Chapter 24: Fuyuki, 1994

Summary:

Splitting up is never a good idea.

Gilgamesh insists they meet in his former master's office. The King of Heroes takes the most important seat, obviously, and Archer doesn't even bother sitting. He wants to get as much information as possible and do his job as quickly as possible. He doesn't want to stay in an era where his mother – or another version of his mother – is alive. It's too painful, too confusing to handle. He much prefers running away from it and forgetting it ever happened. If he has to focus on something that happened in the last twenty-four hours, it would be kissing Sétanta – but he doesn't want to. Or at least, not now . They have a world to save. Relationship issues will have to wait.

 

"The Rider is Iskandar, a man who styles himself King of Conquerors," Gilgamesh declares, almost startling Archer. "Saber is King Arthur, but I don't know the names of the other Servants."

"Seriously?"

"Worms don't matter, why would their names be of any importance?"

"To kill'em ye fuckin' dumbass. Not everyone can nuke their opponents with every Noble Phantasm eva'!" Sétanta snaps.

"Have care how you speak, dog!" Gilgamesh exclaims, standing up, his armour appearing.

 

Archer pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes deeply as the two bicker. Of course they'd fight. Both of them are proud to a fault. 

 

"Enough, both of you. This isn't a dick measuring contest. Gilgamesh, what do you know of the other Servants? Maybe we can narrow things down."

 

The King of Heroes sits back, glaring at Sétanta whose lips curl back in a silent snarl.

 

"Lancer guards the Grail, as he is the most adept at combat in close space. Berserker runs amok from time to time, but he mostly attacks the other Servants he runs into so he's not much of an issue. Caster is –" Gilgamesh grimaces. "– disgusting. His main goal seems to be torturing anything unlucky enough to be alive. Rider patrols the skies, and Saber guards the ground. Assassin is inconsequential. He seems able to multiply, but his many bodies are weak."

Archer nods. "Do you know anything specific about them?"

"Merely that Lancer must be Irish, as he has the same accent as you, hound," he tells Sétanta.

"A lad frem 'ome? Nice! I'll take care ov'im meself then,” he grins. "Ye know som'thin' 'bout 'im?"

Gilgamesh props his face against his fist. "He wields two spears. One golden and one red. He also bears a cursed mole underneath his eye, but that is all I bothered to remember. He's quite unremarkable otherwise."

"It's Diarmuid Ua Duibhne," Archer says. "One spear causes wounds that never heal, and the other nullifies magic."

Sétanta makes a noise in his throat that sounds like a mix between a rumble and a purr. "Ye know 'im?"

"I ran into him in a couple of Holy Grail Wars."

 

He keeps to himself that, at least as a Lancer, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne is 'easily' corrupted and that he had to put him down several times in one timeline or another. The knight of the Fianna is tormented by regrets and buries the feelings he won't acknowledge. If he was more honest with himself, maybe he would be more resistant to mental corruption. Not that Archer really cares about the knight's privacy or state of mind – he just feels like Gilgamesh would make fun of him, which would annoy Sétanta, and they would go back to bickering.

 

"Mhm. What's his curse, again?"

"Women who see his mole fall in love with him."

"Oh right – I remember 'im now. Lad got fuck'd ova' by 'is lord and all that shite."

 

It is the understatement of the century. Diarmuid Ua Duibhne's life is an amalgamation of terrible luck if Archer has ever seen one. And Alaya knows how many lives he's witnessed.

 

“Should you not be more interested in your fellow Irish heroes, cur?”

"'E lived 'undreds of years afta' me,” Sétanta snorted. "'Ow the fuck would I know anythin' 'bout 'im?"

"It doesn't matter," Archer cuts in. "We need to focus on what's important at the moment. Sétanta, you deal with Diarmuid. Gilgamesh takes Arto – King Arthur. I will deal with Iskandar. Then, it depends on who we run into."

 

Gilgamesh merely hums his agreement, but Archer can see the King of Heroes is considering something else. However, he doesn't push him, less the King of Uruk decides to throw a temper tantrum. As much as he hates Gilgamesh, he can put his pride aside to work with him when the fate of the world is in the balance but he would much rather limit the number of outbursts. Eventually, the golden king sighs.

 

"We should leave Berserker for the end. For a rabid dog, his abilities are more annoying than they should."

"How come?"

"Anything he grabs becomes his Noble Phantasm."

 

Archer frowns slightly; this is the perfect counter to Gilgamesh and, in a way, him. An endless supply of weapons paired with a Berserker’s Madness Enhancement is going to be a lot of trouble. Funnily enough, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne's cursed spear would work perfectly against him. Archer glances at Sétanta; if he can trace it, maybe his… ally – friend? lover? Yeah, no he's not touching that mess right now – can use it properly and deal with Berserker.

 

"I may have an idea. Sétanta, if I project a spear, can you use it?'

"Sure! Lemme try it first, though."

Archer nods. "We'll do that once we've dealt with our three main problems. Saber, Lancer, and Rider. Gilgamesh, you've already killed the Corrupted Servant several times, haven't you? How long until they regenerate?"

The King of Heroes hums in thought. "Four hours each, at most. They were never all dead at the same time."

"Did they all turn at the same time?"

"Of course not you dimwitted fool. Naturally, the ones who were already dead were the first to be brought back. Lancer and Assassin killed King Arthur in a surprise attack while she protected civilians. Once corrupted, she made quick work of Rider and Berserker, and Caster was killed by my own hands."

"Ye killed Casta'?! Nah, neva' mind, I ain't surprised."

Gilgamesh doesn't even acknowledge Sétanta's outburst. "Containing them was easy until Tokiomi died; relying on my own mana is quite exhausting after some time."

 

Archer nods. He feels Alaya's orders thrumming under his skin. 'Mana, give him mana.' She's relentless, even more than usual. The situation must really displease her to insist like this, and, much to his disgust, Archer finds himself disliking that she's unhappy. The desire to please and obey her, to make her happy and proud of him, to be her favourite, her hero, hasn't gone away despite Sétanta's presence. It is undeniably more faint now, but it's still here. Archer knows it's wrong, a twisted love that comes from decades or centuries of abuse and manipulation, so he tries to focus on Sétanta but it's not exactly easy. Mechanically, with a part of him still longing for cold arms embracing him, Archer traces a knife and cuts his wrist before offering it to the King of Heroes.

 

"Here."

 

In lieu of a response, Gilgamesh waves his hand and brings out a golden cup from one of his many Gates. Archer puts his wrist above the cup, and it slowly fills as his blood flows down. He can feel Sétanta's eyes on him, but he refuses to look at him; he doesn't know what he will find in them and it scares him. Ignorance is bliss, as many say. When Alaya deems he's given enough blood, she heals his cut and Archer shivers uncomfortably as her mana snakes under his skin. Gilgamesh drinks the cup in one go before standing up.

 

"Abhorrent taste, as expected. Alas, that will have to do. Let us go, mongrels, there is no need to waste any more of my time."

 

Thankfully, Ayaka is nowhere to be seen when they exit the building. Archer isn't sure he would be able to handle running into her again. Ayaka isn't his mother, she's another Shirō Emiya's one, so it's better to never meet again. Her existence only digs up memories of a forgotten mother, reopens old wounds he thought had properly healed a long time ago. And he's not ready to re-examine them. He'd rather forget them again, let them fester in the far recess of his mind.

The second they step outside of Gilgamesh's bounded field, the corruption in the air assaults their skin like dry wind. It irritates his eyes a little bit, but nothing Archer doesn't quickly gets used to. He's seen places much more corrupted than this one; desecrated temples with victims insulted even in death, their heads on spikes and their organs on display, ruined cities with children blown apart by bombs, the rancid smell of suffering and sulfur in the air, ravaged towns destroyed by this or that rampaging Servant. And each time, he's been the one sent to clean up the mess. Fuyuki isn't much different; or it is in the sense that there is hope for the last few survivors.

 

From the corner of his eyes, Archer sees Sétanta shiver and frown after absentmindedly sniffing the air. With his superior senses, the smell is probably akin to rotten eggs or something of the sort. Feeling his eyes on him, Sétanta turns his eyes towards him and gives him a sly smile.

 

"Let's settle this mess; I tire of this world," Gilgamesh proclaims. 

 

Without another word, the Archer jumps on a roof and takes off in a series of agile movements. Archer can't help but think that, if he wasn't such a dick, Gilgamesh would be a work of art to look at. Sadly, his personality ruins everything.

 

"He's right. Let's move."

"Aye. But before that…" Sétanta takes Archer's chin in his hand and gives him a chaste kiss. "There we go!" he says with a grin.

"W-w-what was that!" Archer sputters, face burning and raising his arms in half-assed attempt at keeping Sétanta at bay.

"Just a wee kiss! To wish ye luck."

"Y-y-you can't k-k-kiss me like that! We, we haven't even talked about this!"

Sétanta chuckles gently. "Still festy as eva', ain't cha Puisín? But it's me fault that time, I didn't mean to freak ye out. Don't'cha worry, no more kissin' ye 'til this is ova'!"

 

Then, before Archer can say anything, he jumps away. The bowman lets out a stream of frustrated curses. Now isn't the time to have a crisis about his relationship status! The Servant breathes deeply and summons his bow before making for an abandoned building nearby. It will be a good vantage point to spot Rider and take him out. Huntring or Caladbolg should do the trick; if not, he might be able to trace Gáe Bulg and fire it. If not, he'll make do with Diarmuid Ua Duibhne's Gae Buidhe. Cursed weapons which cause incurable wounds are useful in his line of work.

 

Reaching the top of the building he's set his sights on takes him about ten minutes; that thing is half in ruins and he has no intention of falling thirty stories down. It would be incredibly embarrassing to explain. Once perched, he starts searching. He would much prefer track Rider through his mana presence but the air is far too saturated. Instead, he has to rely on eyesight alone. Two or three kilometres from him, an explosion takes out half a block. It's Gilgamesh and Artoria. Seeing her corrupted, her face cold and methodical, is like being gutted. Artoria isn't… she isn't supposed to look like this. She's gentle and kind, with a soft expression and a lovely smile. Archer forces himself to look away. He's not here to take her down. He has a job to do.

 

Thankfully, it doesn't take him long to see Rider. Alexander the Great is a giant of man in a massive chariot pulled by and even more massive pair of bulls. He comes with thunder and lightning, screaming some insane war cry with a booming voice.

 

"ALALALALALA!!!"

 

Archer tsks in annoyance and quickly traces Caladbolg before firing it at the Servant. Only for the bloody sword to be fucking deflected as if it were some measly arrow; considering how quickly he had to trace the weapon, it makes sense it wouldn't work. It annoys him still. 'We wouldn't want things to be easy for once,' he thinks. As Rider comes down to crash in the building and destroy it, Archer sprints and jumps from his current building onto another. The already damaged building collapses behind him, but he doesn't let it distract him. Instead, he focuses on tracing Gae Buidhe. He needs to get rid of the bulls in order to reduce Alexander's mobility. The yellow spear ensures that any wound he causes will remain, even if he has to try over and over again.

 

Standing straight, he takes aim and breathes deeply. Rider bellows some provocations, but Archer doesn't listen, instead focusing all his energy on aiming perfectly. The King of Conquerors charges once more, and Archer lets go of the shining golden arrow. It whistles in the air and lands in one of the bulls' eyes. The beast bellows like its owner, rearing back.

 

"Settle down, boy!" Rider orders as he extends a hand to heal his bull. When nothing happens, he looks at Archer, eyes sharp. "You… this weapon of yours, I know it. But calling it yours would be a lie. A fake, eh? I wonder what else you have in store!" he roars.

 

For all of the king's bravado, he is nonetheless forced to dismiss his chariot and face Archer in close-combat. Unless, of course, he decides to rely on his Noble Phantasm and summon his reality marble. But Archer has taken this possibility into account as well. If Iskander does so, Archer will simply summon Unlimited Blade Works. With Alaya backing him, he'll swallow the other reality marble and crush Alexander. Summoning Kanshō and Byakuya, Archer goes on the offensive. He needs to gauge whether or not he can take on the King of Conquerors in a regular sword fight, which he isn't very optimistic about.

 

A couple of clashes later, Archer has to accept the fact that he cannot win like this. Although he's faster and more agile that Iskandar, the man's blows are similar to being hit by freight train. Archer cannot say whether this is natural or caused by the dark curses running up his arms. It doesn't really matter, to be entirely honest. He just needs to kill him. Ducking under a swing that would have decapitated him, Archer sprints away. He needs to put distance between them before he gets overwhelmed. Jumping down the building, Archer twists in the air and traces Gáe Bulg. He has five seconds before he hits the ground. The red spear of fate burns bright, red mana crackling around it as it's crushed and morphed into an arrow.

 

Four. Iskandar follows him, jumping down as well. Archer can't help but smirk. This is exactly what he was hoping for.

 

Three. Archer aims, the wind screaming as he keeps accelerating.

 

Two. He fires the arrow. It whistles through the air, mana crackling.

 

One. Archer can barely twist and crashes through in a car with a couple of expletives and other curses. Above him, a roar is heard. Pushing himself up with a groan, the bowman looks at the source of the sound and sighs in relief. Gáe Bulg found its target, and Iskandar is disappearing in a black mist of hatred and corruption. 

 

Archer extricates himself from the crashed car, dusting himself off and removing the glass hard stuck in his hair. 

 

Suddenly, his heart pulses violently, and the bond with Sétanta goes blazing hot. Archer gasps, grabbing his chest and staggering. It feels like his heart is being ripped out, blood hammering against his temples.

 

"S-Sétanta!" he calls out, tugging on the bond, begging for a response. "Sétanta, where are you!"

 

And then, just as quickly as it went wild, the bond settles. Was Sétanta wounded? Is he still hurt? Questions storming in his mind, Archer rushes to the Grail, where Sétanta should be. He should have gone with him, should have kept him safe, should have protected him, should have let Gilgamesh handle Rider. Realistically, it doesn't take Archer long to reach the Grail, but to him, it feels like forever. What if something happened to Sétanta? What if he's in pain?

 

The answer comes before he can enter the cave. Someone is standing in front, and Archer freezes in horror. It's Sétanta, but it's not him at the same time. His long, untied hair has turned white as snow, and his skin is so pale it looks translucent. His eyes have all opened, the many irises slit and snake-like. His armour has slightly changed as well; it's darker and accentuated by red lines. His arms are left naked, save for wrists, and one of his pauldrons is gone, revealing his shoulder. Red curses mark his skin, mainly his arms and lower face, pulsing like veins. 

 

No, no, no, no, no, no.

 

"S-Sétanta?"

An eager grin splits the spearman's face in two, serpentine tongue quickly wetting his lips. "Hello there, Puisín. Ye were worried 'bout me?"

"Y-yeah. The bond it… it flared to life."

 

Sétanta saunters to Archer and, although he flinches, the bowman lets the spearman takes his face in his hands. The hold is firm, but not unkind. Ten eyes study him carefully and Archer can't help but notice the love in them. However, it doesn't reassure him in any way, nor does it make him feel better. This isn't normal, regular, healthy love. This isn't... This isn't what he's used to see in the spearman's eyes. The light is unhinged, the smile feral. The Grail twisted something in Sétanta.

 

"Mhm, I'm sorry ye got worried, Puisín," Sétanta purrs. "But as ye can see, I'm all good! Killed that Diarmuid lad, but 'e used 'is last strength to kick me in that smelly mud. Don't I look good like that?" he sing-songs.

Archer gulps. "Y-y-you were corrupted by the Grail?"

"Corrupted? Now that's a shite word. I don't like it." The hold on his face grows tighter, and Archer instinctively puts his hands on Sétanta's wrists. The tight grip doesn't relent, on the contrary. "I don't like it at all." Then, suddenly, he grins and the unhinged light in his eyes grows even more dangerous. "But ye know what I like? You. My sweet, sweet kitten! I'm gonna keep ye foreva', Puisín, ye'll see! Ye're all mine after all, only mine, no one else's…"

Notes:

MWHAHAHAHA

You knew angst was coming, no way were the boys getting a single day of rest.

Some of my FGO adventures I need to share :
• Goetia is dead!!! His angry sprite will haunt me
• Cú Chulainn Alter and Medb's conversation was absolutely hilarious. She's the biggest tsundere ever when it comes to your character
• Did Scáthach call Cú Chulainn Alter a brat???? Iconic behaviour.
• Not Diarmuid yelling at Fionn to keep it in his pants and focus for five seconds 😭 I'm wheezing, it was so funny
• "I want to sleep with every pretty girl on the battlefield" – Fergus MacRoich. Iconic. Legendary. No wonder Cú Chulainn slept with half of Ireland if this was his father figure lmfao
• Ozymandias fanboying over Arash was very cute
• *incontrollable sobbing at Romani's death*
• I killed Goetia with Cú Chulainn Alter, who was my first 5 stars and the Special Summon I chose. It seems fitting.
• Dying!Goetia is kind of hot
• "one more step!!" more like 30 but whatever keeps you going I guess.
• Also Mash saving you is extremely cute even if it's predictable. Her near-death made me scream
• I refuse to believe your player doesn't canonically bang Mash
• The final image of you with Mash in the snow is adorable

Chapter 25: Corruption

Summary:

Sétanta fights Diarmuid Ua Duibhne and gets corrupted.

Alternative summary: On today's episode of "Emiya having a bad day", Emiya has a bad day.

Notes:

Trigger warning: mild cannibalistic thoughts, murder and Corrupted!Sétanta's overall warped view of the world and relationships.

Behold, my inability to write battle scenes. I'm sorry.

Finding the corrupted Grail protected by Diarmuid Ua Duibhne is easy. It hums a song of corruption and destruction, dances on Sétanta's skin like a million cold fingers, entices him to kill and destroy like a lover invites one to bed. The demi-god needs only to focus a bit for Lugh's divinity to come out a bit more. The glow of his skin chases the darkness away, and he can almost hear it hiss as it flees. Almost as if it's alive, as if it can feel. Maybe it can; Sétanta doesn't care much. He just wants to end that bullshit era, go home – or at least, as home as Unlimited Blade Works can be – and kiss Archer silly. 

 

He wants to talk and banter with his wild cat, he wants to tell him that he loves him, that he wants to keep him safe and all for himself, that he wants to make him and see him happy, smiling and at peace. He wants to show him the Throne of Heroes, the neverending grasslands he calls the afterlife, teach him many songs from his life and the dances that go along with them. He doesn't doubt he has friends there, and he wants to show Archer off, make them green with envy that he has someone so fundamentally kind at his side.

 

Funnily enough, maybe Diarmuid Ua Duibhne is one of these friends. Maybe he and Sétanta are close, sparring to pass the time and talking about their lives, about what it's like to be a demi-god and other shite. But right now, he isn't Sétanta's friend. He's just an obstacle, an opponent to take down, a target. There will be no enjoyment to be found in this fight, not like Grail Wars. This isn't a battle between Heroes. This is just Alaya's dirty work. This is just cleaning duty.

 

A painted scream echoes on the walls of the caves. Sétanta frowns and accelerates, wondering which blasted idiotic human decided to come here. When he enters the large room where the Grail hums and shines, the demi-god winces. A corrupted Servant with twin spears is humming something as a couple of bruised humans are on the ground, dirty and bruised. The woman is hunched over her blond companion, who is holding his ribs as if he's been kicked, spitting blood.

 

Sétanta isn't a stranger to brutality, or even cruelty, but this leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He doesn't remember Diarmuid as he is now, but he feels like he knows him. The cruel expression and the dull golden eyes feel like they're on the wrong face, even more so than the dark marks of corruption.

 

The corrupted Servant tilts his head in his direction, and a lazy smile dances across his face. 

 

"Why, good evenin'!" He twirls his yellow spear and, although Sétanta sees where Gilgamesh is coming from with his talk about accents, Diarmuid sounds much more polite and knightly than him. "Have ya been sent to do some cleanin', Guardian?"

"Aye. Y'all goin' back to the Throne and chill out a bit."

"Mhm. I'm afraid not. I'd much rather stae here and have some fun."

 

This is the only warning Sétanta gets before Diarmuid rushes him, demonic spears ready to cut him in half. Sétanta doesn't back down, of course. He's stronger than Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, has Lugh's blood in his veins and the litteral World on his side – even if she's a massive bitch. He matches the fellow demi-god strike for strike, and they draw first blood at the same time. Sétanta can't help but grin; if it was a real battle from a War or just a spar in the Throne, this would be a lot of fun.

 

"Ye ain't half bad, Lover boy!" he exclaims.

 

Sétanta laughs again as he closes the distance in a second, allowing himself to be in range of the yellow spear, and brutally kicks Diarmuid straight in the chest. The other demi-god grunts as he is pushed back, but he retaliates just in time, deflecting Gáe Bulg’s blade before it can impale him.

 

Diarmuid twists and pushes forward, trying to stab Sétanta with the yellow spear. "Neither are ye! If the circumstances were any different, I'd be havin' a lot ov fun. Fightin' me childhood hero's a hell ov a treet!"

"Ye gonna make me blush, lad!"  Sétanta moves out of the way, grabs the spear and pulls. He brutally headbutts Diarmuid, who retaliates by spitting blood in his face. The Corrupted Hero is grinning when they jump back from each other to catch their breath. He glances at the two humans. "What these two did to ya? Ye don't look the vengeful type."

Diarmuid bursts out laughing. "That lowlife was me Masta'. Made me kill meself. An' that one? Kept throwin' herself at me like some bitch in heat," the other spearman replies cruelly, his half-smile twisted. "I'm bloody married!"

"Aye, wild story, that marriage ov yers."

 

Diarmuid's smile turns even weirder, and the glint in his eye almost makes Sétanta back away. That's some deranged expression if he's ever seen one.

 

"Don't'cha sae a word 'bout me Gráine, Hound, or I might hang ye by yer guts. She was a lovely lady, and I wouldn't traed'er fer the world."

"How romantic," he mocks as he swiftly deflects the spears.

 

Focusing his mana in one hand, he quickly jumps back and traces two runes on his chest. Sowilo, the sun, his favourite rune. And Raidho, for journeys and specifically the wind. Together, they make Sétanta even quicker and more agile than he already is. Thanks to Lugh's blood, it raises his body heat as well, enabling him to melt metal with a simple touch. It won't do anything to a demonic spear but to another warrior's skin? It will work like a charm.

 

Runecraft properly applied, Sétanta goes on the offensive once more. The gap in their respective speed swiftly makes all the difference. Almost all his blows land whereas Diarmuid struggles to make him back away. Sadly for him, Sétanta has no intention of backing off. He once fought with his guts on the ground and strangled a man with his own intestines. Cuts and shallow wounds won't stop him. Especially when a single punch will leave his opponent writhing in pain from a scorching burn.

 

Still, he has to give credit where credit is due. Diarmuid is putting up a good fight, using his hateful curses to make his blows more devastating and his body sturdier. Nonetheless, he's bound to fail. The opportunity Sétanta was waiting for presents itself, and he doesn't miss it. Focusing all his strength in his left arm, he impales Diarmuid straight through the heart on Gáe Bulg. 

 

The other hero's eyes widen in surprise, and he takes a few steps back, spears falling to the ground. Black blood slowly runs down his cheeks and mouth, tainting his too-pale face. Sétanta grimaces; this isn't the kind of death any hero deserves.

 

"A…gain…?" Diarmuid sputters, spitting more black blood. "I'm really… fuckin'... unlucky…"

"Ye an' me both, lad. See ye 'round."

Diarmuid lifts his eyes to him and grins. "Yes, see ye around, Cú Chulainn."

 

Using his last strength, the Corrupted Hero rushes Sétanta and slams into him. Sétanta yelps in surprise – in a very undignified way, he may add – and collapses backwards, straight in the black mud.

 

He screams.

 

It burns.

 

Everything is too much.

 

There's fire in his veins. There's ice in his veins. There's acid in his veins. There's something in his veins. It hurts, it hurts so muCH.

Sétanta doesn't know how long it takes him to wake up. When he does, coughing and cursing, however, things are… different. Not worse, not better, just different, in a way he can't explain. He brings a hand up to push his hair away and wipes his face but freezes when he notices the black marks on his skin. Ah. So that's what's different. He tilts his head to the side; does it really matter? Not to him to be entirely honest. He shrugs and pushes the hair – now white, how curious – away from his face. He has other matters to attend to.

 

Looking around, his many eyes fall on the couple of humans. The woman has tears in her eyes, hugging her partner against him. Swiftly climbing out of the mud – that thing reeks, what a bloody nightmare –, he makes his way towards them. When she sees him, she slams a hand on her mouth as she fearfully yelps, eyes wide. Sétanta rolls his eyes. How pathetic.

 

"How long was I out?" he asks.

"F-five minutes? I think?" she stutters.

"Ye think? What good are ye?" he grumbles.

"Five minutes! Five minutes at most! I could be wrong by ten or twenty seconds," she quickly says.

"Then why didn't'cha sae so, ye dumb bitch?" he growls. Grabbing the woman by the neck, he narrows his eyes as she pleads and apologises. "Shaddup. Ye're gonna gimme a headache with yer yappin'."

 

Are all humans as annoying as her? Emer wasn't like that, was she? Sétanta can't really remember, it's been too long. Maybe Rin? He doesn't know, he hasn't been around her for a long enough period to know. Ah! Maybe his kitten knows! A dreamy smile comes to his smile; he needs to find his kitten! His sweet, sweet kitten… He needs to keep him safe, and just for himself. People might try to take him from Sétanta once they realise how lovely he is, and he can't let that happen. The mere idea of some unworthy, disgusting person trying to steal Puisín’s attention from Sétanta… It's almost enough to provoke a ríastrad.

 

A sudden cry of horror takes him right out of his thoughts, and the demi-god looks down. The blond man is screaming in grief, but why? Looking up at the woman he's holding, Sétanta realises she's dead. It seems he's accidentally broken her neck. Whoops?

 

"You monster! You killed her!" the magus rages. "Sola-Ui, Sola-Ui! Oh god!"

"Oh fer fuck's sake, shut yer trap. She was dumb anywae." But the man doesn't stop crying and screaming, so Sétanta carelessly throws the body away and backhands the human hard enough to break his neck too. His body falls down, lifeless. "Now that's betta'. Can't'ear meself think with all that bullshite."

 

Humming some song from his childhood, he turns around to inspect the place. The cave is a wreck due to the fighting, but the Grail is intact, shining. It's humming as well, a song of destruction and corruption. It calls to Sétanta, and it is hard to resist the temptation. It sings, whispers in his ear all sorts of promises, its phantasmagoric fingers wrapping around Sétanta's heart.  His kitten would be safe and happy, they'd be together forever, in Ireland or wherever Puisín wants to be. More importantly, his kitten would be all his. No one would ever be able to take him from Sétanta. He needs only to close his eyes and let himself fall. It would all be his. And it looks so easy to fall. 

 

However, Alaya comes roaring at the forefront of Sétanta's mind, a brutal volcano exploding in rage, causing him to stumble. She's like a vicious tiger, threatening anything and anyone who comes near his mind. The message is clear. If the Grail tries anything, she'll fight back twice harder, no matter what happens to Sétanta's mind. She has never been subtle, and she won't let some pesky Grail take one of her Guardians. They belong to her. He can almost hear her fury, akin to a raging storm. It would be reassuring if she wasn't such a raging lunatic who hurt Sétanta's kitten. Still, he'll use her just like she uses him.

 

Stumbling back, Sétanta hisses. He's back in control of his body. The call of the Grail is weakening, and Alaya is back to urging him to do his job, a simple pull in his chest. Recalling Gáe Bulg from where it landed after Diarmuid's body disappeared, Sétanta quickly makes his way out of the cave, leaving the singing Grail behind him. The moment the outside air reaches his lungs, Sétanta sighs in relief. The call of the Grail is weaker here, and Alaya slowly retreats. She's calmer now that the Grail has backed down.

 

"S-Sétanta?"

 

He turns around and feels an eager grin splits his face in two, serpentine tongue quickly wetting his lips. His little kitten is here! He's just as lovely as always, especially with some blood covering him. It must taste delicious, especially licked straight off his warm skin. Sétanta can easily picture an exciting scene, but he holds himself back. For now.

 

"Hello there, Puisín. Ye were worried 'bout me?"

"Y-yeah. The bond it… it flared to life."

 

Aww, how kind. His kitten was worried! But Sétanta should have expected it; he's such a gentle, lovely thing after all. He hops to Puisín and takes his face in his hands. Aaah, he wants to kiss him so badly. Soon, soon.

 

"Mhm, I'm sorry ye got worried, Puisín," Sétanta purrs. "But as ye can see, I'm all good! Killed that Diarmuid lad, but 'e used 'is last strength to kick me in that smelly mud. Don't I look good like that?" he sing-songs.

His kitten visibly gulps. "Y-y-you were corrupted by the Grail?"

"Corrupted? Now that's a shite word. I don't like it." Now that isn't a nice thing to say. At all. He's fine! "I don't like it at all." Still, he can't blame his kitten. He's just worried, and cautious. Sétanta can't exactly be mad at him for being cautious. That's just proof that he's smart. Really, what a lovely kitten he's found! "But ye know what I like? You. My sweet, sweet kitten! I'm gonna keep ye foreva', Puisín, ye'll see! Ye're all mine after all, only mine, no one else's…"

 

And then, deciding he's waited long enough, he pulls Puisín closer and kisses him, one hand in his white hair and the other on his lower back. Aaah, he tastes so good! Sétanta wishes he could swallow him whole, drink all his blood and eat all his flesh. It would taste even better. Especially his heart. Or perhaps it would be better to bathe him in blood and watch him eat a heart? Those humans' bodies are still fresh after all, and Sétanta is sure his kitten would look fantastic. The idea makes the demi-god's head spin in desire, and his pants are so too tight. He rocks his hips against Puisín's, moaning when he hears his kitten squeal in surprise.

 

His tongue easily passes his kitten's tight lips, and he nibbles the lips while his tongue tightens around Puisín's one. His kitten must be overwhelmed, because he lets himself be guided through the whole kiss, just clinging to his shoulders. Sétanta doesn't mind; he loves it, even. When they separate for air, he takes his time observing and committing to memory the overwhelmed face of his darling kitten. There are some tears rolling down his cheeks, his eyes are wider, his cheeks flushed all the way to his ears, and his lips bruised and bloody from Sétanta's fangs.

 

He looks wonderful, but Sétanta can't help but think that he would look perfect if only he was covered in blood and sweat and cum, coming down from an orgasm after Sétanta fucked him everyway he knows. It's hard to keep all that for himself, but if he tries anything now, Alaya will definitely stop them. It's honestly a miracle she's left them alone that long.

 

"Ye look so pretty like that…"

 

His kitten's eyes widen a bit more, and another wave of fresh tears run down his cheeks. Is he so unused to compliments and care that he would react like this to any form of affection? It breaks Sétanta's heart to imagine it. But it's alright now; he's here. With him, Puisín will always be loved and cared for. His kitten puts a hand on his face, the other going to his neck, playing with the undone white hair, and Sétanta purrs, content. The gentle caresses are enticing, and he wants nothing more than to take his kitten right here.

 

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," Puisín suddenly says.

 

Sétanta doesn't stop his grin, and his heart gallops in his chest when his kitten gives a soft kiss on the lips. Sétanta tries to chase the lips when they leave his own, but his darling's voice stops him again.

 

"I can't, I can't even think of –" Puisín chokes on his words. "– existing without you."

 

Before Sétanta can reply anything, there's a violent snap in his neck, and everything goes dark.

Archer can't help the scream of despair that tears its way out of his chest when Sétanta disappears mid-fall. Why? Has he not gone through enough? Is he such a failure that he cannot save anyone? That he cannot even protect the one person making his afterlife bearable? The one person who risked everything for him? And now, and now… and now Sétanta has been corrupted by a Grail, and Archer has no idea if the Corruption will disappear on its own when he enters Unlimited Blade Works or if he's doomed forever.

 

Another scream, this one of rage, erupts from him. Rage at the Grail, at Alaya, at Fate, at himself. Because if Sétanta, Cú Chulainn, Ireland's Child of Light is doomed to remain a shadow of himself because of someone as utterly worthless as Archer… He'll never forgive himself. Never. No matter what anyone might say. He'll beg Lugh to destroy all trace of him, all the way to his Spirit Origin.

 

"Now this is truly a sad sight."

 

Archer whirls around, tears running down his cheeks. Gilgamesh is standing on a lamppost, watching him with half-lidded red eyes. Archer can't help but laugh bitterly. Of course Gilgamesh is here to watch him break down. Alaya can already use him however she wants, so who is he to hope for some fucking privacy?

 

"Yeah, it fucking is! Go ahead, laugh! Call me a mongrel, or a dog, or a broken doll, or a useless sword or whatever! Laugh at me, come on! But make sure to hurry up and use Ea already so we can all be free of that fucking hellhole!" he screams, arms wide, no doubt looking like a lunatic.

 

Gilgamesh looks at him a bit more before jumping down and making his way to the entrance of the cavern. As he passes Archer, however, he stops briefly.

 

"I do not mock grief, Guardian."

 

Archer bites back an acidic remark and looks at the city, refusing to watch Gilgamesh use Ea. He won't give the God-King of Uruk the satisfaction of an audience. It's petty and almost childish, but Archer doesn't care. His eyes remain fixated on the deteriorated building as mana explodes behind him like a volcano, only closing them when Alaya sends him back to his Reality Marble.

Notes:

Corrupted!Sétanta was very fun to write!! I hope you liked this insight in his warped and horny as hell mind. He's basically a horny, bloodthirsty demi-god on crack who obsesses over Archer.

Gilgamesh was almost a massive dick but having lost Enkidu, he knows and understands grief. So, in the end, I went with him being respectful, in his way.

---

FGO adventures:

• I finished the Shinjuku mini singularity!!
• Jeanne Alter and Artoria Alter need to fuck so bad (they can both step on me by the way like my god, I'd kill to dance with them)
• Actually you can throw Emiya Alter in the hate-love mix as well, because boy these three must be amazing at hate sex. Peak Tsundere behaviour, all of them.
• Speaking of Emiya Alter, his sprite when he yells/gets angry is absolutely terrifying, like if Type-Moon wanted me to be scared of him, mission accomplished.
• Assassin has no reason for being this hot.
• *Incoherent sobbing at Lobo's death* MY BABY HE JUST WANTED TO GO HOME. I want to pet him. And adopt him. Did you know wolves are my favourite animal? I need to hug the murder puppy please, he was so sad and lonely and AAAAAAAAAAH. Who knew a Gacha could make me sob?
• Cavall is Blanca, fight me.
• Moriarty's plan gave me a headache like there HAD to be another way my guy
• The second he said "3000 years" I was like "so that guy's a demon god lol"
• Andersen???????
• Unlimited Lost Work is a hell of a cheated Noble Phantasm

Chapter 26: Sunlight

Summary:

Archer reunites with Sétanta.

Featuring: Alaya being awful without actually appearing in this chapter

Notes:

Song credit: Compass by Sail North (again) and the Edo lullaby.

Trigger warning: mentions of past sexual assault and Archer's general fucked-up view of consent (his)

Archer is greeted by howls of pain that shatter his heart. Rushing forwards, he falls to his knees next to Sétanta, trying his utter best to assess the situation despite his panic. The demi-god's body is twisting and contorting like he's possessed, and the dark marks on his skin seem to be burning from the inside. His many eyes are wide, his inhuman mouth opened all the way to his ears as he screams and wails and begs, his muscles bulge incoherently under his skin. Tugging at his clothes, Sétanta tries helplessly to remove them and access something lurking beneath them. His black claws are leaving bloody wounds in their wakes, on his face, arms and neck, cutting through the cloth like it's butter but unable to remove the armour.

 

The scene is nightmarish, worse than anything Archer has seen. Corpses are one thing; the stench is foul, but the suffering has ended. Strangers are another thing; he dislikes their pain, but Archer can forget about them. But this? Sétanta, his sun, in this state? This will haunt him forever, even if he should fall in the deepest pits of hell.

 

Unable to properly formulate a thought, controlled by the desire, the need to help Sétanta, Archer rips the cloth armour and the paltron off Sétanta's body. Horrified eyes widen at the sight before him. The Grail's corruption seems alive, wiggling under Sétanta's too-pale skin like a million slithery parasites, and the demi-god keeps racking his claws everywhere on his skin as if he can rip the corruption straight out of his body. Beneath his own skin, right where his heart is, Archer can feel the bond between their Spirit Origins cry out in pain, raging like a wild storm and demanding that Archer helps. 

 

But what should Archer do? What can he do? He can barely breathe, let alone think. Panic strangles him, harsher than the rope that ended his life, and tears of panic blur his eyes. He wipes them off angrily and forces himself to just think. He must have something, a blade or whatever, that can help. That's when he feels it. The sunlight. It's much warmer than usual and when Archer looks up, he notices the sun isn't setting. It's high, at its zenith even, unobscured by the usual clouds and cogs. The feeling of it is familiar as well, and Archer's eyes widen in shock. It's Lugh. Albeit unable to manifest physically, the god is still acting, likely angered by his son's condition. 

 

Sétanta's immense pain makes sudden sense. Lugh's light is burning the corruption, turning to ashes and cleansing the demi-god’s very core of its influence. It must be excruciating, but that's the only way. So long as she can use him, Alaya won't waste energy in helping Sétanta, even if she can. He won't be summoned in the same world as the one he was corrupted in – it no longer exists, thanks to Ea –, so who cares if he goes mad? Who cares if he's nothing but a shadow of himself? Who cares if he's twisted in some distorted version of Ireland's Child of Light, barely better than an Alter? Not Alaya. So long as she can use him, she doesn't care.

 

But Archer does. He cares and will continue to care, always and forever. Even if he goes mad, even if there's nothing else in his mind, even if he's made to serve at Sétanta's feet for the rest of eternity. It doesn't matter, so long as Sétanta is himself again.

 

A blade manifests itself in Archer's hands and, with a deep breath, he cuts Sétanta's skin right where the corruption is twisting. Black liquid – blood, maybe? – oozes out of the wound, sizzling like boiling oil. However, as soon as the sun rays touch it, the liquid evaporates with a chilling hiss. Almost as if it's alive. And perhaps it is, born from the Grail's hatred, its thirst for blood and hunger for corpses. It's probably just as alive as Archer is. After all, both of them are nothing but parasites leeching off Sétanta's brightness.

 

Archer bites the inside of his cheek. He can't afford to think like that. Not now. No matter how true it is. So, with an audible gulp and uncharacteristically shaking hands, Archer keeps going. Blocking out Sétanta's cries of pain less he breaks down, he restrains the weakened demi-god and cuts his skin where the curses lie, allowing Lugh's sunlight to burn them away with all the rightful wrath of a divine parent.

 

Meanwhile, Sétanta sobs, members desperately jerking against Archer's tight hold. "Daid, cuidigh liom! Le do thoil! Gortaíonn sé! Daid, Daid!" In response to what Archer assumes are pleas, the sun grows harsher. In turn, Sétanta's wails of pain turn into ear-shattering screams of suffering. "Mam! Mam! Mam, cá bhfuil tú? Le do thoil a mhamaí, cuidigh liom!"

 

Archer wants nothing more than to let him go and hug him, tell him it's over and protect him from the World and Lugh's painful light. But he can't; Sétanta's skin is finally looking healthy again, and his hair is slowly going back to its original blue. So he keeps cutting, he keeps holding. All the comfort he can offer is a repeated apology painfully articulated between choked sobs.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

 

Suddenly, Sétanta heaves like he's about to throw up, and Archer turns him on his side just in time to help him puke a black mud-like liquid on the ground. It comes out in several waves that leave the demi-god sobbing and shivering. Curling around Sétanta, Archer buries his face in the now blue hair, tears rolling down his cheeks. He tightens his hold on the panting hero, hugging him as tight as he can without bruising. The heaving slowly calms down, but it's replaced by uncontrollable sobbing. The wailing reminds Archer of a child crying for his parents, and it breaks his heart in a million pieces. And, like the coward he is, he can't bring himself to look Sétanta in the eyes. He remains hidden in his hair, slowly rocking him. 

 

He needs to do more. He must. Sétanta deserves this much and a thousand times more. But what? What can he do? And then, suddenly, as if moved by a foreign force, Archer finds himself singing, just like Sétanta did for him the day before.

 

"Nen, nen korori yo, Okorori yo.

Bōya wa yoi koda, Nenneshina~

Bōya no omori wa, Doko e itta?

Ano yama koete, sato e itta.

Sato no miyage ni, nani morōta?

Denden taiko ni, shō no fue."

 

It's nothing special, just the Edo lullaby he's heard and sung a thousand times when he was human, but it somehow works wonders. As he repeats the six verses over and over again, Sétanta slowly calms down. The sobs quieten, the shaking weakens. Eventually, both end, but Archer doesn't stop singing. He won't stop, not until Sétanta asks him to. His throat and lungs beg for a moment of reprieve as he's not a singer, but he remains deaf to their pleas. How dare he be tired? Compared to what Sétanta has endured, this is nothing. If anything, Archer should have been the one writing in pain on the ground, like the dog he is.

 

"Ar… chaaaa'..." Sétanta eventually rasps out.

 

Archer stops singing and looks down, cupping Sétanta's cheek in his hand as he helps him look up. The demi-god's glamour is back on, but it does nothing to hide his exhaustion on his features and the lingering suffering in his eyes. Some tears roll down Sétanta's cheeks, and Archer feels another wave of tears coming at the sight. He doesn't have the strength nor the will to stop them.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

"Thank… ya…"

"You can't thank me… it's… I killed you…!"

"Ye… 'ad to… wasn't… meself…" A hand comes up, and shaking fingers wipe Archer's tears. "I… scared… ye… made ye… cry…"

"You didn't –" Archer stops himself. He can't lie and say it's untrue. Sétanta was scary, all twisted and obsessive and not at all the considerate man he has learnt to know and adore. "I don't care. I don't care about that. It's not important. You just… you just need to… to rest, and heal, and get better."

"I… do…"

Archer wants to scream and cry. He's not worth it, especially when Sétanta is in such a state. "Don't. Focus on yourself, please."

 

Sétanta studies him, exhaustion evident on his face, but he seems to relent and brings his hand over Archer's one. Their fingers lace, or at least as much as possible with Archer's hand covering the demi-god's cheek. Sétanta nuzzles the hold, seemingly content despite his fatigue. He even presses a small, chaste kiss on Archer's palm before glancing up at him almost sheepishly.

 

"Sing…?"

 

Archer can't say he was expecting such a request. But if Sétanta wishes for him to sing, then sing he will.

 

"Of course. Anything in particular?"

"Tha'… song… frem the… the memory… didn't… didn't get to… to 'ear the endin'…"

 

Archer nods and complies. The slow tune of Compass echoes in the emptiness of the reality marble, its loneliness turning into hope and love, and even the grief at the end doesn't erase them. 

 

"Ran out the door some years ago,

Slingin' words at my old man, like thistles and stones

Said, "No need to worry, I'll never come home"

My mum cryin', "Don't go!" as I raced down that road

 

Straight through 'til sun fell I kept up the pace

'Til darkness embraced me and I lost my way

Weary from travel and wet from the rain

I stopped at a tavern in Broken-Mast Bay

 

Where a rough-cut man said, "What's your business, lad?"  

I can't find my way back home, it's cold, it's dark, I'm all alone

He said, "My boy, you're not lost yet

Just follow the compass that beats in your chest"

 

Twelve years had gone as a wandering man

Searching for meaning in far, distant lands

Defied Kings and Queens and with foes, raised a glass

And fell for an outlaw named 'Katie McMahon'

 

Oh, we sailed the seas, seeking mountains of gold

And fountains of youth from the stories of old

Escaped from the perils and the monsters below

But after it all we had nothin' to show

 

Then Katie said, "My love, our journey's just begun"  

I can't find my way back home, it's cold, it's dark, I'm all alone

He said, 'My boy, you're not lost yet

Just follow the compass, that beats in your chest'

 

'We can make our way back home, I'm here with you

You're not alone, I'll fight with you

'Til our last breath, to follow the compass

That beats in our chest'

 

So we traded swords, our sails, and oars for a simple life

Twenty years She never left my side 'til she passed, one night...

 

Well, my love, you made it home...

Without you here, I'm so alone...

But I will fight 'til my last breath

Cause you are the compass that beats in my chest

Yeah, you are the compass that beats in my chest"

 

When the song ends, Archer looks down and lets a fond smile appear on his face. In his arms, his head tucked on his thighs, Sétanta is fast asleep, curled up like a puppy. His fingers get lost in the long blue hair, and he removes the metal bead holding them together. How that didn't fall off earlier is a mystery, but Archer doesn't really care. He carefully tucks it in his pocket and goes back to caressing Sétanta's hair, admiring the peaceful face. 

 

---

 

Sétanta sleeps for about five hours, occasionally muttering something in Gaelic or nibbling Archer's finger like a teething baby would. It's easily one of the most adorable things he's ever seen. When the hero wakes, Archer feels dread weighing down his stomach like lead. Sétanta grumbles something, clearly unhappy about waking up and wiggles a bit, as if searching for a better position to go back to sleep. But eventually, he rubs his eyes, a yawn exposing his fangs. Then, finally, red eyes open, glowing in the never-ending sunset. The pupils, at first blown wide, go back to their regular slitted look. When their eyes meet, Archer's breath hitches. He doesn't know what to say, what to do.

 

"Hey there…" Sétanta rasps out, voice heavy with sleep.

"Hey…" Archer repeats, unsure.

 

Sétanta wiggles a bit to settle in a more comfortable position, his head now on Archer's laps. A hand reaches out and grabs Archer's own. The hold is tight, and Archer returns it in kind. Their fingers lace, and the bowman sucks in a breath when Sétanta gives his hand a chaste kiss, never breaking eye contact.

 

"How are you feeling…?" Archer articulates, and he feels like he's swallowed glass.

"Sleepin' helped… bein' with ye too…" Archer doesn't say anything, giving Sétanta all the time he wants to find his words. When he does, his expression is closed, but Archer can still hear the confusion, fear and sadness in his voice. "It's like… everythin' changes… Yer priorities shift, like someone flipped some switch in yer head or som'thin'... Some feelings get twisted, and some go awae… and ye're some otha' weird version ov yerself… kinda like the ríastrad, but not really the same…"

 

Archer wants to apologise, over and over again, but he knows now isn't the time. He needs to help Sétanta. The guilt eating him alive can be addressed later. His free hand goes to Sétanta's face, gently caressing his cheek, warmth spreading in his stomach when the demi-god nuzzles into his hand with a contented expression.

 

"Can I help you?"

"Just stae with me… I feel betta' when ye're here."

"I'd never leave you."

"Good."

 

They lay in silence for what could be minutes or eons, with Archer caressing Sétanta's face and Sétanta holding onto his hand like a lifeline, his thumb caressing Archer's skin. Not a word is said – it would be superfluous. The tender gestures have more meaning than a thousand words ever could hold. Sétanta drifts in and out of sleep, obviously still exhausted by what he's been through.

 

When the spearman 'fully' wakes up, he's the one to tackle the subject that Archer has been dreading ever since it happened. Their kiss. His only saving grace is that Sétanta seems just as embarrassed as Archer is.

 

"Sae… Archa'... The… the other dae… when we kissed…"

"Y-yes?"

"Ye wanna do it again?"

 

Archer feels himself blushing all the way to his ears, and he's left unable to properly articulate. Instead, he nods quickly, hoping Sétanta gets the message. Thankfully, he does. The demi-god sits up and gently plays with Archer's hair as he pulls him closer. Their lips meet, and the warmth in Archer's stomach turns into a wildfire sets the coldest part of his soul aflame. It's like being alive again, and he melts in the embrace, clinging to Sétanta's neck and back.

 

Soon enough, he finds himself laying on his back, with Sétanta on top of him, the kisses growing more and more fervent by the second. Hands trace his form, and his own do the same, feeling the lithe, powerful muscles under Sétanta's skin. Teeth gently nibble his lower lip, and Archer is more than happy to let Sétanta explore his mouth. Their hips are pressed against each other, and Archer does his best to calm the fire in his lower stomach. When they're forced to separate for air, Sétanta puts his forehead against Archer's, and he finds himself smiling like a love-sick idiot – which, frankly, he is.

 

"I wanna kiss ye foreva', Archa'."

"Yeah… yes, please."

 

Gods above and below, he's terrible at this. But it doesn't seem to matter, because Sétanta chuckles with a grin before giving him a chaste kiss.

 

"Ye'll be me lova'?"

"As long as you'll have me."

"Good." Another chaste kiss is given, and Archer finds himself wanting more of these. "I'll keep ye foreva', then. Show ye off in the Throne, make everyone jealous they can't have ye, give ye all the peace in the world. Ye'll see."

 

Archer puts a hand on Sétanta's cheek and gives him a soft kiss. He tastes like sunlight and summer. 

 

"Okay. Let's do that." He pauses for a few seconds, sheepish when he asks his question. "But… why no more nicknames…?"

 

Sétanta's expression closes a bit at this, and Archer's heart drops. Has he said something wrong?

 

"Puisín's ruined, now…" But then, he grins. "I'll find anotha', don't'cha worry! Especially now that I know ye lik'em!"

Archer blushes furiously. "I never said that! It's just – it surprised me, that's it!"

"Aye, aye, Archa', whateva' ye sae," Sétanta laughs.

 

And then, they're kissing again, and Archer cannot tell who initiated but he doesn't care. All he cares about are the fervour of the kisses, the warmth radiating from Sétanta, his sculpted body against his own, under his fingers. For all the scorching fire it ignites in Archer, there is still a small pit of fear and discomfort in his stomach. Sex is complicated. Once upon a time, it used to help him alleviate his loneliness but eventually, it turned into one of Alaya's tools, just like everything else. So, when Sétanta's scorching fingers find the hem of his shirt, Archer gently guides his hand away.

 

The kisses pause, and red eyes look at him with a mixture of gentleness and sadness. He's aware that Sétanta has noticed his apprehension when Gilgamesh needed mana, and his reaction to physical contact. Archer bites the inside of his cheek. He should have let Sétanta have him. After what he's just gone through, Archer shouldn't refuse him. Guilt starts choking him, and he looks away.

 

"S-sorry…" he mumbles.

"What ye apologisin' fer?" the demi-god asks.

 

It's probably a genuine question, but Archer can only remember Alaya's voice and words. The way she would make him apologise when he took too long to do what was needed. 'If you are sorry, you must apologise properly. What are you apologising for?' The answer was always the same. 'For failing your orders. For failing you.' Only then was he forgiven, only then did she stop tormenting him with nightmares and visions of what his failure could bring upon the world. Only Sétanta's torment was worse.

 

"I sh-shouldn't ha-have pushed your… your hand…" he articulates, voice shaking.

A hand cups his cheeks, forcing him to look at Sétanta's eyes. They're full of worry. "Hey, hey, hey, what'cha talkin' 'bout? Ye don't have to do nothin' ye don't wanna."

"I - I…"

"It's 'er, right? She made ye do shite like that."

"It's… it's… it's mana and I –"

"An' she sent ye to be raped," Sétanta says coldly. He plants a kiss on Archer's forehead and lingers here a few seconds before looking at him in the eyes again. They hold something dark. "It ain't happenin' ever again, I promise."

"It's not… It wasn't rape! I wasn't… I wasn't…"

"How would ye call it, then?"

"Just… mana transfers…"

"Mana transfers aren't s'pposed to leave ye scared ov touch." Sétanta's expression softens, cold anger melting into compassion and he kisses him softly. "But if ye don't wanna talk 'bout it, we don't hafta."

"It's just… there… there are things that I… I don't like, I think?" He frowns. "They make me feel cold."

"Ye wanna tell me?"

Archer shakes his head, his breathing irregular. "N-not really… I… I don't know how to talk about it. I prefer… I just want to make sure you're fine."

Sétanta smiles sadly. "I am, love. I am. It ain't perfect but time will make things betta'. That, and havin' ye with me."

 

Archer wraps his arms around him and all but forces Sétanta to lay on top of him, chest scorching and ready to burst. The warm body pressing against his own comforts him as well, and he closes his eyes. He misses Pearlforest and their bedroom. He misses Lady Helene, who would have known what to do, what to say. She could have… she could have helped Archer with all of this. She could have helped Sétanta with the Grail corruption. But she's not here, and he'll never see her again. Nor will he ever see the twins again, or Addam, or even Mary Ashford. His throat tightens, and so does his hold on Sétanta.

 

"Then stay with me," he articulates.

"Alwaes and foreva', love."

"Always and forever."

Notes:

Irish to English translation of what Sétanta says:

"Daid, cuidigh liom! Le do thoil! Gortaíonn sé! Daid, Daid!" → Dad, help me! Please! It hurts! Dad, dad!

"Mam! Mam! Mam, cá bhfuil tú? Le do thoil a mhamaí, cuidigh liom!" → Mum! Mum! Mum, where are you? Please mum, help me!

•••

Edo lullaby translation (source : Wikipedia):
Hush-a-bye, Hush-a-bye!
My good baby, Sleep!
Where did my boy's babysitter go?
Beyond that mountain, back to her home.
As a souvenir from her home, what did you get?
A toy drum and a shō flute.

Even if the lyrics are pretty random, it's apparently still used and quite popular so it would make sense for Archer to know it.

Chapter 27: E Rank Luck

Summary:

The boys get to rest a bit before getting summoned into a Grail War. What was supposed to distract them from Alaya and her orders turns out to be just as bad.

Sétanta doesn't want to move ever again. Cocooned in Archer's arms, he finally feels like himself again. The whispers of corruption are gone, the scorching desire to consume Archer whole has quietened, no longer burning him from the inside out. He's able to think again. And yet, as short as the corruption was, he can still vividly remember the thoughts and violent desires that came along with it. How he wanted to eat Archer, how he wanted to fuck him whether or not Archer liked it, how he wanted to destroy anything and anyone for just looking at his lover.

 

Being in Archer's arms, lying against his chest, makes things better and satisfies something animalistic in him – or perhaps divine? Gods are selfish after all –, but it's far from perfect. He's afraid that, the moment he lets go, the second they start interacting with someone else, the dark thoughts will return. What if Da hasn't been able to burn all the corruption away? What if it's still there, lying in wait? What is Sétanta supposed to do if the thoughts come back? Can he control them? Or will he end up hurting Archer just like Alaya has? 

 

He can't stand the mere thought of being like her, of causing Archer pain and suffering, of scaring him again. Because Sétanta will never forget Archer's face when he realised the spearman was corrupted; what the demi-god's twisted mind saw as love, or fear of Alaya, or submission to him, was in reality fear. He knows, he knows he would have hurt Archer. Knows he would have abused the bowman if he had tried to escape his obsessive possessiveness. He would have been just like Alaya, just like all the people who hurt Archer in the past, and he feels like throwing up just thinking about it. 

 

As much as it's part of his legend, Sétanta doesn't like losing control of himself. He hates waking up with blood on his hands with nothing but vague impressions and lingering feelings as memories of the last few hours. Because it happened many times when he was alive, one would think he's aware of the sensation, and knows perfectly the feeling of turning into a monster. But this is so much worse, for as much as the ríastrad is awful, it isn't cruel. It's mindless, nothing but instincts. Being corrupted, however, is cruel. It's being a grotesque version of yourself.

 

The unknown is scary, but ignorance is bliss.

 

Philosophers would have a blast with the paradox, but for Sétanta, the answer is cut and dry. What he knows is scarier than what he doesn't know. The unknown is interesting at best, and utterly boring at worst. What you know will eat you alive, what you don't know can't bother you. Or at least, that's how Sétanta has always seen things and the last hours prove him right; he's never had to fear Corruption until he experienced it.

 

He snuggles closer to Archer's, closing his eyes and taking in his lover's smell. Spices and steel. Homemaker and warrior. Who he is and who he's forced to be. Sétanta hopes that one day, Archer won't smell of steel anymore, just spices and maybe fruits or flowers. That way, Sétanta will know that Archer's fighting days are finally over, that he can finally be himself. He wants to see the bowman put his weapons away forever and enjoy a simple afterlife, cooking and resting, meeting all the other Heroes of the Throne. He never wants Archer to be lonely again.

 

Among the cogs, the sunset is warmer than usual, and Sétanta is almost certain he can hear the distant cowling of a crow. For once, he smiles a bit upon hearing the sound. It isn't often that he welcomes the Morrígan’s affection, but he won't refuse it today.

 

"A crow…?" Archer mumbles. "I didn't know she could reach my Reality Marble. Lugh, yes, because he's the main god but the Morrígan?"

"The Morrígan's olda' than me Da. She's 'bout as old as Manannán, I think, can't really rememba'," Sétanta explains"

"What?" he almost screeches before groaning in annoyance. "Gods are a mess to understand…"

 

Sétanta chuckles. He can perfectly picture his lover's expression right now. Slightly frowned brows, lips pressed together. He looks up and smiles; he was right. Amused, he gives Archer a chaste kiss. Strong arms hold him right there, and the bowman kisses him a few more times, much to Sétanta's delight. When they separate, Archer's hand comes to his cheek, and he nuzzles it, feeling a purr coming out of his chest on its own.

 

"You call me a cat, but here you are, purring."

"Mhm, maebe, but ye're more ov a cat than I. Ye sleep an’ react like one."

"I sleep like one?"

"Aye! All curl’d up and clingy and soft! It's real cute," Sétanta grins, chuckling when Archer's eyebrow twitches in annoyance. He plants a kiss right next to said eyebrow. "Don't be like that, love! I love it."

 

This makes Archer blush all the way down his neck and under his shirt, and the bowman quickly puts his hands on his face.

 

"You! You can't just! Argh!"

 

Sétanta bursts out laughing. He really is adorable when he gets all shy and flustered like this. He can't wait to see his reaction when he introduces him to all of his friends in the Throne, whoever they may be.

 

---

 

They are allowed a few more hours of rest before a call comes. Much to Sétanta's delight, however, it's not Alaya. It's from a Grail War Master. It doesn't call Sétanta, though. It's a call thrown in the wind, with no catalyst in sight. There isn't the powerful mana of a mage like Helene either, nothing. Just a weak Master and their hope. Sétanta doesn't react, instead snuggling closer to Archer. He must have heard this kind of call in the past, but he doesn't think he's ever answered them. He doesn't necessarily want his master to be the most powerful magus around, or to have a catalyst, but there needs to at least be the promise of a good fight. That's all he ever comes for after all; a good fight.

 

"Should we go?" Archer asks.

"Mhm… Why? It ain' even meant fer us."

"I know. That's why I'm saying it. If a call reaches me… It means that no one else agreed."

 

Sétanta looks up, surprised, and Archer sits up, scratching his neck.

 

"Rin was the exception since she has my catalyst – it's her gem necklace. But otherwise, calls only reach me when no one else answered."

"So ye're tellin' me if we don't go, that Masta' won't get no Servant?"

"Yeah. But we don't have to." He pulls Sétanta against his chest, and the demi-god sighs contently. "You're exhausted, and in no shape to deal with a War."

"It'd take me mind ov that bullshit frem Fuyuki," Sétanta says after a few seconds.

"It's your choice."

 

Sétanta nods and, after breathing heavily, he stands up and offers his hand to Archer. His lover takes it, and they answer the call, disappearing in a myriad of lights. Everything goes dark, and he feels himself leaving Unlimited Blade Works.

 

He opens his eyes in a dark basement, and the spearman must blink once or twice to get used to it. When he does, however, he feels his heart tightening in pity. Kneeling just outside the summoning circle is a teenager, fifteen or sixteen at best, with deep blue hair falling on his face. He's yet to look up, and he's panting heavily. The Summoning took a heavy toll on him. Poor child. Behind him is an old, bald man that Sétanta instantly dislikes. His mana is far too familiar to Kirei's one. No way he's trusting this man with the safety of his young Master.

 

"'ello there, Masta'!" Sétanta exclaims as cheerfully as he can, stepping towards the human and putting a knee down. "Why don't'che lemme 'elp ye up?"

 

The teenager raises his head, and Sétanta almost curses in surprise. This boy isn't just any boy. This is Shinji fucking Matō. This has to be a fucking joke. Sétanta stops himself from reacting in any way, though. This is obviously not the same timeline as the one he remembers. Half of the boy's face is disfigured by heavy scars looking like something with claws ripped half of his face off, and it seems there are more scars beneath his clothes. This is a different Shinji than the one he's met. This is a very scared, very hurt child.

 

"Oh… Huh, yes… please… I'm sorry, I didn't think I'd be too weak to stand… Sorry…" the boy mutters, and Sétanta forces a kind smile on his face.

"Don't'che worry! That's what Servant are fer! We do the 'eavy liftin' fer ye!" Gently taking the boy in his arms, he stands back up and turns to Archer, whose eyes scream confusion and shock. In his arms, Shinji makes a surprised noise. "That's me friend, Archa'! We're a paer, so ye get two Servants fer the price ov one. Neet, eh?"

"Y-yes, it is… I huh, I hope I'll be able to provide enough mana for the two of you…"

"Don't'cha worry 'bout that! We'll find a solution, 'kay?"

 

Before Shinji can say anything, his relative makes a sound between amusement and sadism. It makes the boy freeze in Sétanta's arms, confirming the demi-god's doubts. That man is behind the boy's state and not to be trusted in any way, shape or form.

 

"There is a solution, of course. We are the Matō family, and this is our area of specialty."

"I know the way of the Matōs, and if you think I'm going let you do half of what you think to my Master, you must have a death wish," Archer threatens in a voice so cold it almost makes Sétanta shiver.

 

Instinctively, he holds Shinji tighter against him, rubbing circles on his shoulder with his thumb when the boy tries to press himself closer to him. The old magus tilts his head to the side before eventually shrugging.

 

"You are more than welcome to try things your way. I take no pleasure in relying on Crest Worms." It's such a blatant lie Sétanta can't help but scoff in outrage. If it wasn't for the shaking teenager in his arms, he might have done more. "Let us get upstairs. Shinji needs rest."

"That, we agree on. Lancer, let's get Master to bed."

 

Sétanta agrees and follows Archer out of the dirty basement. After making their way through a long, humid corridor, they reach a splendid, rich mansion that almost puts the Tohsaka to shame.

 

"Where's your room, Master?" Archer asks gently.

"Hum, upstairs… but you don't have to bother… I'll get up on my own…"

"Don't be daft; it's a miracle you're conscious. Any Master would be out like a light after summoning us," Archer replies.

"R-really?"

"Of course. Maintaining two Servants is hard, but we can talk about it in the morning, when you've rested enough."

"Alright…" the boy mumbles.

 

When they reach Shinji’s bedroom, Sétanta notices there are several canes lined against the wall and even a wheelchair. Gods, how badly has this kid been destroyed by his family? It looks like the Matōs are assholes no matter the timeline he finds himself in. Still, he says nothing and gently puts him on the bed. The teenager sighs in relief when his body hits the mattress, and he leans down a bit to massage his leg.

 

"S-sorry… my leg is really bad… You were probably hoping for a better Master…"

"We've had a blind Master, and she won the War," Archer replies with a shrug. "A disability doesn't make you any less capable."

"If you say so…" he mumbles, looking down and switching from massaging his leg to his arm. Looks like he has a bad arm as well. Then, suddenly, he freezes and looks up, looking embarrassed. "Oh, right! I didn't introduce myself! Sorry! My name is Shinji. Matō Shinji."

"I'm Archer, your main Servant. Sadly, I don't have a name to give you. I can't remember it."

"And I'm Cú Chulainn, Lanca' class! But there'll be anotha' Lanca'. 'M yer wee secret."

"Cú Chulainn? That's amazing…! People usually need catalysts and a crazy amount of mana to summon someone like you!" Shinji exclaims, with all but stars in his eyes. "I thought someone like Tohsaka or maybe an Einzbern would summon you… or maybe an eventual Irish participant?"

"Well, ye're the one who's got me in yer corner. Let's kick arse, alright lad?"

"I'll try my best!"

"That's good enough fer me. Fer now, get some rest, aye? We can talk strategies and all that shite in the mornin'."

 

The boy nods, seemingly less downcast than he was earlier. Sétanta and Archer leave him to rest and go to the next door bedroom, courtesy of the Matōs. It's simple but rich; the materials of the furniture are of great quality. Sétanta really wants to try the bed but right now, there are other matters to be addressed. With a few gestures, he casts a small barrier around them. No sound should come out of the room, allowing him and Archer to discuss this entire mess. Speaking of him, the bowman is sitting on the bed, face in his hands, elbows digging in his thighs. Sétanta kneels in front of him, gently pushing his hands away and cupping Archer's cheeks.

 

"Talk to me, love."

 

Grey and honey eyes meet his, a thousand emotions flickering in them. Sétanta can practically see the storm raging in his mind.

 

"I have to be nice to him when all I remember when I see this face is how awful he was. Sure, it's nothing compared to what I've seen, to what I've done, but…"

"I know. He hurt'cha. He hurt the little lady."

"And… and Sakura too. You don't know her, she wasn't very involved in our War but…" Archer pauses and Sétanta thinks he will stop there, but he doesn't. "She's Rin's biological sister, but she was given to the Matōs to be their new heir since Shinji had almost no magic circuits. He hurt her, in every single way a man can hurt a woman."

 

Sétanta nods. He's seen it happen and, although he strictly forbade his men to act like this, he couldn't stop all of them. For all he hates Medb, she was justified in her own hatred of his uncle Conchobar. If she hadn't been such a raging bitch to everyone and everything in her path, he might have fought for her, now that he thinks about it. If it wasn't for his mother… he might have left Ulster with Emer and Finn. But what's done is done, and he can't change it. What he means is just that Medb was entitled to her fury.

 

"But that ain't him. The lad in that room next door… he looks and sounds and has the same name as the one you knew, but it ain't him. That lad… he's hurt. An' scar'd shitless."

"I know. I know it's not him. It's just…"

"It ain't easy to reconcile. I know. I didn't know half ov what he did, but I almost got whiplashed when I saw him."

"You tell me."

 

Instead of replying, Sétanta stands up and gently pushes Archer on the mattress before straddling him and kissing him gently. Archer's arms hold him closer, one of his hands coming to his hair. The metal bead holding it together is removed, and fingers play with the blue strands. Heat pools in Sétanta's stomach as electricity courses through his veins all the way to his fingertips, but he pushes them away. He's too scared. 

 

Scared of himself, scared of what desire will turn into. Although the dark, obsessive thoughts brought upon by the Grail no longer control him, Sétanta has yet to forget them. What if too much desire brings them back to the forefront of his mind? What if he turns back into this grotesque version of himself? What if he hurts Archer? He doesn't want that, he cannot allow it. He's sworn to keep Archer safe, to help him heal and rest.

 

Sétanta doesn't know for how long they kiss, nor when they move to be laying properly in bed, but he doesn't complain. Archer is resting in his arms, head just below Sétanta's. The demi-god stares at the wall in front of him, not really seeing it. His focus is on his beloved in his arms, on what this War will do to them. Being back in Fuyuki is... Bad, to say the least. Sétanta can't forget about 1994 and the Corruption, and this place is everything that hurts Archer.

 

Talk about E rank luck.

 

---

 

Rin squeals in delight when the summoning circle flares to life and a Servant starts appearing. She's done it! She's going to be a Master in the Holy Grail War! Jumping up and down in joy despite her exhaustion and the massive drain on her mana reserve, she excitedly observes the process of a Servant appearing. She's offered Sakura to come with her, but her little sister refused, stating it's important for her to meet her Servant privately.

 

When the light dims, Rin is able to take a good look at a Servant. He's a man in his twenties with black hair and golden eyes. There's a mole beneath his eye, which instantly makes Rin avert her eyes. That mole is all she needs to recognise her Servant, and she can't afford to be cursed so stupidly.

 

"My Lady, it is an honour to meet you and be at your service. I am Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, of the Knight of the Fianna. My spears are yours to command."

 

God damnit, she has to admit that having a handsome knight swearing fealty to her is pretty flattering, cursed mole or not. Thank god she came prepared.

 

"My name is Rin, Tohsaka Rin! Wait a second, I have something for you!" she exclaims, running to a shelf and rummaging through her many trinkets. Where did she put it? Ah, here! With a triumphant noise, she digs a necklace from a box and turns around, looking everywhere but at Diarmuid. "Here! It should put your curse to sleep! It would suck if I got magically charmed. Also my sister lives here so even if it doesn't work on me cuz I'm your Master, it would work on her and I don't want that."

 

Diarmuid steps forward wordlessly and takes the necklace, putting it on. Only then does Rin allow herself to take a good look at his face. Well, curse or not, he's definitely a handsome man. So much so he's almost otherworldly and perhaps even a bit too inhuman-looking, in an eerie way. She supposed it makes sense, considering his ancestry. He's studying the simple curse blocker, fingers tracing the jewel. His eyes seem to be watching a faraway scene Rin isn't privy to.

 

"Thank you, my Lady. It means a lot to me."

Notes:

One day, they will know peace. One day. (Maybe)

Also I'll be switching POVs a bit more for this arc since Artoria and Diarmuid will have a chance to talk a bit about what happened in Fate/Zero. Plus I like the idea of showing the boys from someone else's POV 😊

(Also because I'm planting some seeds for future arcs uwu)

Second Mini-Singularity reactions:

• TINY FERGUS??? God he's so cute
• Not everyone being surprised that he's not a born-womanizer
• "Do you know Cú Chulainn and Medb?" WAIT IS THIS WHERE TINY CÚ CHULAINN APPEAR????
• Does Astolfo sleep with Fergus???????
• STAY AWAY FROM BABY FERGUS YOU CREEPS
• "is this a geas????" Nah that's just sexism. Baby Fergus, you're tiny and they're grown adults. You can fight back don't worry
• "I'd look good in chains" okay Astolfo, too much information lmfao
• Any random man: *breathes*
Penthelisea: ACHIIIIIIIILEEEES
• Da Vinci calling Michelangelo "Mikey" is so cute. True besties
• THE IRONY OF COLOMBUS BEING AGAINST SLAVERY. BITCH.
• "Pirate Princess" yeah that's Drake lmfao
• Not Astolfo getting Apocrypha flashbacks
• God Tiny Fergus is so cute
• This singularity needs a TW for implied sexual assault. Some moments were genuinely triggering for me because I wasn't expecting them. Not cool, Type-Moon :(((((
• I'm sorry but the Megalos / Penthelisea interventions during the fight had me howling. This shouldn't be so funny
• WHY AM I SITTING ON MEGALOS
• RIP Penthelisea. You deserve a better armour design
• Oh no, Cristopher Columbus was evil, who could have seen THAT one coming? [Surprised_Pikachu_Face.jpg]
• OMG HELP ME HIS SPRITES ARE CURSED HELP HELP HELP. I WANT AN EXORCIST. THIS IS THE STUFF OF NIGHTMARES
• TINY FERGUS NOOOOOO
• No tiny Sétanta. I'm disappointed

Chapter 28: Fuyuki, 2004

Summary:

Archer try to deal with his first day of being Shinji's Servant. But of course, Rin Tohsaka doesn't care and decides to barge in with all the subtlety that comes with it.

Notes:

Trigger warning: ableism, internalised ableism and Shinji's overall terrible self-esteem

Alternative summary: Archer and Sétanta contemplate murder for 3k words

I extrapolated the Matō family magecraft since, despite the several wiki pages I've read, it doesn't seem to have proper explanation. The name is Absorb/Absorption and they had to run from their native Russia so I tried to build something up from here. It will also give Shinji the opportunity to have some cool moments in the future.

Archer doesn't know what to expect from this Shinji; the massive scars and disabled leg make it 'easy' to differentiate him from the one he used to know, but it's not far from a comfortable situation. However, he forces himself to be as neutral as possible when the boy stumbles downstairs in the morning, leaning heavily on a crutch to make his way to the table. He's all but panting when he sits down, reaching under the table to massage his leg. Archer puts the food he's cooked earlier on the table, and the teenager blinks in surprise.

 

"Is… it's for me?" he asks.

"Of course. Lancer and I don't need to eat."

 

Fuck. His words came out harsher than Archer wanted to. However, Shinji doesn't seem to mind. Instead, he seems to study the food in silence before wiping his face and sniffling. Is… is he crying? Before Archer can say anything, though, the teenager gives him a smile that seems out of place on this face. There's a hint of tears in his left eye – the one on the unscarred side or his face –, but Archer doesn't mention it. His stomach is twisting, horrified that a teenager could be on the verge of tears simply because of a homemade meal. 

 

"Thank you, Archer!"

"Just eat, kid."

 

The boy nods and quickly complies, finishing his plate in record time, almost as fast as Artoria. For fuck's sake, when was the last time this kid was properly fed? He's always known the Matōs are awful, but starving your last heir seems almost cartoonishly evil. And, of course, stupid beyond measure. But then again, Zōken was never the most reasonable man. Sétanta's voice echoes in his head as he hovers in the room in Spirit Form. As the most mana-demanding of the two, they've decided he will remain in Spirit Form unless necessary.

 

'So, when are we killin' the old baste'd?'

'When we get the occasion, and Shinji's permission. We can't… if we force it on him, he won't feel any better. Kill Zōken now, and he'll resent us.'

 

Sétanta remains silent for a bit, and Archer feels cold arms around him. Zōken’s treatment of Shinji painfully reminds him of what Alaya is to him, the way he still adores and fears her at the same time. How long it took to decide he wanted out. Even if he still has doubts. Even if he still cares about her opinion, even if a part of him still loves her. It might never entirely go away, and Archer hates it with everything he has. Warmth circles around him, like a hug, and Archer runs a hand through his hair.

 

'Don't think 'bout'er, a shod. She ain't worth it.'

'A shod? What does it mean?'

'I'll tell ye lata'.'

'Sétanta if this is a sex joke I will throw you off a cliff.'

Sétanta laughs in his head. 'Hot. I love a man who can kick me arse.'

'Of course, you do. Focus, will you? We're following Shinji to school.'

'Yessir!'

 

Archer shakes his head fondly before following Shinji outside of the massive manor. The teenager has slung a backpack over his good shoulder, but it clearly takes a toll on him.

 

"Would you like me to help?"

 

Shinji glances at him, then at the ground, hands tightening on the crutch and the sling. Pride and practicality visibly fight in his head, and Archer can almost hear the contradictory source.

 

"It's… I don't want to be a bother…"

"You're not. I don't mind, or I wouldn't be offering."

 

This seems to convince Shinji, who shrugs off the backpack and lets it fall from his shoulder. Archer easily grabs it before it hits the floor and puts it on his shoulder before bending down and taking Shinji in his arms bridal-style. The boy yelps, clutching the crutch against his chest, and Archer jumps on the nearest building. It's not exactly as stealthy as he'd like it to be, but his Master needs his assistance and he's not broken enough to refuse a disabled teenager in need, anyway.

 

Sétanta's mental voice is sharp. 'Ye're not broken, a shod.'

'Let's agree to disagree for now.'

 

He glances at his Master in his arms, and a small smile appears on his face. The teenager's blue eyes have widened in surprise and then amazement, and there's an almost goofy grin on his face. He looks on the verge of laughing in amusement, and the innocence of the happiness rolling off his mind in waves painfully reminds Archer of Lizzie and Zander. When was the last time he was allowed to be a teenager? Or even to have fun?

 

Archer lands a few streets away from Fuyuki high school, gently putting Shinji down before giving him his backpack back.

 

"Thank you, Archer. Will… will you two stay around?"

"Yes, just in case something happens." He switches to Spirit Form, following Shinji as he makes his way to the school. 'From what you've told us, the Tohsaka sisters attend school with you. One of them will be a Master.'

'Yes, I suppose so…' the teenager pauses. 'They're geniuses, both of them. If I get to be a Master, so do they… I suppose they will have the Saber Servant, or perhaps the Lancer one. Or maybe both, if the two of them are Masters.'

 

Archer shudders at the idea. Going against both Sakura and Rin would be almost impossible; not only do they both have massive reserves of mana and would make a formidable team, the idea of hurting them makes him sick. And yet… and yet, they're not the girls he knows, one his closest friend and the other the kōhai he utterly failed to protect. Sétanta's mind brushes against his, gentle and comforting. He lets himself enjoy the warmth, leaving Sétanta to do the talking.

 

'We'll kick their arses either wae! Ye friends with them, Masta'? We could be allies fer a while.'

'No… I don't… I don't have many friends. And alliances won't work for me, I'm a Matō.'

'So what?'

'My family's magic is Absorption. I'm closer to a mana thief than a real magus. No respectable magus will associate with us.'

 

Archer's throat tightens. The Matōs' magecraft tends to make other magi run, but it's not due to disgust. It's due to fear. A magus able to absorb and steal the mana from anything and anyone is terrifying to fight, because they can easily siphon away the mana carefully put in sigils, jewels and other recipients. A long time ago, Alaya sent him to get rid of a Matō who had learnt to absorb the mana of living magi, crippling them forever – if they survived. He wants to tell it to Shinji, make him realise that his magecraft is nothing to sneer at, but he's not sure his words would reach the teenager. Maybe another day.

 

'Kickin' their arses it is, then!' Sétanta laughs. 'Ye're the one with two Servants Masta', don't forget!'

 

Shinji doesn't reply, but Archer can feel the teenager's happiness, relieved that he's not alone. It makes him sick; he's going to keep lying to this kid, keep going to pretend he doesn't know absolutely everything about the enemy Servants and Masters. Meanwhile, Shinji is going to trust him and feel grateful when he receives a measly pat on the head.

 

When they enter the school ground, Archer instantly feels the mana. This is the same barrier as in his past Summoning and his life. Rider hasn't changed. It would be better if he knew who she fucking is! His best working theory is Medusa due to her Pegasus, but he might be wrong. Who the hell is her master this time? Sakura? That seems unlikely, considering the barrier. Kirei, maybe? He's the kind of bastard who would enjoy the slaughter brought by the spell.

 

'Wh-what is that?!' Shinji asks, mental voice panicked.

'A barrier. Someone is going to turn this school into a slaughterhouse and harvest the lives of the students and staff for mana. It's barbaric, but efficient,' he explains.

'C-can we do something about it?'

'I'll check it out, see what I can do 'bout it,' Sétanta offers. 'It's betta' if I keep me distance frem ye fer now, anywae. Don't wan'anotha' Masta' to figure out ye got two ov us.'

'Thank you, Lancer…

 

 

Shinji lets out a sigh of relief when he all but collapses on his chair. His leg has been hurting like hell since he's Summoned his Servants. He puts his crutch against the wall next to him and absentmindedly massages the painful muscles. Archer's presence hovers around him, like a protective cloud of warmth. It lets him sink in the mana, and it helps him ignore the students sneering at his disfigured face. He tries to focus on his Servants – their eyes don't hold any contempt or false pity for him. They looked at him like he's a regular person, something that has… never happened.

 

'Masta', there's anotha' Servant here. They're on the roof, but they came with the Tohsaka sisters. They look attached to the older one,' Cú Chulainn suddenly says in his mind, and Shinji almost jumps in surprise.

'O-okay… can you tell which Servant it is?'

'Nah. They ain't weak but they didn't have a shite load ov mana, so I'd say one ov the Knight classes.'

 

Of course. Trust Tohsaka to summon a Knight Class Servant without going through half of what he had to. He bites his lower lip, failing to swallow down the ugly feeling in his chest as tears tickle his left eye – the right can't cry anymore. It's not fair. Why do they get everything? A good family, normal magic circuits, a type of magecraft that doesn't make everyone run away in disgust… And then they're pretty, and smart, and talented, and rich, and loved. The Geniuses of the Tohsaka household, good at everything. Meanwhile, he's the runt of the Matōs, a failure of a grandson who has to rely on awful techniques to be just above the bottom of the barrel. 

 

Looking down to his scarred hand, Shinji crosses his arms on the table and hides in them. He doesn't want to look at the world.

 

'Hey, Masta', ye shouldn't compaere yerself to those lassies. Ye're the one with two Servants, rememba'?' Cú Chulainn says gently.

'They could do it too, and they'd have more mana to spare… and their bodies aren't falling apart…'

'I'm fine with ye as our Masta', lad. Don't sell yerself short, ye're gonna do great.'

 

But he doesn't want to do great. He doesn't even want to participate in this stupid Holy Grail War. He wants to be normal. But he can't disobey Grandfather, or he'll be punished and anything else is better than his punishment. Anything is better than being in the basement, with the worms devouring his flesh from the inside out, leaving him to scream and beg and cry aND WAIL AND –

 

"Hey, Shinji!"

 

The teenager jumps in surprise, almost falling from his chair. He whirls around, chest heaving because of the painful memories and eyes widened. A red-haired boy looks at him worriedly. It's Shirō Emiya, the only person whose eyes don't remind Shinji he's a freak.

 

"H-hey, Emiya… I… I didn't hear you…"

"It's fine. Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Y-yeah, I'm fine. You startled me, that's all."

"If you say so." Emiya slumps on his chair, grabbing his books. "Have you seen Tohsaka today? She's late, that's unlike her."

"No, I haven't. Sorry."

"That's fine, man!" Emiya grins, brighter than the sun.

 

Before Emiya can keep chatting about whatever, their class-president shows up. The look Issei gives Shinji is filled with disdain, even though he tries to hide it under his usual aloofness. The Matō heir looks down, massaging his leg – it's suddenly painful again. He tries to inject some mana in the muscles, hoping it will diffuse the stinging pain, but his efforts are fruitless. And so the pain remains. Oh well. It's not the worst he's had, he can deal with it.

 

Tohsaka is the last to enter class and like everyone else, her eyes are filled with nothing but false pity for Shinji when she sees him. However, she frowns and the blue-haired teenager quickly looks away. She's probably sensed Archer's invisible presence, the same way he can tell her Servant is with her. Like Cú Chulainn has said, their presence is quite strong, but not through mana. It's like charisma, or rather pure physical prowess. They're a Knight Class for sure.

 

'Mhm. Looks like Sétanta was right. We found Lancer or Saber. How would you like to act?'

'W-well, we can't do anything during the day, right? And… I don't I can win against Tohsaka anyway…'

'We can win against her Servant. That's what matters here,' Archer declares without a shred of doubt. 'However, we can attempt to speak with her. She might be open to dialogue, especially with that barrier around the school.'

'Y-yeah, you're right…'

 

 

Rin approaches Shinji the second the lunch bell rings, scaring away any potential witness with a glare. Archer can't help but tense when he sees Shinji freeze, holding his pen tighter. The Tohaska magus slams her hands on the teenager's desk, leaning down.

 

"Is it you?!" she all but snarls.

 

Archer wants to manifest and intervene – Rin or not, Servant instincts demand he eliminates whatever is scaring his Master –, but Shinji somehow finds the strength – or rather anger – to stand as well, leaning heavily on his left leg. He cannot stand perfectly straight but even like this, he's taller than Rin.

 

"No, it's not," he hisses. "Do I look fucking brain-dead to you?"

Rin studies Shinji a few seconds before grinning and taking a step back, hands in the air in mock surrender. "Good! Wanna team up to destroy it?"

Shinji gives her a distrustful look. "Why would you need my help? You're a genius."

"I'm throwing you a bone here, Matō. Take it or not, I don't care. I'll be handling it tonight around 10 o'clock. Come or don't, it's your loss," she shrugs.

"Spare me the false pity…" Shinji mutters, sitting down with a sigh of pain.

"I don't give enough fucks to fake pity, buddy," she scoffs, crossing her arms on her chest. Her eyes grow kinder. "Look, you need mana to ease the pain, don't you? That's why you look that bad after only what… two days of being a Master?" When Shinji doesn't reply, she keeps going. "You can siphon the mana barrier for yourself, if you want. I can't do it, so you can take it."

 

This time, Shinji's temper flares to life like a volcano and he slams his good fist on the table, bright blue mana circuits shining under his skin.

 

"I said, spare me the fucking pity!" he roars. "I'm not some pet you can project your white knight delusions on! Piss off, Tohsaka!"

"Fine! Stay miserable, then! See if I care!" She screams back, slamming the classroom door behind her.

 

Two seconds later, Shinji sends all his books and pens flying in a fit of rage before bursting into tears. The wails are heartbreaking, and Archer takes a physical form. He crouches next to the sobbing boy and rubs comforting circles on his back.

 

'Sétanta get your ass over here, I can't comfort him for shit!'

 

"I-I'm s-s-sorry," he sobs, struggling to breathe. "It's… it's the first… first day and I… I already ruined our only chance of getting an ally!" he chokes, chest heaving.

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay. We don't need allies."

Sétanta takes a physical form a second later and takes the boy's good hand in his. "Archa's right. We can do it, and we'll be just fine. Ye got us, 'kay? Don't mind that lassie. Come on, breathe with me lad. In… one… two… three… And out. There ye go... Ye're doin' great... Keep breathing."

 

---

 

Rin angrily kicks a rock, sending it flying against a nearby trashcan. It does nothing to help her frustration, of course, so she lets a frustrated scream.

 

"Argh! Why is so dumb?! I'm trying to help him!" she shrieks.

 

Diarmuid is leaning against a wall, leaving her rant about her frustrations to Sakura, who is of course used to it.

 

"Have you maybe considered you probably sounded awful?" her little sister asks.

"You're the one who told me to be nice! I tried to be sympathetic! Told him he could have all the mana left to help with his leg!"

 

Sakura all but gapes at her before facepalming with a groan of despair. Even Diarmuid seems astonished, eyebrows raised.

 

"What did I do now?" she exclaims, raising her arms in defeat.

"You.. mentioned… his… leg...?"

"Yes! Because he's obviously in pain! This would be the perfect way for him to feel better for free!"

"Nee-chan, I love you, but you're a fucking moron." Sakura says flatly.

"What?!"

"My lady…" Diarmuid says carefully. "Is it possible that this young man may dislike being reminded of his disability…? I believe appealing to his abilities as a magus would be a better way to sway him."

 

Rin suddenly feels like an idiot. Of fucking course. She should have told Shinji she could use his expertise and that a third pair of eyes can't hurt, and what if his Servant has some precious knowledge they could use? The Matōs are weirdos, so he probably knows more than her about murderous barriers of doom. That and, as much as she hates to admit it, Shinji is fucking smart. And what did she do? Mentioned his very obvious sore spot. God she's socially inept.

 

"Why did you let me handle negotiations?" she asks Sakura. "Diarmuid couldn't know I'm awful at this but what's your excuse?"

"Faith that you weren't that dumb? Don't worry, I stand corrected," Sakura deadpans. "No more negotiations for you. You stick to threats of bodily harm."

 

Rin breathes deeply and puts her hands together. She can't kick her sister off the school's rooftop for being right, she can't kick her sister off the school's rooftop for being right, she can't kick her sister off the school's rooftop for being right...

 

"So. What do we do about Shinji?"

“I'll talk to him,” Sakura sighs. "And I suppose a gesture of good faith wouldn't hurt. If we reveal that you have the Lancer Servant, it wouldn't hurt."

"What if he has Saber?!"

"Then we pray negotiations go well."

"Urgh. Fine. But don't give them Lancer's name, okay?"

Sakura rolls her eyes. "I don't even know how you're supposed to pronounce it."

Notes:

Rin: anyway I started by accusing him of creating the barrier. Why would he be mad at me???
Sakura and Diarmuid: ...

Shinji is super interesting to write, ngl. He's extremely envious and angry at the world, so he can sometimes blow up at people despite his crippling self-esteem issues and terror of Zōken. Rin talking about his body's state basically triggers his rage due to his internalised ableism. He sees himself as a broken freak but at the same time he hates people who pity him and/or are disgusted by appearance. In the end, he just wants someone to treat him normally.

Chapter 29: Alliance

Summary:

Shinji gets allies, and Sétanta runs into an old 'friend'

The Einzbern castle is the same as ever. He's never gone the last time he was in Fuyuki, but it's not like he doesn't know where it is. Bounded fields surround it, with layers upon layers of spells carefully woven in them. The intricate magecraft is meant to repel any and all unwelcome guests, Heroic Spirits and humans alike, and only a powerful Caster, backed by an equally powerful Master, could hope to take them down. That, and Helene. With the dragon scale's incredible raw power at her disposal, she surely would have been able to break the fields down with sheer force, assaulting them over and over again. 

Gods, he misses her. She's everything a Servant could hope for in a Master but more importantly, she was a hell of a woman. Unbreakable and undefeated, yet kind and gentle. Sétanta wishes she was here to advise him on the situation Archer and he are in. He almost snorts at the idea. She would probably chastise them for struggling with Shinji but at the same time, she would understand. She'd care for the hurt teenager just much as she would sympathise with Archer's conflicted feelings. Now that Sétanta thinks about it, the lady would probably burn the whole Matō estate to the ground to make Zōken pay for his actions. He can almost picture the scene; Helene standing on the ruins, mana flaring around her. It would be one hell of a sight.

With a sigh, Sétanta pushes away the memories of his last Master. He'll never see her again, and she had her happy ending – or at least, as happy as can be considering the circumstances. It's better to let bygones be bygones rather than worry over something he can't do shit about. He needs to focus on his current Master, the terrified lad he's left at school with Archer while he scouts.

So far, he's checked on the Emiya household, only to find no trace of the summoning circle that was once used to summon Artoria. There's some mana there, but nothing he's familiar with. He doesn't know if it's a good sign or not; she's a pain to fight but at the same time she's honourable, which means he wouldn't have to worry about Shinji's safety. The King of Knights would never go after a disabled teenager, even if that means losing the Grail War. Or at least, that's how he perceives her. Perhaps she'll prove him wrong, but he's not holding his breath. His instinct is rarely – if never – wrong.

'Stayin'ere askin meself a thousand questions ain't gonna be useful,' he tells himself before leaving the Einzbern territory. He can't get any close without ringing a dozen alarm bells, so staying here would be entirely useless. He has other places to check out, and limited time. Pondering over what-ifs won't do him any good, and he'd rather go back to Archer and Shinji as soon as he can.

Ryūdo Temple isn't much different from Sétanta's memory. Caster's mana isn't as overwhelming as it was last time, but he supposed she's still building her strength. Assassin is nowhere to be seen, but he has no reason to show himself unless another Servant tries to go through the gate, which isn't what Sétanta is after. He's strictly scouting for now, analysing the situation and seeing what's different and what isn't. Still, Sétanta retreats quickly; he doesn't want Caster to send Assassin after him; it would ruin the surprise of his very presence here.

His next and final stop is the most annoying of them all. The Kotomine Church. Of course, the moment he gets close enough, Sétanta feels Gilgamesh's mana, akin to a pressure on his chest. No other Servant is present, for they're not needed here. Gilgamesh has no equal after all – or none that Sétanta has met. He supposes gods and other immortal beings can give the King of Heroes a run for his money but against another Servant? The blond is almost guaranteed to win. Who can stand against Ea, after all? It pisses off Sétanta to no end as much as it amuses him. For all that he doesn't remember it, he was able to hold the King of Heroes back for twelve hours. That's something worth boasting.

Something glitters on the roof of the Church, and Sétanta is grateful for his instincts when he dodges the weapon hurled at him at supersonic speed. A growl vibrates through his chest; Gilgamesh found him. Of course he did. Jumping down from his vantage point, Sétanta balances Gáe Bulg on his shoulders.

 

"Alright, where ye at, Goldie?"

 

A thousand mocking voices echo around him, faint and ethereal.

 

"What, will you not sniff me out, dog ?"

 

Sétanta's sneer splits his face in half, and he feels his hold on his glamour waver as his teeth grow sharper and his mouth wider. Gilgamesh is a threat to Archer, his jewel, and the leftovers of Corruption thrum under his skin, demanding blood. He should mind, he should be terrified . But he doesn't. All he cares about is this threat and how he can destroy it. Thankfully, Sétanta keeps a hold on his temper and doesn't lose himself to his anger – not yet, at least, even if it burns under his skin, hotter than Lugh's flames.

 

"Ye don't smell good enough fer me to rememba' yer scent, fucka'."

 

Gold glitters in the air, and Gilgamesh takes on a physical form a few metres away from him, red eyes studying him. The King of Heroes wears regular clothes for the era, and his arms are crossed on his chest. He squints his eyes at Sétanta, tilting his head to the side.

 

"Interesting… I have met you before. Perhaps I should take a look at these timelines."

 

' Tch. Fuckin' clairvoyance .'

 

"Sure did. Ye were a right fucka' too. Ye gonna ruin everythin' this time too?"

"I do not what my other selves have done, but I have no interest in intervening. Watching is much more amusing."

"Aye, that's som'thin' ye'd sae! Stae clear ov me Masta' and me man, an' we're good. If ye touch eitha ov'em, howeva'..."

"Are you threatening me, mongrel?" the other man hisses, the Gates of Babylon erupting open around them like a volcano.

"Nah, I'm tellin' ye. I'll kill ye if ye touch them, and I'll find a wae to make it hurt ," Sétanta snarls.

 

Gilgamesh stares at him for a second before bursting out laughing, the many portals closing. His body glitters away, and his voice turns into many, almost divine in their intonation.

 

"How amusing! I'll keep watching you, cur . I don't doubt I'll be thoroughly entertained."

 

---

 

It doesn't take Sakura long to find Shinji. He's sitting on the benches in the schoolyard, soaking up the sun like a lazy cat. There's a cloud of mana around him, a feeling that Sakura has learnt is a Servant in Spirit Form. Sakura swallows the knot in her throat and walks to the bench, slightly relieved that Shinji is alone.

 

"Sempai?" she calls out, and Shinji twists around to look at her. His Servant's mana flares to life, threatening. Because it's nowhere near as scary as her sister's infamous temper, Sakura keeps a straight face and even smiles. "I was hoping I could talk to you."

"Ah… sure, Sakura-chan. Sit down," he offers, gesturing to the bench.

 

Once she's complied, Sakura takes a second to really look at Shinji. His shoulder-length blue hair, usually falling the scarred half of his face, has been pushed back behind his ears. Sakura feels her throat dry. There are dark circles under Shinji's eyes, his skin is pale, too pale even, and he's constantly absent-mindedly massaging his bad leg. She has to stop herself from grimacing; is there any moment he's not in pain? It looks so painful . The scars look like they're moving sometimes, as if something is writhing beneath Shinji's damaged skin. It's off-putting, to say the least, and Sakura won't make Shinji the discourtesy of pretending she doesn't see it. He's no idiot after all, and honesty will be better. Still, it's rude to stare and she'd rather not mention the scars at all.

 

"So, what can I do for you?" he asks, sounding tired.

“I'm sorry for what Rin said,” she replies perhaps a bit too bluntly, and Shinji narrows his eyes. "We really want an alliance with you."

"Why…? You don't even know what Servant I have."

"So what? What interests us is that pool of knowledge," she explains, pointing at his head. "Rin will never admit it out loud, but I know you know more stuff than us. Your library is more extensive than ours."

 

Shinji studies her for a second, probably discussing the potential alliance with his Servant. He doesn't seem really convinced, so Sakura uses her final card.

 

"Rin summoned the Lancer Servant. You don't have to tell me which one you have, it's a gesture of good faith on our part."

"Mhm…" he turns his attention to the schoolyard and mumbles a few things under his breath. Probably curses, or something intended for his Servant. Eventually, he speaks up. "I'll agree to a truce for now. Once the school is safe, the deal is off. Friendly fire isn't out of the table either; if I get a chance to take your Lancer and the other one down in one move, I will."

"That's fine. I believe in Lancer's abilities to handle whatever you'll throw at us," she says with a smile.

 

He studies her for a few seconds, silent. The piercing asymmetrical blue eyes seem to stare straight at her soul, and Sakura finds herself holding her breath. 

 

"What about you…? Don't you want a Servant and a Wish…?"

"No, not particularly. Rin is the one who inherited the family legacy, and I don't want to fight her. Especially not for something like this."

He looks away, massaging his arm. "I'll see you all tonight I suppose."

 

Sakura bids him goodbye and returns to her sister's side, up on the rooftop, to inform her of Shinji's decision. The purple-haired teenager is pleased to see some relief in Rin's blue eyes, even if her sister will never admit it out loud. Diarmuid, always the gentleman, slightly bows his head in acknowledgement. The spearman isn't really talkative and doesn't give his opinion unless he deems it necessary – or is asked about it.

 

"I wonder what Servant he has," Rin says as they walk down the stairs, returning to their respective classrooms.

"I don't know, but they're really protective. They were ready to fight in the courtyard."

Rin hums. "Lancer says it's normal. All Servants are protective of their Master, and Shinji's one would be even more so."

Sakura grimaces. She can imagine. "I guess we'll see eventually."

"Yup!" Rin exclaims, popping the 'p'. "And anyway, Lancer will kick their ass when the time comes."

 

---

 

Shinji cringes internally when he sees the many stairs. This is going to be a pain to climb, especially with a day he's just had. Still, it's nothing compared to the basement, and so he presses on, slowly ascending. It's arduous, and he needs to take breaks every ten steps or so, but he refuses to ask Archer to carry him. It's ridiculous enough that he can't do something as simple as climbing stairs normally, so asking for help is out of the question. What little pride he has won't allow him.

It takes him twenty-five minutes but, eventually, he reaches the roof. The Tohsaka sisters are already there, and the Lancer Servant is leaning against a wall, golden eyes only leaving his Master when Archer takes a physical form next to Shinji. Lancer assesses Archer, but Shinji leaves them to their dick measuring contest.

 

"Sempai, you came!" Sakura exclaims with, for some reason, a bright smile.

"Yeah… where's the sigil?"

"Here," Rin says, pointing at a wall. "Have fun with it, I already took a look."

 

Shinji makes his way towards it before letting himself fall to the ground, sighing in relief. His leg is burning in agony, begging for a hot bath and some rest. Tomorrow is going to be hell. Archer crouches near him, taking a look at the sigil as well. It has some Greek symbols, meaning they're dealing with a Heroic Spirit from Ancient Greece. They've narrowed it down to several hundreds of years. Wonderful. With a sigh, Shinji takes a notebook from his backpack and copies the sigil on the paper. He'll have to compare it with what he has in his library.

 

"Well, it's Ancient Greek, but I don't speak it," he says. "I'll compare it to what I can find in my family's grimoires."

"That would be neat. Should we blow this up, now?"

"That would alert the caster that we found it. It's better to keep an eye on it and see who and what we're dealing with," Archer intervenes in a detached tone.

"No. This thing can turn every non-mage into a corpse in less than five minutes. I'm dealing with this whether you guys help or not," she hisses. 

 

Her tone reminds Shinji of his grandfather when he disapproves of something, and the teenager feels his stomach twist. He can taste bile on his tongue, and only biting the muscle and force of will make the bile go back to his painful stomach. Then, without giving them a chance to reply, Rin stomps to the sigil. With a whispered spell, she pours some mana in it. Almost immediately, the sigil explodes with a burst of light and red energy. 

Rin yelps as her Servant moves her out of the way, and Shinji curls on himself to avoid the crackling mana. However, the expected pain doesn't come. Slowly, he opens his eyes to see Archer standing between him and the sigil, looking mildly annoyed at Rin. Oh. Archer protected him.

 

“Did she really think there wouldn't be any defense mechanism on this?” he grumbles before turning to Shinji. “Are you okay, Master?"

"Huh, yeah, b-but what about you?"

"I'm fine." He gestures at his red coat. "This is a Mystic Code, and it can fend off a lot of magic before breaking." Archer moves to the side to dust himself off, probably out of habit rather than necessity. "This mechanism is efficient against humans, but any Servant worth the name will be fine."

 

Shinji nods and takes a look at the sigil. The mechanism has run its course. It's now useless and broken, leaking mana. Not a lot, but enough to make the scalding pain in his leg bearable. Raising a palm towards the sigil, the teenager focuses quietly.

 

"Поглощать."

 

The mana flows around his hand like mist, slowly entering his skin. It's wild, and not of human origin. Whoever this Servant is, they weren't human. Or at least, not fully. Considering the sheer number of Greek demi-gods, it's not exactly surprising, he supposes. Still, it's annoying as it isn't easy to absorb and keep for himself. His circuits quickly burn, and Shinji finds himself forced to let most of it go to waste.

 

"Well, it's not a human," he says.

"How do you know?" Rin asks.

"Because I can't keep everything," he explains. He lets the mana flow on his leg and sighs in relief, standing up without help for the first time in a while. His muscles don't even protest – he might even be able to walk properly. If Rin and Sakura weren't here, he would give it a try, but he doesn't want to humiliate himself by falling should it fail. "The type of mana carried by Divine Spirits and monsters would burn my circuits like acid if I kept everything."

"That sucks."

"I'm unlikely to run into either, so I don't really care," he shrugs.

"I guess so," Rin says. "Let's do the others; I'm not leaving until that field is wrecked. Lancer, can your weapon do something about the mechanism?"

"It would disable the whole sigil, yes."

"Grand! We're doing that. Matō, you wanna check out the other sigils? Maybe they're a puzzle."

"Sure, as long as you don't mind going at my pace."

 

Rin makes a face, but Sakura slaps her behind the head, which causes an outraged 'ow!' to escape her. The display makes Shinji's stomach twist in envy and incomprehension. Envy because he too would like a sibling to get along with and incomprehension because he cannot fathom trusting someone like this. Sure, he trusts his Servants, but Archer and Cú Chulainn aren't here to stay and would've been loyal to whoever had summoned them. Not even Emiya, the person he's the closest too, makes him feel safe and happy like the sisters do for each other.

It's really fucking unfair.

 

'Are you alright, Master?'

'Y-yes, of course! Why?'

'You seem upset.'

'Oh… no, I'm not. Just… it's weird seeing people get along like that.'

'Ah, I see.'

 

Thankfully, Archer doesn't press the issue. Instead, they do their best to locate the remaining sigils. Sakura and Shinji dutifully copy them in their respective notebooks, and Lancer plants the tip of a red two-metres spear in them. The effect is immediate each time. Complete destruction of both the sigil and the defense mechanism. Shinji absorbs what little mana he can each time, his painful muscles relaxing a bit more.

Overall, it takes them about an hour to get the job done. When it is, Rin offers a hand to Shinji.

 

"I know you're not keen on friendship but we make a good team, I'd say. What about a real alliance?"

 

'What do you think?'

'It would be useful. I know who Lancer is. Cú Chulainn and I can defeat him when needed so for now, let's keep him on our side and use him. I'll tell you more when we're home.'

'Y-you know who it is?! That's amazing!'

 

He grabs the offered hand and shakes it.

 

"Allies then."

 

And then, the world becomes agony.

Notes:

Mwhahahaha 😈 what do you guys think is happening to Shinji?

---

Shinji says "Поглощать", pronounced "poglowat" which means Absorb in Russian (according to DeepL). Since the Matōs originally come from Russia, it would make sense for the family spells to still be chanted in Russian

---

Valentine's Event adventure:

• Not Kid!Gil and Lancer!Cú Chulainn being afraid of Caren xD I mean fair but lol
• ANGRA MANYU???
• Oh god the second-hand embarrassment is terrible, poor Johanna
• "Ready to shuffle off this mortal coil" Hahahaha
• I gave my main chocolate to Saber!Diarmuid and god he's so cute. Devoted baby. Gráine had the best husband, I'm jealous
• Morgan gave me chocolate and I love her so much!!! Her having a massive brainstorming session is absolutely adorable. My wife.
• Nitocris and Parvati are adorable.
• Fionn gives you a SALMON???? Gráine dodged a nuclear explosion, girl must be watching from heaven/the Throne (wink wink) like "thank GOD I high-tailed it the second I could"
• Caster!Cú Chulainn being socially awkward wasn't on my bingo but it's absolutely hilarious to know he walks around Chaldea with his hood on and avoids crowded space
• I must pat Billy and Proto Cú on the head. Also him wondering if Lancer!Cú Chulainn ever fought in a Grail War... Lmfao, yes he did.
• Can I adopt Bedivere?
• Bartholomew really tried roping you into his kink lmfao
• Fergus is too horny for his own good. This man istg.
• RIP Saber!Gilles, you'll be missed (or not)
• Gudako needs a year-long holiday after this bullshit

Chapter 30: Worms

Summary:

Shinji suffers, Artoria Pendragon enters the War.

The sun is shining, hot and almost unforgiving, but a slight breeze makes the weather bearable. Shinji loves this kind of weather. It's perfect to play and train for magecraft in the gardens. He's yet to do anything impressive or even average for someone his age, but that's okay. He'll become a great mage, even if it takes him some time. He'll make his parents proud, and they will congratulate him. The little boy smiles at the thought; his mother will kiss his cheek and his father will ruffle his hair, and they will stop being mad at each other all the time. They will all be happy together.

 

He crosses his legs and puts his hands on the ground, focusing what little mana he has in them. If he can absorb some mana, he'll be able to do something nice. But, as he pulls over and over again, almost nothing comes. Too soon, he's panting and sweating, with barely enough mana to light a candle. The boy wipes his forehead and goes to try one more time when he hears people screaming behind him. Whirling around, he sees his parents. They're in another shouting match and have yet to notice him. Instinctively, the boy puts his hands on his ears to protect them from the loud noise and curls into a ball so as to not see them fight. However, it doesn't spare him the words they exchange.

 

“It's your fault for giving birth to such a useless child!”

“My fault? My magic circuits are just fine. It's your family who's useless! That stupid, useless child is definitely your son!”

 

The sound of a slap, and his mother cries out in pain. Tears fill Shinji's eyes. He's scared. So scared. The screaming continues, and his stomach twists painfully. Why must his parents hate each other? Why must they hate him? Aren't parents supposed to love each other? Aren't they supposed to love their child? Has he done something wrong to cause this? Is it because he's bad at magecraft? More tears roll down his cheeks. He's sorry! He doesn't mean to be bad! He'll be great one day, they just need to wait and see!

 

“I'm sorry,” he sobs against the ground as the screaming slowly goes away. “I'll be a good mage one day, I promise…”

“Will you?” a voice suddenly asks behind him.

 

Shinji looks up and turns around to see his grandfather standing in the shadow of an apple tree. The boy wipes his face.

 

“Grandpa?”

“Will you be a good mage, one day?” the old man repeats, and Shinji nods eagerly.

“Yes! I'll make mum and dad proud of me!”

“Pah! Don't bother with making them proud. However, I can make you strong. Would you like that?”

“Really? You can? How?”

“Well, it is a long process, and pretty uncomfortable. Are you sure you can handle it?”

“Of course! I'll be the best one day!”

“Oh, I have no doubt you will.”

 

Thirty minutes later, Shinji's world is on fire.

 

---

 

Archer grabs Shinji just before his body hits the floor. The teenager is screaming and writhing in pain, body seizing and skin bulging and swelling under his clothes. Bile raises the Heroic Spirit's throats. The Crest Worms are acting up for some reason he can't bother to discover at the moment. What matters right now is getting them out of his Master's body. He lays the teenager down and rips his shirt open. The sight of Shinji's skin bulging and stretching because of the rampaging worms tearing his insides apart is awful. No one deserves a fate like this one. They need to act quickly, before the damage is irreversible. In the background, he can hear Rin and Sakura choke on tears while Diarmuid Ua Duibhne looks at the scene with wide eyes, preventing them from getting any closer.

 

'Sétanta! Hurry!'

'On me wae!'

 

His lover takes on a physical form next to them two seconds later and puts his hands between Shinji's jaws so he doesn't bite his tongue. At the same time, Archer traces a knife and slams his young Master's left arm on the ground. This seems to spur Diarmuid into action because he rushes to their side as well, holding Shinji's hips down. His jaw is clenched, and Archer decides to save his questions for later.

 

"Don't let him go. It's not going to be pretty."

 

And then, for the second time in far too little time, Archer starts slicing someone up. The first Crest Worm, with its revolting greyish skin and too-sharp teeth, hisses like a snake when exposed to the fresh air. Its legs, just as sharp as its teeth, are lodged in Shinji flesh like hooks, leaving a thousand cuts on his flesh. Grabbing it bare-handed despite the disgust it evokes in him, Archer rips the creature from his Master's body and tosses it away. The second the first one hits the ground, a shot of Gandr turns it into a pile of gore and blood. A glance up shows that it's Rin, pale and shaking, who just shot.

 

"I'll blast those horrors. Just… You owe us a hell of an explanation!"

"Later."

 

The process isn't very long; no more than four or five minutes. But Shinji doesn't stop screaming, doesn't stop crying, doesn't stop seizing for a single second. The sound is haunting, deafening. It's suffering in its purest form, like Archer has rarely heard it before. He has grown desensitised to death and suffering, to unjust slaughters and inhuman – or terribly human – genocides, but a Master screaming in pain is different. Especially one that has been suffering like this for years, most likely since he was a child. All Servants are protective of their Master; it's a rule of the Grail and very rare Heroic Spirits can escape it. Archer isn't one of these Servants. He doesn't get to be immune from the Grail's influence, doesn't get to be free of the instinct to serve, to obey.

 

Why would Alaya's dog ever be free, after all?

 

Pushing the thoughts away, he focuses on the task at hand, on the screams and the begging, on the seizing and the contorting teenager in his arms. He removes the fifth and last Crest Worm, crushing it in his fist and wiping his hands on his combat pants. Finally, finally, Shinji is granted some peace. Eyes rolled back, he's unconscious. The combination of suffering and blood loss has finally gotten to him and, if he's lucky, he'll get to sleep for the next fourteen hours.

 

"I-Is it over?" Sakura asks from behind her sister.

"Aye…" Sétanta replies, slowly letting go of Shinji's body and removing his hand from the boy's mouth. It's bloody and bitten.

"W-what were those things?" she mutters, voice so low a regular human wouldn't have heard her.

"Crest Worms. The Matōs use them to force magical circuits open…"

"He… His family did this to him?" the purple-haired teenager stutters, horror evident on her face.

"Yeah. Since he was a kid, most likely."

 

A sudden burst of mana explodes from Rin, and Archer is surprised to see her face contorted in an expression of pure fury and rage.

 

"Lancer?"

"Yes, my lady?"

“We're going to kill the Matōs. Now.”

Diarmuid stands up, slightly frowning. "Are you sure, my lady?"

"Yup. I'm going to burn their fucking manor of horrors to the ground, and they're going to pay. This isn't… This isn't okay."

"That ain't yer revenge to enjoy," Sétanta intervenes, standing up as well. "It's our Masta' over there who gets to decide when'is fuckin' family bites the dust."

 

Diarmuid glares at Sétanta, but the demi-god clearly doesn't let it deter him, staring at the teenage girl. Rin clenches her fists, her entire body shaking with rage. Furious tears are filling her eyes. Sakura gently takes her hand, encouraging her to relax. Slowly, the shaking stops, and Rin gives one final sad look at Shinji's unconscious body before turning around and letting out a scream of anger and frustration. Sakura comes to crouch near Shinji, pushing back his blue hair damp with sweat.

 

"You should come to our estate tonight. We can talk about everything and look after Shinji-senpai."

"I appreciate it," Archer says.

 

He lifts Shinji in his arms and next to him, Sétanta fades back to Spirit Form.

 

'Masta's almost out ov mana. It's betta' if I stae like that fer now.'

'I agree.'

 

---

 

The Tohsaka manor is the same as ever. If there had to be a difference, it would be Sakura's presence. She makes the place feel more alive, giving it a soul that wasn't there last time Archer lived here. He supposes Rin was lonely, and a Servant wasn't enough to fill the void left by dead parents and a sister she couldn't properly remember. Circumstances aside, it's nice to see the two sisters together, openly caring about the other.

 

Sakura shows them a room for Shinji and, as Archer puts the boy to bed, he notices the expectant look on Diarmuid's and Rin's faces. They want answers and if he doesn't provide soon enough, he'll have a fight on his hands. Usually, he would win against the spearman but, with a weakened Master when Rin is at top form with back-up if needed, he's not going to try his abysmal luck.

 

'Don't tell 'em the whole truth, a shod. It's betta' to keep some shite fer us. Especially since we didn't tell Shinji much. Maebe me name if we gotta.'

'Don't worry. I don't intend to.'

 

"We're two Heroic Spirits fused together," he says. "Technically, my Spirit Origin is merged with his, and we're summoned together. I'm the main Servant this time, so my class is the only one that counts."

"How did it happen?" Diarmuid asks, more curious than invasive, but still distrustful – as he should be.

"That's private. But I can tell you I'm the Archer Servant, and a nameless spirit. Usually, someone like me wouldn't be summonable."

"And who is he?" Rin snaps.

"A Lancer Servant. Or at least, that was his class last time we were summoned."

 

Rin narrows her eyes, unsatisfied, but she seems to know she won't get any more information out of him tonight. Next to her, Diarmuid looks ready to pounce. However, the threat is empty, for his spears have yet to appear.

 

"Well, so long as this alliance stands, I suppose it doesn't hurt," Sakura eventually says.

"We appreciate it," he replies, inclining his head. "This, and the help for helping our Master."

"Like hell I was allowing this to happen on my watch! Fuyuki is my turf, and the motherfucker who did that to Shinji is going to get what's coming for him."

 

Archer can't help but chuckle. No matter the timeline, Rin is always the same. She may have Sakura by her side and a different Servant at her service but she's still the Rin he knows.

 

"Lady Rin, you should get some rest. This young man won't wake up for a while…"

 

'If he's lucky' remains unsaid, and Archer goes to sit next to his Master to watch over him.

 

"We need to take care of Shinji's wounds first," Sakura says gently. "I'll grab some bandages, I'll be right back!"

 

She disappears in the corridor, and Archer suddenly feels like an idiot. He's spent such a long time as a Heroic Spirit that he's forgotten about something as obvious as taking care of wounds. Masters aren't supposed to get injured, and a Servant's wound cannot get infected – if it remains more than ten minutes. When Sakura comes back with a box of bandages, Archer stands to grab them. He may not have done this in… in a long time, but he still remembers how. Thankfully, the teenager hands the box over without question.

 

"Let's go to bed," she tells Rin, stretching. "I'm exhausted."

"I agree," the black-haired girl replies with a yawn. "Take good care of Shinji, Archer. Lancer, feel free to take a nap too!"

"I will, my lady," the spearman says, bowing his head.

 

A couple of minutes after the girls have disappeared in the corridor, Diarmuid comes to Archer's side, helping him clean the wounds. Allowing him to do so doesn't sit well with the bowman, but it's not about him. The sooner Shinji is bandaged and properly put to bed, the better. He can control the protective instincts pushed by the Grail.

 

"You seem to know who I am. How? I do not remember you in my life."

"We remember our previous summonings, and we've run into you. You're Diarmuid Ua Duibhne."

 

A hum.

 

'A shod, tell 'im who I am. They'll be too suspicious if we don't giv'em som'thin'.'

'Are you sure?'

'Betta' than fightin' them with the lad in that state, ain't it?'

'I suppose so.'

 

"Cú Chulainn." At Diarmuid's incredulous expression, Archer clarifies. "He's Cú Chulainn, not me. I'm truly a nobody spirit."

 

'A shod…'

'Don't.'

 

A sigh echoes in his head, but Archer ignores it, instead focusing on Diarmuid's reaction. The spearman seems deep in thought before chuckling something to himself in Irish.

 

"Grail Wars really are a great opportunity. I used to be told stories of him as a child. I believe I drove my mother mad with how many times I asked for them."

 

'I can tell'im the unrated versions if he wants!' Sétanta laughs and Archer rolls his eyes.

 

"He's offering the adult versions of said stories, if you're interested."

"I'll think about it," Diarmuid chuckles. He ties Shinji's last bandage and Archer lays the boy in bed, covering him with two warm blankets. "The lad should be fine for now."

"I appreciate your help."

Diarmuid shakes his head. "Our Masters are young, and I won't allow a child to be harmed unjustly."

 

Archer recalls their past encounters, and the many times the spearman put his own safety in jeopardy for others, especially Masters who didn't deserve it. His Saber self is less selfless, but still good enough to sacrifice himself if need be. Diarmuid Ua Duibhne is a kind man if there ever was one.

 

"I know."

 

---

 

The painting of Irisviel and Kiritsugu seems to have been made to haunt Artoria. Massive and hung above the fireplace, she cannot avoid it no matter how much she wishes she could. Irisviel is sitting on a chair with Kiritsugu standing behind her. He's dressed in all black, as usual, while Irisviel wears a baby blue dress. She's smiling, while Kiritsugu clearly cannot be bothered to do the same. The King of Knights can't help the scowl on her face. Rarely has she loathed someone as much as she loathes Kiritsugu Emiya. That someone as terrible as him managed to marry Irisviel and have a child as lovely as Ilya still baffles her. Still, she keeps her opinion to herself in her Master's presence. Ilya misses her parents, and speaking ill of the dead is dishonourable.

 

And yet, she cannot forget Diarmuid Ua Duibhne's face as he was forced to kill himself, as he spat and cried blood while cursing them all. This death, unfair and cowardly, is solely on Kiritsugu. It wasn't necessary; she would've won, fair and square. It would've been a wonderful duel, and Kiritsugu not only took that from her, he insulted her abilities as a warrior and Lancer's knighthood. She'll never forgive him for such an affront.

 

She'll never forgive for what he did to Irisviel either.

 

"You seem deep in thought, Saber."

 

Artoria turns away from the painting. Ilya is standing in the doorway, her brows forming a tiny crease between her eyes. The King of Knights smiles at the girl. She may not have been able to protect Irisviel, but she can look after her daughter.

 

“Everything is fine, Master. Simply some memories.”

 

And the world will burn before she lets anything happen to the girl.

Notes:

Mwhahahaha!!! Any guess on who will be Shirō's Servant? (No, it won't be Heracles, btw)

Chapter 31: Seventh Master

Summary:

Shirō Emiya almost gets killed and summons a Heroic Spirit.

Notes:

Hello everyone!!

I'm so sorry for the delay. I've gotten my hands on Baldur's Gate 3 and I'm in hyperfixation hell. Send help please, Astarion has me in a chokehold.

Also I've started another EmiCu fic, which is much heavier regarding the themes so keep yourself safe but if anyone's interested, please check it out!! It's a mafia AU, with Sétanta as a yandere 😉

It's four in the afternoon when Shinji wakes up. It's a slow process, involving groaning and a lot of tossing. It's clear to Sétanta that the teen would much rather stay asleep, curled in the comfort of the blankets, but his body is surely demanding food. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the spearman encourages the teenager to gently wake up. Eventually, Shinji slowly opens his eyes, yawning and instinctively massaging his arm. After a few seconds, however, he starts frantically inspecting his body, touching his face, arms, torso, lifting his shirt and sleeves to run his hands on the scarred skin. The sight of the many scars breaks Sétanta's heart. It's a tragedy to see a child hurt so horribly, especially by someone they trusted. 

 

“You – Last night – it… what happened?” he stutters, voice breaking.

“We removed them.” The teenager's eyes shoot up, asymmetrical blue orbs wide. “The crest worms, they're gone now. They can't hurt'cha no more. Zōken was the one controllin' them, right?”

 

The teenager nods, dumbfounded, and Sétanta forces a comforting smile on his face. It's not easy; seeing the boy covered in bandages makes his heart ache, and he can almost feel the wounds as if they were his.

 

“It's ova', now, lad.”

“D-do… a-are you sure?”

“Certain. Swear it on me Ma, it's all ova' now.”

 

Shinji's lip starts wobbling as tears fill his good eye, but the teenager clearly tries to hold himself back. It's not good; he should let himself cry and feel, especially now that it's over. Sétanta gently hugs the kid against his chest. Immediately, Shinji starts bawling and wailing in his arms, screaming all the pain and suffering he had to endure for so long. It reminds Sétanta of a baby or a toddler in the way it's raw and desperate. Tears that have been bottled up for so long that they're all but contagious, and the spearman feels his eyes sting with his own. There's a lump in his throat, and his stomach feels terribly hollow. When he starts whispering reassurances, he can't be sure it's not for himself. 

 

After thirty seconds, Archer appears next to them in silence and wordlessly puts a hand on Shinji's shoulder. They stay like this for what seems to be forever, but Sétanta doesn't mind at all. Shinji needs it. Needs to cry, to let it all out, to be comforted, to know it's all over now. The spearman glances at his lover; Archer's face is a mix of worry, compassion, and a carefully constructed indifference he tries to keep on. It doesn't last long, of course. Archer's kindness will always prevail, no matter what Alaya says, no matter what he tells himself, no matter how much he tries to convince the world he doesn't care. Thinking about his lover's gentleness doesn't help, of course, because it goes hand-in-hand with the reminder of all the horrors he's been forced to witness.

 

But it shows just how resilient Archer is for he withstood the trials of time and Alaya, a fate that was but a hopeless eternity of servitude until a mere fortnight ago. Like water to mountains, time slowly eroded his mind and sanity, but he's still here, hiding under layers upon layers of masking. Days like the one in France are bound to happen again, Sétanta knows it. Healing isn't linear, for a wounded mind isn't a broken bone. The spearman doesn't mind; he'll take Archer's hand and guide him back to the sunlight as many times as needed.

 

Feeling his eyes on him, Archer looks up from Shinji's shaking form and their gazes meet. Sétanta forces a small smile on his face, willing it to be comforting. Archer's expression doesn't change, but there's a shy light in his eyes that warms Sétanta's heart, as he knows it's Archer's way of returning the smile. 

 

Eventually, Shinji's wailing weakens, although he hasn't stopped shaking. Sétanta doesn't push him away, though, doesn't stop thumbing reassuring circles on his back.

 

“Feelin' a bit betta', Masta'?” Shinji sniffles, and Sétanta takes it as a yes. “Cryin' feels real good, som'times.” This time, he gets a hum. “What do ye sae we get'cha som'thin' to eat?”

“I-I’d like that…” the teenager confesses.

“Great! Archa's a great cook. I'm sure 'e'll fix ye som'thin' in no time. Right?”

“Of course. Rin said I have free reign in the kitchen so long as I keep feeding her.”

 

Sétanta chuckles; it seems this Rin isn't so different from the one he met in that other Fuyuki War. It's reassuring; some stability is more than welcome. He's still disoriented by the memories of the three different timelines he's seen; for it isn't something he's used to. Heroic Spirits aren't supposed to remember their previous summonings, so they may serve their current Master without any form of regret or attachment to anyone else. Being around Diarmuid is quite perturbing, as his only tangible memory of the other Celt is their fight in the cave. Feelings tell him they know each other, and he doesn't doubt they are good friends in the Throne – Diarmuid is the kind of fellow he'd get along with –, but for now, his face brings nothing but unpleasant memories. There's a lingering and unfair resentment, too. If Diarmuid hadn't pushed him in the mud, Sétanta wouldn't have scared and hurt Archer. The spearman pushes the thoughts away; they're unnecessary, and the Lancer of this War isn't responsible for what his corrupted self has done, especially when he can't even remember it.

 

“Let's get som'thin' to eat then!” he exclaims.

 

Without asking for Shinji's opinion, Sétanta grabs the teenager and hoists him up bridal-style. Of course, the lad yelps in surprise, but he doesn't resist. He's still weak, and will remain for a while. His body needs to heal and rest, even if his magical energy is replenished. A few minutes later, as he sits Shinji on a chair, Sétanta hears Rin run in the kitchen with a high-pitched squeal, followed by Diarmuid and her sister, who both look fondly annoyed.

 

“Is Archer making food again? Oh, Shinji's awake! How are you doing, man?” she asks.

 

Sétanta sees several emotions flicker in his Master's eyes, settling on a careful blank expression.

 

“Better than yesterday. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Rin waves the gratitude with a gesture of her hand. “Don't. That place is huge and boring.” She slumps in a chair across the blue-haired teenager. “Archer, can I have whatever you're making?”

“Hm.”

“Great!” She turns back to Shinji. “If you ever want help blowing up your old man's face, don't hesitate. It will be my pleasure.”

“I'll be fine,” Shinji says coldly, and Sétanta gently presses his good shoulder in encouragement. “I'm the one with two Servants.”

“Yeah, about that… what and how?”

“We're two Heroic Spirits in one,” Sétanta says quickly. “Usually, I'm the maen Servant. It's rare fer Archer to be the one bein' summoned as the maen Servant.”

“So he's like your afterlife tag-along?”

“Let's go with that,” he replied.

 

He doesn't want to tell them who Archer is for him. Doesn't want to tell any of them that the bowman is his precious jewel, kind and brave and beautiful and funny in his own way and so many other things. They don't need to know. He's never been one to be private about his relationships – the whole of Ulster knew of his love for Emer long before he married her, and he never hid his love for Ferdiad –, but Archer is different. He's Sétanta's darling, his treasure, one he doesn't want to share. Perhaps it is because Archer is so private, refusing to even use his name, perhaps it is because of their merged Origin Spirits. Honestly, he doesn't care much. It's not a problem for now, and it has no reason to become one.

 

“Here's some yakitori and rice. It's not much, but it will have to do.” 

 

Archer's soft baritone snaps Sétanta back to reality, and he watches his lover serve the three teenagers. They all thank him with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and Sétanta goes to lean against a wall.

 

‘Masta', do ye need me to go back to Spirit Form?’, he asks. ‘Ye're still exhausted as 'ell.’

Shinji freezes for a second before replying. ‘No need. I have rested enough. So long as you don't fight, I should be fine.’

‘Aye, tell me if ye need me to at any point. I'm the 'ardest to keep 'round.’

‘Thank you, Lancer.’

‘Sure thin', Masta'!’

 

“So, what do we do about whoever is attacking the school?” Rin suddenly asks.

“The best would be to track them down, but we don't have much information about their identity, except that they're Greek,” Archer says.

“There should be something in our books,” Rin replies. “The three of us could have a cramming session while the Servants scout. What do you say, Lancer?”

“It's a good plan, my lady,” the Irishman says respectfully. “The wards of the manor will keep you safe in case of an attack, or at the very least long enough for me to return and defend you.”

“Don't worry! That house's near impenetrable to unwanted guests,” she brags proudly.

 

A small smile dances on Diarmuid's lips, much different from the one Sétanta recalls from his last meeting with the other spearman. This one is kind, full of fondness for the energetic teenager who summoned him. When he was corrupted, his smiles were insane and full of sharp teeth, twisting his splendid features. Ironically, he looked much more like one would picture the son of Donn then than he does now. Who would think that the God of Death would father such a breathtakingly handsome child? Most people would think of him as a pale, twisted existence whose beauty would terrify others, not enchant them.

 

“I've done some scoutin' on me own,” Sétanta intervenes. “Casta's stayin' in some temple, and there's this castle that's really well protected. Kinda like this manor.”

“The Einzberg castle?” Shinji asks.

“Aye. I can't tell whot's inside, but I'd bet whoever's in there is a Masta' too.”

“It would make sense; they were among the founding families along with the Matōs and the Tohsakas,” Sakura says softly.

“That's true. They probably use some homunculus to be their representative,” Rin adds. “What do you think, Shinji?”

“I agree,” he says after a couple of seconds. “We should look into it; there's a chance they're behind the school issue.”

“Sounds good to me. Let's rest for today and go tomorrow. I'll get some jewels ready.”

 

---

 

‘I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die!’

 

Shirō is running, never stopping, ignoring the burn in his lungs, the fire in his muscles. Everything hurts, but he has to keep running. Run, run, run. Up until ten minutes ago, it was a perfectly normal evening in his home but now, there's some pink-haired lady trying to kill him and she might succeed if things keep going like this! Jumping to the side to avoid another life-threatening blow that blows a wall to smithereens, Shirō yelps in fear. The shed, he has to get into the shed. He can hide there, maybe, he's not sure –

 

BLAM.

 

Pain sets his body aflame as he's sent flying through the doors of the shed and crashing on the floor. His skin breaks, and blood starts to leak down his forehead and through his clothes. It hurts, it hurts, it fucking hurts. Tears pool in the teenager's eyes. He doesn't want to die here. He has to save others, he has to become a hero, he has to make his father's dream come true! Closing his eyes, Shirō tries to will himself to stand up again, but he can't. Everything hurts, he's scared, the creature made of magecraft and mana is coming to kill him.

 

‘Please help me dad. I'm still weak. Help me!’

 

Light erupts from beyond his stone-heavy eyelids. Something roars. Metal clashes against metal. There's heat, maybe fire. ‘What's going on?’ the teenager thinks, half-numb.

 

Shirō can finally open his eyes. A… being, for they're made of mana, is standing at the entrance of the shed, facing away from Shirō and cursing in a language he doesn't understand. The being looks like a young man in his twenties, with muscles almost bulging under his skin. He's holding a red sword and breathing heavily, almost like they're on the verge of exploding. Shirō forces himself to sit up, confused.

 

What is this being? Why did they save him? Did they save him? Or do they just want him for themselves? He tries to say something – anything, really – but only a croak comes out of his dry mouth, rough like paper sand in his throat. It's enough to get the being's attention, who whirls around. His ferocious expression softens immediately, and he rushes over, crouching in front of Shirō. He is easily the most handsome man Shirō saw. Hazel coloured doe eyes shine on perfect fair skin, and his face is framed by long black hair tied back by ancient jewellery.

 

“Mas-ter…!” he exclaims almost happily. “Safe… now… Ri-der… gone!”

“Master? You mean me?”

The being nods. “You… master… I… He-ro-ic… Spi-rit…”

 

Is this supposed to ring any bell?

 

“I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. But thank you for saving me. What's your name?”

“Donnchadh,” he replies, the first word said without any struggle. Clearly, Japanese is complicated for the being, but whatever language he spoke earlier comes naturally to him. Sadly, Shirō has no bloody idea what language it was. At least, although Donnchadh has trouble articulating, he seems able to understand easily. “I… Ber-ser-ker… Bed… there?” he asks, gesturing towards the house.

“Yeah, my bedroom's there. There are guest rooms for you too.”

 

Donnchadh smiles and lifts Shirō bridal style like he weighs nothing at all – which is likely, considering Donnchadh sent that other creature running in less than a minute – and makes his way inside the house without a word, looking around.

 

“Here,” Shirō says, pointing at his bedroom.

 

Donnchadh easily opens the door, and his face falls at the sight of the futon on the bed.

 

“That… not… bed… bed… for… tra-vel-lers…”

“Huh, it's common in my country. It's really comfy, don't worry.”

 

The creature makes a face but places Shirō down before ripping his shirt off. The teenager yelps.

 

“Have to… look… wounds…”

“You could have asked! This is expensive!”

“Sor-ry…” the being replies, not sounding or looking even remotely apologetic. Instead, he has a small, amused smile, and Shirō's traitorous heart slips a beat.

 

'This is going to be a long night,' the teenager laments mentally. Still, he lets Donnchadh examine him, a faint glow on his hands resorbing his lightest wounds.

 

“Can… no… do… bet-ter…” the being sighs.

“It's okay, thanks a lot. You saved my life.”

“I… your… Ser… vant…”

“Servant? Look, I'm sorry, but I don't understand anything about what's happening. Who was that lady-looking thing who tried to kill me? And where do you come from? Why would you be my Servant?”

 

Donnchadh blinks a few times, probably thinking about the best way to convey his knowledge before grabbing Shirō's wrist and lifting his hand. There, three red symbols are shining, forming a strange drawing.

 

“What… What's that!”

“Com-mand… seals… use one… give… one… order… to… me… Have to… obey… proof… you... Mas-ter”

“Yeah, I'm not doing that.”

 

The being shrugs.

 

“Mas-ter… is… mage… sum-mon… one… He-ro-ic… Spi-rit. Fight in… Ho-ly… grail… war… Win-ner… has… wish…”

“So Masters are mages who each summon a Heroic Spirit. We fight in the ‘Holy Grail war’, and the winners get a wish, is that right? So we're a team, essentially?”

 

Donnchadh nods.

 

“You said something about you being a Berserker… What does it mean? Is that like a… a class?”

 

Another nod. “Sev… en… clas-ses… Sa-ber… Ber-ser-ker… Ri-der… Ar-cher… Lan-cer… Cas-ter… As-sas-sin…”

“Okay. I still have a question.”

“Mhm?”

“Why am I a Master? I'm a pretty weak mage, and I didn't even know this Holy Grail War was a thing!”

Donnchadh shrugs. “Not… know.”

“Alright. We'll figure it out as we go, I guess?”

“If… Mas-ter… wants…”

“Call me Shirō, please. I don't like being called ‘Master’. You know more about all of this than I do, and even then, I'd rather we be friends.”

“Friend… good… But now… you… sleep…”

“Yeah, that sounds good to me. You can use any bedroom to rest.”

“I… no… need… sleep. I… Spi-rit.”

“Oh… Well… As you wish then.”

 

The Heroic Spirit nods and stands up before leaving the room to let him rest. Shirō lies down and closes his eyes, sighing. He can't sleep. How could he? He almost died, somehow summoned a Heroic Spirit and got involved in the Holy Grail War. What the hell is he supposed to do?! How is he supposed to win this? Can he win this? He can feel Donnchadh's presence, like a small pressure on his heart, a slight tug in his mana. Is he supposed to provide mana for Donnchadh? How laughable, he has almost none! He can't help but feel sorry for the Heroic Spirit. Out of all the mages in the city, he had to end up with someone like Shirō, who can't provide mana to save his life. It's unfair, the fighting has barely started and Donnchadh already has a disadvantage.

 

The teenager rolls to his side. He's going to need to find a solution to provide more mana for Donnchadh. But how? He knows almost nothing about magecraft, and he can't exactly walk up to the Tohsaka manor and ask for advice. Rin would probably blow his head off. Who else, then? Shinji, maybe? He's a mage too, after all. But Shirō has yet to tell his friend he is a mage. Damn it. And what if Shinji's a Master too? What is he supposed to do if that's the case? Damn it. He'll ask Donnchadh in the morning. For now, he needs to sleep.

 

And to please not think about how insanely handsome Donnchadh is.

Notes:

Please welcome our seventh heroic spirit, Donncadh! For those who don't know him... Well please don't look it up, it's a surprise! But he's very important to at least one person in this war! 😉

A shod means "my jewel". I kept forgetting to add it in the notes 😭

Also, Shirō Emiya, straight? Not on my watch. This kid is a bisexual mess, fight me

Chapter 32: Donnchadh

Summary:

Archer reminisces, and Donnchadh meets a relative.

His Master is in a horrible mood, and Archer cannot exactly blame him for that. The pain of removing the crest worms and his leg makes him irritable, and Rin's decision to attend school because of a maths exam has been the nail in the coffin. Sadly, Diarmuid's spear is their golden ticket for the Einzbern castle – or rather the barrier surrounding it –, and the spearman won't go without his Master. So now, Shinji is passing a maths test when his entire body is aflame with pain through sheer force of will. Archer told him to just forgo the test and rest, but the teenager is nothing but prideful and won't allow Rin to beat him in class simply because he stayed home.

 

Pride is something Archer can't relate to in any way. Nothing he's good at deserves pride. He excels at whatever Alaya asks of him, but he's not proud of it. Killing, murdering, pillaging, whatever the World needs… Who could take pride in such a thing? Him. He does, because Alaya praises him, calls him her hero, her knight, her favourite. Whatever she needs, whatever she wants, whatever makes her happy. It's not even the type of fierce battle that Sétanta loves for some reason. It's just murder, with efficiency at its core. Sadly, it's the only good thing he could theoretically take pride in. It's not like he can do anything else. As much as he enjoys cooking or household chores, it's mostly because they tether him to the little part of him that's still human, although what's left of his humanity isn't worth much. He doesn’t even know why he bothers remembering.

 

The answer comes in the form of a specific memory. Bright red eyes, a cursed spear through his heart. The first time he encountered a Heroic Spirit, something made out of pure mana, memories and awe. That's something he never wants to forget, because it shaped him, just as much as Kiritsugu's dream, maybe even more.

 

And of fucking course, it just had to be Sétanta. Archer almost laughs at the irony of it all. He was probably destined to fall in love with Cú Chulainn, although he wishes he wasn't. His love means Ireland’s Child of Light and most beloved hero is now working as a Counter Guardian until Lugh can threaten the World. And Archer simply can't see why he would be worth all of this. He can't be, no matter how many times Sétanta tells him otherwise. He's a half-assed Heroic Spirit with no name and no story, just a poor mimicry made to kill and kill and kill –

 

‘Ye okay, a shod?’ Sétanta's voice in his head almost makes Archer jump in surprise, but he stops himself at the last second. He's on the highschool roof, observing the surrounding area in case Rider shows up to activate that bloody barrier of hers. ‘Ye feel all sad and gloomy.’

‘I'm fine. Just reminiscing.’

 

It's not a complete lie, technically, but it's not exactly the truth. Still, Sétanta lets him get away with it, and Archer is thankful for it. Out of all the moments to have this kind of depressing conversation, now isn't one of them. Their master is a disabled Shinji Matō, and his other self is somewhere in the city, probably getting himself killed or summoning Artoria by accident. Goddamnit, now that's another problem. Fucking Artoria.

 

‘What do we do about Artoria?’ he asks Sétanta.

‘Ye know 'er more than I do, love. But if the kid summoned her, she should be easy to take care ov between the two ov us.’

‘I'm going to take a look. He's not here, and that can't be good.’

‘Sure thin'!’

 

Jumping down the roof, Archer makes his way to the Emiya house. The journey is predictably short and uneventful, done automatically. When he reaches the house, however, Archer freezes. He can sense another Servant in physical form, with a mana so wild and fierce Archer has no doubt regarding their class. Berserker.

 

‘What the fuck? Where's Artoria? This isn't even Heracles' mana,’ the bowman tells himself. Who in Alaya's name has this moron summoned? He'd like to get closer and find out, but Berserkers have sharp instincts. This one might just find him and start rampaging. Although the kid doesn't have much mana and probably can't support his Servant properly – Alaya knows Archer couldn't –, he's not going to try a Berserker in a frontal confrontation. He might as well off himself and save everyone the trouble.

 

That does raise a question, though. Who did Illya summon? Heracles in another class? Lancer, Rider, Berserker, Assassin, Caster and Archer are taken. It leaves only one: Saber. The Greek hero probably qualifies for every class under the sun, but Archer has a hard time seeing him as a Saber.

 

Realisation suddenly dawns on him.

 

Illya has likely summoned Artoria. They're utterly fucked.

 

‘Sétanta, we're screwed.’

‘What's goin’ on, a shod?’

‘He summoned Berserker – not the same one as last time, thank fuck –, but that leaves Illya with the Saber Servant. Take a wild guess which Servant it's going to be…’

‘Ye’re tellin' me the kid who was powering bloody Heracles like it's nothing might have summoned motherfuckin' Kin' Arthur?!’

‘Yeah…’

‘And there's ol' Gilgamesh to deal with as well, ov course.’

‘Yeah…’

‘Fer fuck's sake… Any idea who Berserker is?’

‘No, getting too close would mean a fight, and I would rather avoid it unless I have to.’

‘Faer enough. I'll tell Masta' 'bout it.’

 

Archer hums before slowly backing away from the Emiya house. He's in Spirit Form, so Berserker shouldn't have noticed him, but it's better to be careful. Thankfully, Berserker doesn't notice him or doesn't react to his presence, and he retreats without any issue. He only stops when he's a good mile away and jumps on top of a lamppost. Berserker will eventually come out and, with some luck, Archer has already met him during one Summon or another. If he's luckier, he'll properly remember him. As he observes the house, Shinji's voice echoes in his head.

 

‘Emiya Shirō is a Master?!’

‘He is. His Servant is Berserker. Cú Chulainn should be able to handle a one-on-one fight, but I'd rather not test my luck. It's abysmal.’

‘Are you still at his house?’

‘I am a kilometre away, observing. Berserker will have to come outside at some point.’

‘I see…’

‘Do you have any plans for him?’

 

'Please ask me to kill him, please ask me to kill him,' he chants to himself, hoping he will finally get what he wants. Even if it won't help his situation in any way – especially now that his Origin Spirit has been merged with Sétanta's –, it will still be immensely satisfying.

 

‘It depends. I would rather take his Servant out of the competition without hurting him, but I don't intend to be stupid. Tohsaka has a crush on him, though, I think. Killing him might mean the end of our alliance.’

‘I see.’

‘Plus, whatever is happening at the school is more important. If I didn't notice that Emiya is a mage until now, he can't be powerful, so he won't be a threat. Still, can you tail them please?’

‘I will. Should I intervene if they get in trouble?’

‘I'm not certain… I suppose as long as you don't put yourself in danger, you should… Emiya is nice, I don't want him to die if I can help it.’

‘I will, then.’

‘Thank you Archer.’

‘Your wish is our command, Master.’

 

There's no answer, but Archer doesn't dwell on it too much, instead focusing on a house he half-forgot. The garden feels familiar and alien at the same time, and his heart swells melancholically. Alaya must be furious, to send him back here over and over again. She could prevent the calls from coming, including the ones from Fuyuki, but she doesn't. But why would she? He's a bad dog, biting his owner and trying to find himself a new one. She has no reason to be kind to him and spare any pain. No, on the contrary, she might send him to the deepest hells she can find, where she usually sends others, ones who have never been humans and never will. It is rare for Counter Guardians to know about each other, and rarer for them to meet, but Archer has had the misfortune of meeting some of the others. None of them is worth knowing.

 

Nothing much interesting happens during the rest of the day, especially since he's stuck on spying duty. Berserker comes out at some point and the only thing noteworthy about him is his insane beauty. He's almost as beautiful as Diarmuid, perhaps just as handsome as Sétanta. He has some divine ascendance, but it's faint. Quarter-god perhaps? Or the child of some minor deity? He can't tell, because he has no bloody idea who this guy is, not even a clue.

 

‘So, Berserker is very handsome, but that's the only thing I can tell about him.’

‘Careful a shod, I'll get jealous!’ Sétanta chuckles.

‘No, you'd probably get horny.’

 

His lover cackles but doesn't deny it, and Archer can hear Shinji giggle a bit as well. Well, if it makes their poor Master laugh a bit, it's a good thing he supposes.

 

‘Did he do anything?’

‘He checked the perimeter around the house, but that's it. I think he and Emiya will play it safe, but I'm not certain.’

‘I should probably speak to him. Tohsaka insists, at least. And a Berserker would be useful against Caster or the Rogue Servant Cú Chulainn met at the Kotomine Church.’

 

Archer hums. This Berserker would get slaughtered by Gilgamesh, but the few seconds he would buy them could make the difference. They can also use him to distract Caster and Assassin. Depending how good he is, he might even take Assassin out. As he ponders over the possibility, he feels a Heroic Spirit approach the Emiya house. Narrowing his eyes, he recognises Ilya and, as he predicted, Artoria.

 

Shit.

 

‘Master, the Einzbern girl is here. She has Saber with her. A very strong one as well. She's going for the Emiya house.’

‘How dangerous are they, on a scale from one to ten?’

‘Nine, easily.’

‘Shit… Well, we need to get rid of her. I'm sending Cú Chulainn and Tohsaka is sending Lancer. We'll assist Berserker for now.’

‘On it.’

 

---

 

Donnchadh stiffens suddenly as a low growl escapes his chest. His eyes snap towards the door, and he slowly stands up, a red sword appearing in his hand.

 

“Mas-ter… you… hide… Sa-ber… comes…”

 

Shirō's eyes widen; Donnchadh told him earlier that Saber Servants are often the strongest, and he has yet to find a way to give him more mana. If Saber is half as strong as Shirō understood them to be, Donnchadh will never be able to win this fight.

 

“Can't we run away? If they're so strong…” Donncadh only grows in response, unhappy and not facing him. “If they're too strong now, I need to find a way for you to have more mana first!”

 

Donncadh finally looks at him, and Shirō gulps. The Heroic Spirit's eyes are slightly wide, and his muscles seem to have been sculpted in marble. His hair slightly floats around his head, as if there is wind. He's ethereal, and almost more otherworldly beautiful than when he appeared. Suddenly, faster than a striking snake, Donnchadh grabs his neck and drags him forward, slamming their lips together. Shirō squeals as sharp teeths cut his lip, and a tongue swallows both his saliva and blood. It's overwhelming, and his entire body seems to be on fire. Shirō's hands instinctively grab the strong arms holding him as his head spins. It's both amazing and terrifying, like wildfire.

 

The kiss ends as suddenly as it started, and Shirō feels like he can think again.

 

“What was that?!” he shrieks.

“Ma-na… trans-fer… blood… sa-li-va… sex…” Donnchadh replies with an amused smile. “Now… hide…”

 

Before Shirō can reply, Donnchadh runs outside with a roar of provocation. The teenager blinks, stunned, before feeling outrage burning his veins. How dare Donncadh kiss him like they're passionate lovers before running away? This was his first kiss! ‘I'm going to kill him myself!’ he thinks, furious and blushing, and he rushes outside as well as an explosion almost deafens him. Like hell he'll let Donnchadh get away with this!

 

But, as soon as he steps outside, his anger vanishes, replaced by worry. Donnchadh is screaming in rage, fighting a petite blonde woman with an invisible sword, which, what the actual fuck. His Heroic Spirit isn't deterred however, swinging and raging. Behind Saber is a small, white-haired girl with blood-red eyes who seems amused by the situation. She must be Saber's Master, and ten times the mage he'll ever be. Shit. He has to do something, but what?!

 

'Come on, think!' He screams at himself, searching for a solution, anything. An enraged scream of pain pulls him out of his thoughts. Saber's blade has slashed Donnchadh’s chest, and blood runs down his chest. His eyes are wide, and he roars in fury, charging her again, ignoring his wound. Can he even feel it?

 

“You are brave, Berserker, and your sword is a wonderful weapon. If your mind wasn't addled by madness, I would ask the name of such a foe. Sadly, the circumstances don't allow it,” Saber declares, masterfully redirecting Donnchadh's strikes. “Prepare yourself, Berserker, for my lady wishes you dead!”

 

She readies her sword, clearly channeling lots of mana in it. Before she can swing it, however, a whistling noise is heard and something explodes between Donnchadh and Saber. At the same time, someone grabs Shirō by the waist to swiftly get him out of the way while another figure with two spears lands right in front of Donnchadh.

 

“Get the fuck away from him, Saber, or I'll take your head,” the figure snarls.

 

Saber seems almost… shell-shocked at the sight of the figure and Shirō uses this moment to take a look at whoever grabbed him. It's a man in his late twenties with vibrant blue hair and a bright bright red eyes fixated on Saber, Donnchadh and the mystery Servant. Time seems to have stopped.

 

“You… it can't be…” Saber stutters, blue eyes on the man with two spears. She regains her composition quickly, though, and jumps back to be near her Master. “Lady Ilya, we need to retreat. I cannot protect you efficiently like this.”

“Very well,” the mage sighs. “Thank you, Saber.”

 

Three seconds later, the pair has disappeared in the dark streets of Fuyuki. At this moment, time seems to start again, for Donnchadh roars and immediately jumps towards the Servant holding Shirō with a snarl on his face. The Servant drops the teenager, blocking Donnchadh's red sword with his own weapon.

 

“Hey there lad, that's 'ow ye thank me fer rescuin' yer Masta'?” the figure laughs.

 

Donnchadh roars in response, eyes wide and unseeing. Shirō's heart drops at the sight; Donnchadh can't control himself. He is nothing but rage and worry at the moment. Standing up, he rushes towards his Servant and desperately hugs him. He won't let Donnchadh loose himself to the Berserker madness.

 

“I'm fine! You can stop now!” he exclaims. 

 

Donnchadh screams something incomprehensible and, although he struggles against Shirō's hold, he doesn't try very hard. 

 

“Please! They helped us!”

“Donnchadh, an féidir leat mé a aithint? Is mise atá ann, Daid,” a voice suddenly says behind them.

Donnchadh immediately freezes and whirls around, forcing Shirō to let go of him while behind them, the blue-haired Servant makes a choked sound. But Shirō's eyes are on the Servant with the two spears, who is now standing a few metres from them. He's incredibly handsome but, above all, he looks a lot like Donnchadh. Looking at his Servant's face, Shirō finds a mixture of relief, grief and bewilderment.

 

“Ah… an… an… Daid?” Donnchadh all but sobs.

“Is mise atá ann. Tá sé ceart go leor. Is féidir leat scíth a ligean. Cosnóidh mé thú féin agus do mháistir.”

Shirō wants to ask what is going on, but it's clear that Donnchadh knows this other Servant. The word daid is an obvious clue. Dad.

 

“You… you're Donnchadh's father?” he stutters.

 

Sharp golden eyes detail him, and Shirō forgets how to breathe for a second. This man is just as beautiful as Donnchadh, but he's different. Unsettling. Eerie. So handsome it's frankly unnerving, and Shirō swallows thickly. Then, a gentle smile breaks his face in half, and he sudden seems much more approachable, as if he had just remembered how to look human.

 

“I am. You are his Master, yes?”

“Yeah. My name is –”

“EMIYA!!” Someone screams and Shirō whirls around.

 

His eyes widen. It's the Tohsaka sisters and Shinji Matō, leaning on his cane next to a Servant in red. What are they doing here? No, it's actually logical. They must each be the Master of the Servants who intervened.

 

“Are you okay?!” Rin exclaims. 

“Can you stop screaming for five seconds?” Shinji groans.

“I’LL SCREAM IF I WANT TO!” Rin yells back, even louder than usual and clearly on purpose.

“Fucking lunatic!” Shinji snaps before looking back at Emiya. “Good to know you're still alive. Now call back your mad dog before he goes on another rampage and let's talk. My leg is killing me.”

 

Before he can say anything, however, Donnchadh seems to be suddenly freed from the bewilderment trance he was under and he grabs his… father, whirling him around, laughing happily. It's the most beautiful laugh Shirō ever heard.

 

“Daid! Daid!”

Notes:

Yep, Donnchad is Diarmuid's son! His eldest, to be precise. Diarmuid and Gráinne had five children, four sons and one daughter. In some versions, Donnchad was born while the couple was on the run, in others after.

I'm saving the details of his life for later chapters. There isn't much information about Diarmuid's four sons, only that they each got one of his weapons and died young. Some stories contradict each other as well, so I'm going with mix that fits the narrative I want for Diarmuid, Shirō and Donnchadh.

 

Irish dialogue translation!

 

Donnchadh, an féidir leat mé a aithint? Is mise atá ann→ Donnchad, can your recognise me? It's me, dad.

Is mise atá ann. Tá sé ceart go leor. Is féidir leat scíth a ligean. Cosnóidh mé thú féin agus do mháistir. → It's me. It's alright. You can rest. I'll protect you and your master.

Chapter 33: Memories

Summary:

Everyone deals with their memories, with varying degrees of success.

Notes:

Can you tell I was inspired??? I have been dying to write the Donnchadh/Diarmuid scene for so long, I just had to keep writing. The EmiCu legit wrote itself.

 

content warning: non-explicit sex

 

The dialogue in Italic is meant to be in Irish.

Some additional notes about Diarmuid's life that I find funny or cute and help understand some references in this chapter
* He was a massive flirt, magic mole or not. However, he was a faithful husband.
* He had four sons: Donnchadh, Eochaidh, Ollan, and Connla. Yes. Connla. Like Sétanta's son. That name is cursed, I swear to god. I couldn't find his daughter's name, so I went ahead and chose one.
* He genuinely loved Grainne since her spell was for him to run away with her, not love her in any way. I mean, he named his fort after her, so he clearly did, hahaha!
* His idea of confessing was a jealousy-induced murder.
* He was very rich apparently????

Diarmuid finds his son on the roof of the Emiya house. His breathing stops for a short eternity – Donnchadh is the perfect blend of him and Gráinne. Perhaps a bit taller than Diarmuid is, but that can be explained by his class. And, if he remembers correctly, King Cormac was a tall man. Perhaps Donnchadh was really this tall in life. Diarmuid doesn't know. He never saw his son grow to become a man; he died when the boy was twelve years old and still growing. And he hates that he can meet him now, when Donnchadh looks so fucking young. He should have lived to be an old man, should have filled Rath Gráinia with grandchildren for Gráinne to dote on. Thinking about his wife twists the knight’s stomach painfully.

 

He isn't the Diarmuid who loved and married her, who was on the run for a decade and fought his former comrades to keep her safe, who killed a man out of jealousy and let her fret over him whenever he got hurt. He's the Knight of the Fianna, the Diarmuid from before that day, the one who would have willingly died for Fionn. And he has no idea how Donnchadh will react to this. He only hopes his son will understand – because no matter what, Donnchadh is his son, and he loves him with everything he has. Gráinne is complicated because of his conflicting loyalties, but Donnchadh is different. He is his first son, his baby. He can almost feel the weight of his little body when the midwives put him in his arms after he was born, he can almost hear him babble again, he can almost see his beautiful eyes staring at the world curiously.

 

Diarmuid swallows and approaches Donnchadh, who is still staring at the night sky.

 

“May I sit?” he asks in Gaelic. For some reason, Donnchadh can't properly speak Japanese, even if he understands it.

Donnchadh's head snaps in his direction. “Of course!” his son exclaims with a grin that reminds Diarmuid of Gráinne’s own smile. Donn be blessed, this is going to be a painful conversation. “Is your Master asleep?”

“No. She 's a fierce little thing, she won't sleep until she's positively exhausted.”

“Saoirse was the same.”

 

Diarmuid feels like throwing up. Saoirse. His daughter. His only daughter. She looked just like him, with golden eyes and black hair, coming into the world screaming and kicking. She was three when he died.

 

“Tell me she lived to be old and loved. That you all lived long, happy lives.”

“I wouldn't be a Heroic Spirit if I had,” Donnchadh replies.

“What happened, then? You carry Móralltach. Why?”

“Mother gave it to me when you died. We each got one of your weapons. It was something to remember you by, at first. Aengus… He took your body. We couldn't even bury you ourselves. Mother was mad with grief, and I think she would have flung herself from the castle walls if we weren't around.”

 

Diarmuid closes his eyes, swallowing his nausea. He can almost hear Gráinne screaming and weeping, and he's never been so grateful to not be the Diarmuid who is in love with her. His head spins, and he's not even her husband; what if he had been? How would he be able to handle the tale Donnchadh is about to tell him? Because he has the feeling he knows how this story ends. With his children dead, and maybe Gráinne as well.

 

“What happened after?”

“I became Lord at the ripe old age of twelve. Thank fuck Mother was here to help, because I didn't know what I was doing. She called her sisters for help, so we might be protected if something were to happen to her. She was the richest widow in the country and daughter of the High-King at that. Men were trying to woo her day-in, day-out. I think Saoirse poisoned some of them when she got older.”

 

Diarmuid nods, throat too tight to speak. He feels like throwing up, thinking of his crying wife, of his orphaned children, of his twelve-year-old son having to play Lord with vultures coming for their riches. He almost regrets being so wealthy during his life.

 

“And then?”

“Fionn tried to speak to Mother a few times. Tried to apologise, I think. Still couldn't take no for an answer twenty-two years after that whole shitshow. So, with my brothers, we did what every good son would have done.”

“You attacked Fionn.”

“Yeah. I led the charge with two hundred men. I… We lost. I was twenty-five.”

 

Diarmuid's chest heaves at the thought. The images are too easy to picture: his sons dying one after the other, far away from their home. But of course, the gods aren't merciful, and so the tale isn't over.

 

“I was the last to die. Picked your weapons from my brothers' corpses to keep fighting, to have a part of them with me. I wanted to get to Fionn before dying. I wanted to stab him with everything I had, for all the pain he caused us. I couldn't even hear the battle. Just the cries of Mother as she wept, her screams as she raged, the kids crying because they couldn't understand you were dead. She would have killed Fionn herself if she had been able to, you know?”

“Did you kill him?”

“No. He was too protected, with his sons and kin to guard him. I got Osgar, though. Cut his head off before Oisín killed me,” Donnchadh says proudly.

 

Diarmuid hides his face in his hands, head spinning. Osgar and Oisín are his friends. He fought by their sides, loves them dearly. And yet, one of them died by his son's hand, and the other killed him. Sobs of confusion, rage, grief shake his body. The emotions are like a whirlwind of pain, each pulling him in one direction. The Knight of the Fianna mourns his friend and blames Donnchadh for his actions. The father wants to rip Oisín in half. The husband wants to find his wife and hold her in her grief, wants to tell her she doesn't have to cry alone.

 

“You shouldn't have done that. Fionn was always going to win. And your mother…”

“I don't care that I  died trying to avenge you. I only regret that I couldn't kill Fionn, and I know my brothers agree.”

“Your mother must have been heartbroken.”

“We entrusted her to Saoirse.”

“I didn't want you to avenge me.”

“You say that because you're not my father. Not really,” Donnchadh replies coldly.

 

Diarmuid's eyes widen, and Donnchadh gives him a sad smile.

 

“You're Diarmuid of the Fianna. Not Diarmuid, Lord of Rath Gráinia, husband of Gráinne.”

“I… I am sorry. I wish I was your father, the way you remember him.”

“No, it's fine. I’m glad you're here anyway,” the young man replies sadly, leaning against his chest like a child would.

 

Diarmuid doesn't say a word, instead hugging Donnchadh and putting his chin on the young man's head.

 

“I love you still. Even if I'm not the one you remember, I love you,” he says softly. “I'm not your father, but you're my son. My first child.”

 

No word answers him. Instead, he hears sniffles, and Donnchadh's body starts shaking, moved by sobs. Diarmuid lets his own tears roll down his cheek, only swallowing the sobs so he won't disturb Donnchadh. His son is clinging to him just like he used to as a young boy, when he had nightmares and got scared of the dark. Breathing deeply, he inhales his son's scent, and it smells just like home. Gods, he wishes he had lived longer, if only to spare his family the fate they've been forced to endure. He thinks of Gráinne. He may not love her like a husband would because he's not the right Diarmuid, but to say he doesn't care for her would be a lie. And to imagine her, who loved so fiercely, having to bury their four boys… It makes him sick. And his little girl, his darling Saoirse… What happened to her, after all of this? Will he ever be able to find out?

 

Diarmuid hopes he never forgets this War. He wants to remember Donnchadh, his story, and everything that comes with it, even if it’s painful.

 

‘I'm sorry, Gráinne, that our sons died like this. That none of them outlived you like they should have. I'm sorry I died like this, I'm sorry I didn't grow old with you. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you, I'm sorry I didn't take Móralltach and Gáe Dearg with me.’

 

---

 

Sétanta is leaning against the wall of the little bedroom the lad lent him and Archer when his lover enters the room with a plate of food in his hands. The demi-god arches an eyebrow, silent, as Archer comes to sit next to him, handing him the food.

 

“What have I done to get spoiled like this? I'd thought you'd be spitting mad that I saved the lad,” he chuckles.

“The others might be deceived by the mask you're putting on, but I'm not. What’s going on?” Archer asks gently. “Is it… Is it because of Diarmuid's presence? Because of 1994?”

 

Sétanta sighs and grabs an onigiri, taking a few bites before speaking. It's complicated. Diarmuid is complicated. Sétanta is still haunted by the corruption, and the nightmares all go back to the other demi-god, but it's unfair and he knows it. Diarmuid was just as much a victim as Sétanta, if not more. He got over it – mostly – not long after running into the Lancer. No, there's something else eating at him. Something that makes him want to vomit.

 

“It's 'is son,” he articulates. “Diarmuid, 'e found 'is son.”

“Oh…” Archer pauses. “Do you… Do you believe he can be summoned?”

“Well clearly everyone can fuckin' be!” Sétanta exclaims, and he hears tears in his own voice.

 

Because what if. What if Connla can be summoned? And Finn? What if they can be sent to participate in Holy Grail Wars? His little ones, so precious and innocent? Who should be enjoying the Otherworld? Who should never see conflict ever again? Who should never be made the slaves of some fucking magus? Arms come around him, and Sétanta lets his tears flow freely. His children. His babies. He wants to see them again, wants to hug them, tell them he loves them, wants to fucking apologise for everything. For being a shitty father who loved war more than his own life, for abandoning Finn, for killing Connla. But if they're Summoned one day, if they're made to participate in the same War… No, no, no. No Command Seals could make him hurt them. He'd kill himself before. But there's worse.

 

Her.

 

Alaya.

 

“She could send us, right? She could make us kill them for some reason!”

“She could,” Archer says quietly. “But I wouldn't let you do it.”

“I would hate you,” Sétanta chokes, knowing it to be true no matter how irrational it would be.

But Archer doesn't even seem afraid of the prospect, accepts it as a possibility. “I can take it. I would deserve it, and I wouldn't blame you. But I would never let you hurt them.”

“You can't stop her.”

“I'd beg her. On my knees, like a good little slave should. I'd do anything to spare you that.”

 

Sétanta can't reply. He can only cry, his imagination running wild. Mixing with memories of Connla dying at his hands, he can see Finn's little body, eyes wide and unseeing, blood pooling under her. He can see his own hands covered in his daughter's blood, dripping to the floor. He can see Connla impaled on Gáe Bulg, he can hear their wheezing breaths as they try to survive just a second longer.

 

Alaya could do this to him. It would be so easy, after all. It's honestly surprising she hasn't done so yet. She's probably just waiting for the right opportunity, the right timeline. And there’s noting he can do about it, except pray. Pray that his father will be able to get them out of this mess before it can happen. Pray that the sun will shine upon them sooner than later.

 

“I love you,” Archer whispers. “I'll always be there, so long as you'll have me.”

 

Sétanta's sobs only grow stronger. He wants to tell him he loves him too, but he can barely breathe. Articulating seems completely out of the question right now. He just wants to forget. Wants to forget about everything. Alaya, his children being potentially summoned… Looking up at Archer, he smashes their lips together, hoping a make-out session will help.

 

Thank fuck, Archer doesn't question the change in mood and lets Sétanta straddle his hips to kiss him deeply. It tastes like tears and salt, but Sétanta doesn’t care. He presses himself impossibly close to his lover, hoping he can just disappear for a while. A tanned hand makes its way under his clothes while the other unties his hair to play with it, and Sétanta lets out a moan. He nibbles Archer’s lips, who gets his revenge by digging his nails in Sétanta's hip. Jokes on the bowman, it only turns Sétanta on more. They're clearly leaving the 'make-out session' territory to enter another one and realistically, Sétanta knows they should stop. They haven’t had a single conversation about sex, and he knows Archer isn't comfortable with everything.

 

But he's more god than man, and gods are selfish, especially when they’re in pain.

 

So, he keeps going, runs his hands over the sculpted muscles of Archer's body, and lets his sharp teeth play with the skin of his neck. Of course, if Archer were to tell him no, Sétanta would stop. But he doesn't, and so the demi-god keeps going. He dismisses his mana-made clothes, and he moans when Archer does the same, leaving them both bare for the other to admire. And gods does Sétanta admire his lover's body. Kisses and nibbles and caresses every part of him, slow and reverent. Archer is equally worshipful in his actions, loving and gentle in a way no one has been with Sétanta in a while.

 

When Sétanta sits on his lover's hips, he throws his head back with a silent scream. It's like something in him is weeping in joy and ecstasy. Like the bond between them is singing, and he doesn't even know how he manages to keep his glamour intact. He pants and bites back his whines so as to not disturb inhabitants of the house, but he wants nothing more than let them all hear how good he’s feeling. He kisses Archer, and all memories of his pain disappear. There’s nothing but love, and satisfaction, and something primal he can’t name.

 

“You don't have to keep it on,” Archer pants. “The glamour...”

 

The spell is gone before Sétanta can properly think about it. His eyes all open, wide and uncoordinated, his claws leave red ribbons on Archer's skin. The sight is mesmerizing. It takes all of his self-control not to lick his fingers, but Archer shatters it when he drags Sétanta’s face to his to whisper he doesn't mind. And Sétanta cums like that, Archer's exquisite blood on his tongue, glamour off, looking every bit the monster he’s so often been compared to. A few trusts later, Archer cums as well, looking so beautiful Sétanta feels like he's been blessed.

 

The following kisses are slow and gentle, nothing like the frenzied passion of their coupling. Sétanta doesn’t put his glamour back on, exhausted. Instead, he purrs in Archer's arms when his lover gently untangles his hair and caresses his face and neck.

 

“Sleep, Sétanta. We can afford to rest, tonight.”

 

---

 

Artoria kicks a tree with all her strength, and the wood explodes on impact. It's not very mature, and even less worthy of a king, but she doesn't care. Why is he here? Her eyes fill with furious tears. Diarmuid Ua Duibhne. Same twin spears, same enchanted mole, same golden eyes, same surreal beauty… What curse is this? Or is it a blessing? A gift from the Grail? A chance to have a proper duel against the knight? He might not remember the… relationship they built las time they met, she does. And she wants her duel against him, knight to knight. She deserves it. After the horrors of last War, she deserves to have this one thing. A battle that won’t besmirch her honour. She can only hope that Diarmuid’s Master will allow this.

 

She just needs to make sure that Ilya agrees as well. Her lady listens to her advice and input, so she should, but Artoria would rather make sure. Breathing deeply, she makes her way towards the girl’s chambers. Lizbet, one of the homunculi, announces Artoria before opening the door, and the King of Knights can't help but smile fondly as she enters. Ilya is wearing a long white nightgown. She looks so much like Irisviel. She will grow to be such a beautiful woman.

 

“Saber? It’s late, is everything fine?”

“Yes. I had… I have a request, my lady.”

“Tell me, I’ll do my best.”

“The Lancer Servant was present during the last War. We swore that we would have an honourable duel, knight against knight.”

“And you wish to honour to vow still? Even if he has forgotten all about it?”

“Yes.”

Ilya smiles brightly. “You're really awesome Saber. If you promise me to win, then I have no reason to refuse.”

 

Artoria puts a knee to the ground and takes her lady’s hand in hers.

 

“I will crown you victor of this war, my lady. I am grateful that you would agree to my request.”

“It's my pleasure, Saber! Now raise, my knight. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

 

‘Watch me, Lady Irisviel. I will watch over your daughter.’

Notes:

Some FGO adventures since it's been a while!
CHÂTEAU D'IF
• Edmond you need to chill, half of France hasn't read the book you're in (source: I'm French)
• Fergus: "OF COURSE I HAVE." "You're difficult to bed" I snorted, Fergus really called Edmond picky/frigid lmfao
• Nightingale: "I don't know who I am :(((" I FINISHED THE SINGULARITY SO I SHOULD
• Edmond "Isn't it nice to have a woman care for you?" Gudako's heart belongs to Mash so I don't care lol. Also Nightingale isn't my type. Now if Nitocris or Morgan were taking care of me, it would be different!! (Or Diarmuid. Or Cú. Or half of the male characters lmfao)
• THE. COUNT. OF. MONTE. CRISTO. IS. NOT. THAT. GOOD. OF. A. BOOK.
• God Edmond is giving me second-hand embarrassment. You're too edgy my dude
• "the most known revenge seeker" Achilles literally defeated a river god and gave Olympus a panic attack because of his revenge-fueled slaughter and you're telling me the white-haired twink is the most known revenge seeker?????
• Jeanne d'Arc x Edmond salvation/hate sex when??? They'd be insanely toxic but so fun lmfao
• That MOTHEFUCKER from Apocrypha???? GET HIM EDGEMOND

SALEM
• Okay so that's not Medea
• Whomst the fuck decided that sending a Servant who barely speaks English is a good idea
• SOLOMON MENTION I'M CRYING MY LOVE
• Hopkins I will personally beat your ass
• Not-Medea is my spirit animal
• LMFAO Jeanne Alter is back and I love her
• Jeanne Alter Santa Lily too??? God this is so funny
• "That's a buncha top tier arsonists wackjobs!" Screaming
• Sheba x Romani for the win
• I love Circe
• STAY AWAY FROM MATA HARI YOU NUTJOB
• Not Sanson being the new problem child wasn't on my bingo card
• HOPKINS IS DEAD. GET HIS ASS LAVINIA
• Carter saying "pressing X" to his niece was very funny ngl
• SANSON NOOOO
• I'm sorry for making you a dick in my other fic
• Robin speaking facts. Humiliate them king.
• Wow. Carter was the demon god all among. How surprising.

Chapter 34: Son of Death

Summary:

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne? Having a good time in a Holy Grail War? Never.

Shirō hums as he cooks for his numerous guests. Donnchadh seems lighter today, and Shirō can easily understand why; he has been able to speak with his father, pour his heart out and have a good cry. It's a chance Shirō will never have and, although part of him is envious, he is mainly happy for the Heroic Spirit. The memory of Kiritsugu's face flashes through his mind, and he bites his lip. Today is his birthday, and he needs to visit the cemetery, to leave food and talk to his dad a bit. He wonders if Donnchadh used to do the same, when he was alive. If he visited Diarmuid's grave, asking for advice and guidance, telling him about his life.

 

“Shi-rō!”

 

Turning around, the teenager feels his cheeks flush furiously. Donnchadh is leaning against the doorway, long black hair untied, half-falling on his pale face. His hazelnut eyes seem to glow a bit, but that might just be Shirō's imagination. The Heroic Spirit has put on the human clothes Shirō has lent him – thank god he kept some of his father's old stuff –, but the teenager isn't so sure it was a good idea, now. The sleeves of the buttoned-up shirt are rolled back on his arms, and some of the buttons are undone. As for the fabric, it traitorously clings to his skin. It's clearly too tight for him, and Shirō can't tell if Donnchadh still put it on out of politeness or just to mess with him. Which, considering last night's kiss, seems like a very plausible thing.

 

He's going to need to address this, eventually, but first, he needs to stop staring for fuck's sake! Forcing his eyes to move and look at anything but Donnchadh's arms. Thankfully, the sizzling of food gets his attention.

 

“Hi!” he exclaims, turning back to move the pans and prepare the many plates. “Did you huh… did you sleep well?”

“Y-es… Fa-ther… and… I… tal-k-ed… It… was… ni-ce…”

“I'm glad. It must be strange, to run into him like that, right?”

“Hap-py,” Donnchadh replies, coming over to inspect the food, fascinated. “What… this?”

“Traditional Japanese breakfast. You can try this if you want,” he says, pointing at some already cooked food. “The rest isn't ready.”

 

Donnchadh makes a happy sound and grabs an onigiri, devouring it in a few bites.

 

“You… great… cook…” he says.

“My dad was terrible at cooking. He would have found a way to burn water, so I was the one who took over the kitchen. It's relaxing, and I like taking care of others, so cooking is perfect for me.”

“Mhm… Nice…”

“Huh? Yeah, I suppose it's nice.”

“No… You… nice…”

 

Shirō's traitor of a heart skips a bit, threatening to explode when Donnchadh smiles at him. It takes all his strength to keep focusing on the food and regain control of the muscle.

 

“It… Thanks,” he articulates. “I… I have to visit his grave later on. It's his birthday and huh… I understand if you'd rather not come.”

“No,” Donnchadh says firmly. “I come. Sa-ber dan-ge-rous.”

 

‘Here's my moment to mention the kiss,’ he tells himself. Breathing deeply, Shirō gathers all his courage.

 

“You… huh… why did you kiss me last night?”

Donnchadh tilts his head to the side. “Ma-na… trans-fer…”

“Isn't there another way? There's blood too, right?” Shirō asks, cursing how hysterical he must sound.

The Heroic Spirit blinks. “Was… bad?”

“No! I mean! That's not the point! It! It was the first time I ever kissed someone!” he shrieks. 

 

Shirō wants to scream. He must sound and look like a complete lunatic, redder than a tomato. It only gets worse when Donnchadh bursts out laughing. Great, now he's laughing at him.

 

“Stop laughing at me!” he hisses, so embarrassed he wishes the ground would just swallow him whole.

“Sor-ry…”

“You're clearly not sorry,” the teenager whines, and Donnchadh only laughs harder, taking a couple of steps back.

“Shi-rō… a-do-ra-ble… Blu-sh… li-ke… mai-den…”

 

Frustrated, Shirō turns back to his cooking, finishing serving the plates and putting them on the kitchen table before storming out. He kicks a pebble before sitting on the ground, head spinning. He's being stupid, he knows it. Donnchadh clearly told him it was just a mana transfer, and Shirō can only blame himself for crushing so hard, so fast. He's an idiot, it's nothing new, but there are tears in his eyes and he hates it.

 

“Shi-rō?” Wiping his tears furiously, the teenager glances behind him. Donnchadh is approaching, sitting next to him with genuine remorse shining in his eyes. “Sor-ry…”

“It's me. I'm just dumb.”

“No… dumb… Just… Ni-ce…”

“I can be both.”

“Mhm. No… think… you… dumb. Laugh-ghed… be-cau-se… swe-et…”

 

Shirō doesn't reply. He's never been good with words, especially with someone he has a crush on. Instead, he decides to tentatively lean on Donnchadh, head on his shoulder. The Heroic Spirit lets him, even putting his own arm around his waist. Shirō smiles softly, thundering heart calming down. He supposes things will be fine, one way or another.

 

---

 

Shirō settles his father's plate on the tombstone, sending a silent prayer. Donnchadh is standing a few metres behind him, arms crossed on his chest. It's most likely in order to give Shirō some privacy, but he finds it more unnerving than anything else.

 

“Do you want to sit with me?” he asks the Heroic Spirit.

 

Donnchadh seems surprised, but he comes closer and sits down nonetheless, glancing at the picture of Kiritsugu.

 

“His name was Kiritsugu Emiya. He adopted me ten years ago, after a disaster struck the city and killed my parents,” he explains, and he feels his throat tighten as memories flood his mind. “He couldn't cook to save his life, and he was away a lot for work. But he'd bring me something back each time. Knick-knacks, a cookbook, stories…” A tear rolls down his cheek, and Shirō wipes it angrily. “I can't even remember my biological parents, so he's the only family I know…”

“Fa-ther… can… not… sing… but… he tri-ed… on each… of… mo-the-r's… na-me… day… she… was… ap-pal-led…” Donnchadh says fondly. Their voices are barely louder than whispers, as if speaking louder would destroy the memories. “Th-rew… a… bo-ok… at 'im… on-ce…”

“Was it that bad?” Shirō asks, chuckling at the thought.

“Aw-ful… but… he… dan-ces well…”

“I never saw dad dance. I don't think he could, or that he ever tried to be honest. I don't think I can either. I'd probably humiliate myself.”

“Danc-ing… like… foot… work… for… sw-o-rd.”

 

The Berserker suddenly stands up and offers Shirō his hand with a grin brighter than the sun.

 

“I… show… you?”

 

‘I'm going to die,’ the teenager thinks, blushing so hard it almost hurts. But he still takes the offered hand. Donnchadh's smile grows as he starts humming a song, guiding Shirō slowly. It's slow, but thankfully not something romantic. Shirō isn't certain he would have survived it. He's not sure he's going to survive this either, to be entirely honest. But he sure as hell is going to enjoy it. Donnchadh is warm, in a way that isn't human or not entirely. It does make sense; his father is a demi-god, so he himself is quarter-god.

 

The dance isn't very complicated, but Shirō probably steps on Donnchadh's feet half a dozen times. It gets worse the more he's embarrassed and, if Donnchadh didn't laugh each time, Shirō is pretty sure he would have either broken down in tears of embarrassment or run away from the whole thing. Or maybe both. He's never been good with his feelings, after all.

 

Suddenly, Donnchadh freezes as a low growl vibrates through his chest. He lets go of Shirō and turns to look at the cemetery entrance as his mana bursts to life, regular clothes replaced by leather armour and a bright red sword.

 

“Shi-rō… hi-de!”

“Is it Saber again?” The teenager asks.

“A-ye… hi-de!”

 

Shirō bites his lips, then impulsively, grabs Donnchadh's face and smashes their lips together. He doesn't really know how to initiate a mana transfer but he hopes it will work. He squeals when Donnchadh pulls him closer, heart thundering as the kiss gets more passionate. Eventually, they part, and Shirō takes a step back, blushing.

 

“Here… n-now you have m-more mana,” he stutters.

 

Donnchadh grins, mischievous, before turning back and jumping towards the incoming Saber. Still, Shirō hates that he can't do more. That he can only call for more competent magi, for other Servants to help Donnchadh because he can't. He'd do anything, give anything, to be able to fight by his side, to be able to protect him just like Donnchadh does. But all he can do right now is stay out of Donnchadh's way. Grabbing the talisman Rin gave him earlier, he follows her instructions, ripping in half.

 

‘Your Berserker isn't that strong. If Saber returns, she'll wreck him. Rip that and in half and we'll come, alright?’

 

---

 

Artoria says nothing as she follows her lady into a cemetery. Before going after Diarmuid and offering a duel, they need to get rid of Berserker and his Master. Not that the boy, a third-rate magus, or the Heroic Spirit, whose sword is the only thing noteworthy about him, are dangers. No, it is something much more personal than this. Kiritsugu Emiya, faithful to his lack of morals and awful personality, has apparently adopted a child in Fuyuki and lived his life here instead of returning to Ilya's side, abandoning her to the whims of the Einzbern. This child is now the Master of Berserker and Lady Ilya, in her rightful anger, wishes him dead. Blaming said child isn't rational, of course, but he is a Master in the Holy Grail War. Whether it is by Artoria's hand or another Heroic Spirit's one, his death will come. As such, if it can bring Lady Ilya some peace, Artoria would rather do it herself. She will make it quick and painless, the only mercy she can grant him.

 

The second they pass the threshold, though, they are welcomed by Berserker's furious roar. Jumping in front of her Master, Artoria summons her armour and Excalibur, pushing the attacking man back with a swing of her sword. Berserker's eyes are wide and almost unseeing, the Madness of his class slowly taking over in an effort to protect his Master.

 

“Ready your blade, Berserker, today is your last.”

“RAAAAAAAAH!!!”

 

Artoria goes on the offensive, deflecting the many attacks of her unhinged opponent. Berserker is relentless and what he lacks in technique, he makes up for in raw strength and determination, as befitting his class. He's also quite nimble and swift, avoiding more strikes that Artoria thought he would. For a madman, she must confess he is quite good. Still, he is nowhere near as powerful as Lancelot, and Artoria's heart breaks at the reminder of her dear friend's mad state. Frustrated, she adds more strength to her blows, sending Berserker flying and crashing against a couple of tombstones. She wanted to avoid dealing too much damage to the place, but she trusts Lady Ilya to set up a strong barrier. The King of Knights rushes forward, refusing to give Berserker the chance to get back up.

 

“Donnchadh!” the young magus exclaims. “The hell you want with us?!” he screams, frustrated, and, from the corner of her eyes, Artoria sees Lady Ilya attack him.

 

Ignoring him, she goes back to battling Berserker. He fights back with all the fury of his class, screaming and raging and sustaining blows if it gives him a chance to hit her. He lands a punch or two, and she narrowly avoids a devastating swing of his enchanted sword, but nothing major. He is much weaker than her, and bonded to a Master who cannot properly sustain him. This fight will be easy. 

 

‘Saber, please end this. The boy's allies will be here soon.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

 

Twisting, she kicks Berserker in the chest and rushes forward, aiming to stab him straight through the chest. However, just before her blade can pierce his leather armour, light explodes between them, pushing Artoria back. Her eyes widen at the sight before her. The form of a woman in her late thirties is floating around Berserker, hugging him like a mother would hug her child, shielding him from damage. She is translucent and nothing more than the manifestation, but it's easy to to know what this is.

 

A mother's love, a mother's last wish, a mother's prayer to keep her child safe.

 

Artoria swallows thickly. The figure, with long hair and soft eyes, painfully reminds her of Irisviel. Gritting her teeth, the knight swallows her pain and focuses on the fight. Lady Ilya commanded her to end this fight quickly. She is a Heroic Spirit, she's her ladies' knight. She must kill Berserker, no matter how much she dislikes killing a young man who was so dearly loved. Channeling more mana in Excalibur, she attacks once more but this time, Berserker deflects her weapon. He has had the time to recover from her previous onslaught and his demonic sword shimmers with mana. Worse, the Madness is made for long fights; the more Berserker fights, the stronger he will be. She needs to end this quickly before this fight goes from a mild annoyance to a challenge.

 

With a roar, Berserker swings the red blade and Artoria swiftly ducks, feeling the wind of the move right above her head. This blow would have cut off her head had she not avoided it. Pouring mana in Excalibur and dropping to one knee, she strikes forward. This time, the protection doesn't flare up, and Artoria's blade goes straight through his chest. Berserker howls in pain and tries to hit her, but Artoria removes Excalibur from his chest and, with one more swing, aims to decapitate him. But Berserker raises an arm just in time, and the limb goes flying instead of his head. She hears the Master scream in distress but, before Artoria can move further, another scream is heard.

 

Something primal, furious and inhuman. She whirls around, readying her weapon, but freezes at the sight. Diarmuid Ua Duibhne is standing in the entrance, eyes wide. His spears disappear from his hands, and he rushes past Artoria, completely ignoring her. She watches the Celtic warrior fall to his knees next to Berserker, cradling him against him, tears rolling down his cheeks. The whole scene seems surreal, and her breathing stops. What's going on?

 

“Níl! Níl, níl, níl, níl, níl! Féach orm! Ná dún do shúile! Le do thoil! Donnchadh!”

 

Artoria's Irish is non-existent, but it's not hard to realise what's going on, especially when she sees Berserker and Diarmuid next to each other. The resemblance is obvious, and Artoria feels sick to her stomach. Diarmuid and Donnchadh are related. It explains his protectiveness last night, and Artoria takes a few steps back as guilt washes over her like a tidal wave. She didn't know. She wouldn't have… She would have taken time to speak to Berserker, if she had known.

 

The gods are laughing at her, they must be. The one adversary she wants to face honourably, the one man she wants to face for the pleasure of a good battle, a test of skills… He must hate her. For whoever Berserker is to him, he's undoubtedly more important than some promise he can't remember. Numb with guilt, she watches as Berserker tries to breathe, but his body is already fading away. What little mana his master has won't save him. Diarmuid is still holding him, jerked by his sobs and chest heaving.

 

“Ní hea, le do thoil, ní hea,” the Lancer sobs.

“Feicfidh mé go luath thú, a athair…” Berserker articulates before fading completely, disappearing in a myriad of red and gold lights.

 

Diarmuid howls in pain, and Artoria feels sick to her stomach. Horribly, Berserker's blood doesn't even disappear. Distantly, she can hear Berserker's Master sobbing, held back by Diarmuid's Master. Although she cannot exactly say why, she takes a step forward, useless apologies forming on her tongue. But as her foot touches the ground, Diarmuid's mana explodes. It surrounds him, black and green and gold, a whirlwind of rage and grief. His head lolls back, and his eyes turn to Artoria. They're the epitome of loathing, something she has never seen before. Not even Mordred or Morgan looked at her with such raw, unbridled hatred.

 

“I'm going to kill you.”

Notes:

Irish to English translation
Níl! Níl, níl, níl, níl, níl! Féach orm! Ná dún do shúile! Le do thoil! Donnchadh!” No! No, no, no, no, no! Look at me! Don’t close your eyes! Please! Donnchadh!
“Ní hea, le do thoil, ní hea" → No, please, no
“Feicfidh mé go luath thú, a athair…” → See you soon, father.

 

Goodbye Donnchadh! It was nice having you here, giving a couple of existential crisis to everyone around you.

This chapter had neither Sétanta nor Archer though... But they'll return next chapter, promise!!

Fun fact: this Shirō and Donnchadh will reappear later in this little world I'm building!!

Chapter 35: Wrath

Summary:

A parent's wrath has no equal.

Artoria clenches her teeth as the furious mana pushes her back, boots scraping against the ground. She can only stare as Diarmuid stands up, yellow spear breaking down and changing into something else. Into Berserker's weapon, the red demonic sword. But she can't take the time to ask herself why or how, for Diarmuid rushes towards, screaming in rage, face twisted in agony.

 

“A chailleach! Ba é mo mhac é! Déanfaidh mé tú a sracadh óna chéile!”

 

Artoria matches him strike for strike, but the contrast in length between the long spear and the sword is nightmarish to deal with. Every time she tries to get closer, the sword pushes her back, its red glow matching Excalibur's light. Every time she is a step too far, quick stabs of the spear cut her skin, for her armour is useless against it. It's like a trap she cannot escape from, not without using her Noble Phantasm. And even then… Diarmuid seems completely unstoppable at the moment, powered by grief and rage, all the demigod he's supposed to be, the warrior who fought armies, to whom a god has bestowed unparalleled weapons. He doesn't seem to tire at all, doesn't seem to run out of mana. She's never seen him like this, not even when he was forced to kill himself ten years ago, not even when he cursed them all to eternal suffering in his father's halls.

 

Artoria risks a glance at Lady Ilya, and her heart misses a beat. Diarmuid's Master is present as well, and the two girls' manas clash violently. Lady Ilya seems to have the advantage for now, but the second Artoria uses more mana, her lady will lose the ascendant. Worse, if the other two Servants from the day before show up as well, they'll be in considerable peril. If only Diarmuid didn't have that bloody demonic sword, she might be able to win! Twin spears are easier to predict than a sword and a spear. Jumping back, Artoria tries to put some distance between her and the grieving Servant, hoping to catch her breath, but he propels himself forward, swinging the sword vertically, snarling something in Irish. A beam of red light follows the movement, and Artoria has to roll to the side to avoid the pure mana that burns the ground.

 

“Shit,” she pants.

 

This isn't good, and it's not looking like it's going to get any better. She's starting to feel Lady Ilya's exhaustion, but Diarmuid doesn't seem to tire at all. What in God's name is wrong with him? 

 

Suddenly, the knight hears the whistling of an arrow. ‘NO!’ Foregoing her own safety, Artoria rushes to her Master and strikes down four red arrows which would have easily pierced through Lady Ilya's hastily crafted defense. She looks up, fearing what she might find. Of course, said fears are founded.

 

Archer is here. 

 

Worse, by his side is the strange Servant, the blue-haired one whose abilities Lady Ilya can't see. He isn't an Assassin, nor is he Caster; he wouldn't show himself like that if he were. If Diarmuid wasn't here, she would think he's the Lancer. A Rider, perhaps? But without a mount? Does he not take the situation seriously? Still, it's the only thing that makes sense.

 

On ‘Rider's’ shoulder is the blue-haired disabled Master, and next to Archer is the purple-haired girl. Their Masters. Fuck. She needs to get Lady Ilya out of here.

 

“Lady Ilya, we need to – Akh!”

 

Artoria parries Diarmuid's heavy blow just in time, feet digging into the ground. The shockwave destroys a bunch of tombs, sending rubble flying everywhere. Alright. Change of plans. It's time to accept that she's not escaping the enraged spearman.

 

“Saber!” her darling little lady exclaims.

“Lady Ilya, you need to get out of here. I'm Lancer's target, he won't let me go!”

“Like hell! By the Power of my Command Seal – ARGH!”

 

Artoria turns around. Immediately, her eyes widen in horror. The unnamed Servant has gone down in a matter of nanoseconds and kicked Lady Ilya hard enough that she's been sent flying against a bunch of headstones. Artoria tries to rush to her side, but Diarmuid is back in front of her almost instantly, screaming and attacking with all the rage in the world. She deflects the blow and tries to kick him away, but the spearman jumps back while describing a semicircle with Gáe Dearg. The cursed spear goes straight through Artoria's armour, slashing her torso just above her chest.

 

Artoria hisses, scalding pain burning her flesh, but she plants her feet in the ground, analysing the situation. This is getting worse and worse. She cannot deal with three Servants. Behind Diarmuid, she can see Lady Ilya trying to get up, but she's obviously injured. The unnamed Servant is making his way towards her. He can kill her. He will kill her. They can't win this. But she can still save her lady's life. ‘Lady Irisviel, forgive me.’

 

“I surrender!” she exclaims. “Take my life, but leave – Hurgh!”

 

Móralltach goes through her guts before she can finish her sentence. Diarmuid didn't even let her finish, probably didn't even listen to what she was saying. Stumbling back, Artoria can't prevent the demigod from slamming her to the ground, cold hands going around her throat. Reflexes kick in, and Artoria grabs his wrists, trying to force them apart. Her strength is nothing to laugh at, but for some reason, she can't do anything. Why? What has happened to his Spirit Origin? She glances at his Master. The girl is panting heavily, hands on her heart, Berserker's Master trying to help her breathe. She's visibly in pain. Is Diarmuid so enraged that he cannot see he is killing his Master?

 

“Bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás, bás!” he snarls, over and over and over again, muscles swelling under his skin, deforming his body like he's some twisted beast, more god than man, more monster than god.

 

The word rings in her head, and Artoria can't hear anything else. Her lungs are on fire, her muscles beg for oxygen, her head is painfully spinning, her blood is pulling beneath her. She tries to summon all the mana she can, but nothing comes. Have they already killed Lady Ilya? No, she would have felt it. But at the same time, everything is on fire, so she might have missed it. No, they wouldn't. They're young, practically children. They wouldn't commit murder so casually. Yet, the heat of wrath would push anyone to commit the most unforgivable actions, to lose sight of themselves. The hero strangling her is proof.

 

“I… am… sorry…” Artoria articulates.

 

She doesn't know for whom it is. Diarmuid, Lady Ilya, Irisviel… She cannot afford to think about it, because everything goes dark.

 

 

Rin can barely hear the Einzbern girl's scream over her own thundering heart. Something is wrong with Lancer. He shouldn't be able to trash Saber like this, and he shouldn't be wielding Móralltach. This shouldn't be possible. He's a Lancer, not a Saber. And well, he's not a Saber right now. His Spirit Origin feels all over the place, close to a Berserker but not really. It's like nothing she knows about. Leaning against Shirō, he can only hope that it's over, now that Saber is dead. She watches the blonde Heroic Spirit disappear and swallows thickly.

 

‘Please calm down,’ she thinks. ‘Don't make me use a Command Seal. You can do it. You're stronger than your rage.’

 

Diarmuid stumbles as he stands back up, weapons disappearing. Rin sighs in relief; it's over. Diarmuid's mana is going to settle down. She leans against Emiya, hoping to provide him with some comfort over the painful loss of Berserker. She feels him tense and relax. A small smile appears on her face as Diarmuid walks towards them, but her smile instantly falls when he passes by, completely ignoring her. The teenager's heart thunders again, painful and unrhythmic. It hurts. She tries to get up, mouth opening to call her Lancer, but she can only cough and watch as he makes his way to the sobbing Einzbern girl.

 

“Lancer!” Rin articulates. “It's over… You… you got your revenge!” she pants.

 

But once again, Diarmuid ignores her. He leans down and grabs the white-haired homunculus by the neck, lifting her like she weighs nothing. Then, he squeezes. ‘No! I can't let him lose himself like this!’ she thinks. Lifting her hand, Rin focuses on her Command Seals.

 

“Diarmuid Ua Duibhne! By the power of my Command Seal I order you – get ahold of yourself and settle down!” she orders.

 

The mana leaves her hand like a storm, burning and wild. It ensnares Diarmuid, who falls to his knees and screams in rage and pain, holding his head. The mana that erupted around him after Berserker's death fights back, furious and unwilling to give up. But the Command Seal is stronger and, after five seconds of struggling, Diarmuid falls to the ground, unconscious. Rin sighs in relief; it's definitely over now. Her heart is calm again, it doesn't burn anymore.

 

“Nee-san!” Sakura cries out, rushing to her side.

“I'm fine, don't worry,” Rin replies, although she lets her sister help her up. “We… We need to fix this and get home. We've earned ourselves a lot of rest.”

“I'll take care of this place and wrap things up with the homunculus,” Shinji declares as he approaches, leaning heavily on his cane. 

 

Then, lifting his hand in the sky, he mutters something in Russian. A small magic circle appears, and immediately, the leftover mana in the air is absorbed into it. Rin watches, transfixed, as Shinji's body heals at an accelerated rate. His skin is less pale, the bags under his eyes disappear, and he doesn't lean as much on his cane.

 

“Cú Chulainn should carry Lancer back to the manor, Master. We can meet up there once we're done here,” Archer says from his place just behind Shinji, arms crossed on his chest.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” the blue-haired boy says flatly before looking at Emiya, and his eyes soften a bit. “Emiya, you should go with Rin and Sakura.”

 

Rin glances at Emiya, who still hasn't moved from his spot on the ground and doesn't seem to have heard them. He's wounded where the Einzbern girl's magecraft touched him, but it's nothing too bad. It's almost like she was taking her time with him.

 

“Emiya-senpai?” Sakura gently calls out, putting a hand on his unharmed shoulder. “Would you come with us?”

This time, Emiya looks up, eyes so empty it's terrifying. “I… How do I summon him again?”

 

‘Oh, Emiya…’ Rin thinks, trying to fight back her grimace. She exchanges a look with Shinji; neither of them knows how to break the news to their classmate. Emiya seemed ridiculously attached to his Servant, and he's likely to grieve for a long time. Especially since he never got to properly say goodbye.

 

“I'm sorry, senpai… Heroic Spirits can only be summoned once per Holy Grail War…”

“... Can I go where he is, then?”

“No.” Rin's head snaps in Archer's direction, surprised that he participates in the conversation. His voice is cold, and his eyes even more so. “Only Heroic Spirits have access to the Throne of Heroes.”

 

Emiya nods numbly and stands up, Sakura gently taking his hand to guide them.

 

“Alright, let's go home, now. Shinji-senpai, will you deal with her as well?” Sakura asks, gesturing at the unconscious homunculus.

“Yeah, yeah, just go away now.”

 

 

Archer wordlessly watches Sétanta leave with Diarmuid on his shoulder and the three teenagers following him before turning to Shinji, who is slowly making his way to the unconscious Ilya. Diarmuid didn't have the time to break her neck – he was probably taking his time –, but he did knock her out. Her snow-white hair is spread around her head like a halo, almost as if she's already dead. Archer swallows thickly. He hopes he won't have to kill her. He wishes he didn't have to interact with her to begin with, but beggars can't be choosers.

 

“What do you think we should do with her? Einzbern homunculi are known for their strength and resilience.”

“I believe it would be better to interrogate her about her motivations. She went obsessively after the weakest magus, which meant there's something she wants from him.”

“I suppose. Wake her up, I'll fix this place.”

 

Archer nods, a shiver running down his spine as Shinji’s mana engulfs the place. The headstones blown apart by the fight slowly but surely come back together, each grain of dirt fitting right back in its place. In under three minutes, the cemetery is back to its normal state. Archer crouches near Ilya and puts a head on her forehead, infusing some mana in her. The homunculus takes a deep breath and sits right up, scrambling away from Archer, eyes wide with fear. He swallows back his desire to comfort her by focusing on his Master. Shinji is his priority, not the lookalike of a girl he once may have known.

 

“A-are you going to kill me?” she asks.

“Depends. If my Master asks me, I will. I can make the following minutes very painful though. Why did you go after Berserker? He wasn't a threat to you or Saber,” Archer asks.

“That's none of your business!” she hisses back.

 

Archer sighs and glances at Shinji, who gives him a hesitant nod. The Heroic Spirit turns back to the girl and, fast as a snake, grabs her hand. Crack, here goes one of her fingers. She yelps in pain, but Archer has successfully pushed his compassion away. He'll feel bad about this, but later. Maybe.

 

“Let's try this again.”

“Torture?” Ilya pants. “How uncivilised.”

“You'll find that most Servants don't share your view of civilisation, and torture gets the job done,” Archer shrugs. “Now, do you feel like answering my question?”

“Will you let me live, if I answer?”

“Only if you don't go after Emiya again,” Shinji declares.

 

Ilya glares at him before biting her lower lip, clearly infuriated that she has to concede. She must know she'll never be able to escape him, and Archer would prefer not torturing or killing her. He was never close to Ilya, not in his timeline or the many others, but she's only eighteen. She deserves to have a life.

 

“Kiritsugu Emiya is my father,” she eventually spits. “And he abandoned me, left me to rot with the Einzbern to play happy family with that boy!” she snarls.

 

Archer stares, gobsmacked. That's it? That's all there is to this? Jealousy? This is so… childish. Clearly, Shinji feels the same because he bursts out laughing.

 

“Oh my god, you're jealous?” he exclaims incredulously. “You did all that because you're jealous.”

“You don't know what it's like!” she replies furiously. “Growing up with the Einzbern, being treated as a doll my whole life!”

 

Shinji's sudden fury is like a wave crashing over the bond between Master and Servant, so raw it almost makes Archer wince. It makes him want to hit Ilya with all he has.

 

“I'm a fucking Matō. Tell me more, let's compare our childhood. How is it, to walk on your own? To see properly? To be able to climb stairs?” Shinji snarls. “Archer, we got what we wanted. Let's go.”

 

The white-haired Servant obeys, standing back up. Shinji is shaking with anger. Anger at Ilya, at his family, at the world. It's not hard to guess what his Master's wish will be; a healthy body. Archer never thought he would feel compassion for Shinji Matō, but this Shinji deserves to get his wish.

 

“As for you… do whatever you want, but leave Emiya alone. Next time I see you, I'll have Archer put an arrow in your head,” Shinji declares, snapping Archer out of his thoughts.

 

As they leave, Archer's heart tightens. He can hear Ilya cry and, for the upteenth time, he can't do anything to help her. He can't console her, because he's the very result of Kiritsugu abandoning her, he's everything she hates. He wonders if 'his' Ilya felt the same, if she loathed him the way this Ilya does. Stupidly, despite compartmentalizing the events, he hopes she didn't. With a slight shake of the head, he pushes the thoughts away; it's useless to think about it. What would wondering over a world that has collapsed be worth it in any way?

 

“What do you think happened to Lancer?”

 

Archer takes a second to think about it, but in truth, it's not hard to guess.

 

“For a brief moment, he became an Avenger-class Heroic Spirit. They're not a proper class in the sense that summoning them isn't supposed to be possible. But with the death of losing his son taking over, Lancer's class shifted until he got his revenge. If we had let him kill the homunculus, he would have probably stopped on his own,” he explains.

“Avenger class? I didn't know it existed.”

“They're not supposed to appear, and I don't think many Heroic Spirits qualify. Someone like Achilles, maybe, for his hatred of Hector. But I'm not certain.”

 

In truth, he is certain. Achilles can be an Avenger, and a damn powerful one at that. Killing him that one time was a nightmare, and Alaya had been forced to send several Counter Guardians to deal with him. Archer can't remember how long ago it was, and the fight is mostly a blur, but he knows it happened. He and the other Counter Guardians ended up blowing up the island, if his foggy memories are right.

 

“Ah, I see. Diarmuid Ua Duibhne doesn't qualify, I suppose? Except in that very instance…” Shinji deduces.

“That's what I believe as well. Demigods all have an innate capacity for destruction, but Diarmuid's rage isn't a central aspect of his life. From what I know, obviously.”

“I guess…”

Notes:

A chailleach! Ba é mo mhac é! Déanfaidh mé tú a sracadh óna chéile! → You bitch! He was my son! I'll rip you apart!

Bás → Die

FGO ONE ADVENTURES :D
LOSTBELT PROLOGUE
• Jesus fucking Christ, this director is so annoying
• Me??? A wet-behind-the-ear mage ? I THREW GOETIA LIKE A RAGDOLL MOTHERFUCKER
• Plus you're threatening my girl Mash.
• KOTOMINE????? OH I'M SO FUCKING KILLING YOU MOTHERFUCKER. GET HIM CÚ.
• Is that guard trying to threaten me?? Bestie I have Galahad ready to throw hands for me. Plus, as I said, I RAGDOLLED GEOTIA and called Edgemiya a bitch to his face.
• STEP AWAY FROM FOU BITCH.
• Kotomine being nice??? SUS.
• Aaaaaaaaand he's a dick.
• Anastasia my beloved.
• DAMN I wasn't expecting that blood spray
• "It should be impossible to summon Heroic Spirits outside if Chaldea"
Shirō Emiya, doing it accidentally for the third timeline in a row : yeah about that.
• DA VINCIIIIIIIIIIII
• Kotomine you fucker I'm so going to enjoy killing you
• A GUN??? Kiritsugu would be so proud
• The world: literally ends
Alaya: I sleep

LOSTBELT 1
• Da Vinci???
• Kadoc/Anastasia? 👀👀
• What in the fresh hells is that thing watching everyone???
• Is Holmes taking cocaine? He is, isn't he?
• lmfao Holmes is so funny
• God I ship Kadoc and Anastasia so hard
• "Kirei Kotomine's body was incinerated upon his death" exactly, my man Cú Chulainn did it like the absolute chad he is and we thank him for it
• Also I'm betting on Rasputin for the Servant in him considering his religious traits and his relationship with Anastasia
• I can't BELIEVE Goredof's magecraft is actually going to be useful
• Patxi's the best damn character in this Lostbelt
• Lmfao even Carnis ships Kadoc and Anastasia
• WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY BOY PATXI
• KADOC SHIELDING ANASTASIA???? What a ship.
• The game: *mentions Cú Chulainn*
Me: MY MAN!!! *Sobs*
• Btw wouldn't it be nice to summon a guy with SUN RELATED powers? Like, I don't know, Ozymandias? Karna? Cú Chulainn? (Definitely doing that for that fic)
• It's NOT Rasputin??
• I REFUSE TO BELIEVE PATXI BETRAYED US. HE WAS TORTURED
• How come no one taught Gudako a SINGLE spell? At least Gandr? Or reinforcement? If Shirō can freestyle reinforcement, Gudako should have learned a few things by now
• WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BOY ASTERIOS???? I'll kill you!!!!!
• Patxi: I don't understand how you can be strong
Billy: *murder mode activated*
Gudako: NO –
• Y'all I will have no guilt over destroying the Lostbelts lol
• So it WAS Rasputin
• PATXI SACRIFICED HIMSELF FOR ME??? NOOOOOOOO MY MAN
• Goddamn best character in this Lostbelt I'll tell you
• Billy!!!! My love!!!
• *uncontrollable sobbing for Atalante*
• God Kadoc and Anastasia are so in love.
• But thank you Billy for having the most sense ever. Like yes, shoot the genocidal maniac

Chapter 36: Wish upon a grail

Summary:

And the winner of the Holy Grail War is...

Notes:

This chapter contains fight scenes, and I'm still extremely bad at those. My apologies (⁠〒⁠﹏⁠〒⁠)

If it wasn't for his bond with him, Sétanta wouldn't have felt Archer approaching him. Still, he doesn't move, doesn't react as his lover sits next to him. A couple of metres beneath them, Diarmuid is sleeping, recovering from the painful change of his Spirit Origin. Usually, Sétanta would feel bad for his fellow Irishman, but he can't. All he can think about is Donnchadh and what he represents. A son, known for his death, just like Connla. What if it had been him? What if his little boy had been summoned instead of Donnchadh? He thinks of Diarmuid's rage, and all he can tell himself is that his own fury would have been worse. Had he seen his little boy be skewered by Artoria, blue hair soaked in blood and golden eyes empty and cold, there would have been nothing left of her corpse by the time he would have been done.

 

“Shinji is asleep,” Archer says calmly, and Sétanta barely hears him over his thoughts. “Repairing the cemetery exhausted him, and we'll have to rest for a few days.”

 

Sétanta nods, unable to care, eyes on the sky, where the sun is hidden behind layers of clouds. All he thinks about are his children. He thinks about Finn's first words, about Diarmuid being able to hold his son as a babe, and he wonders what Connla's first word was. He'll never know, not unless they run into Aife, and he doesn't want to. She might lie to him out of hatred, or she might not even remember. It's not like she ever cared about Connla to begin with.

 

“Did ye eva' run into 'im?” Sétanta can't help but ask.

 

Thankfully, Archer doesn't need any precision. Sétanta isn't certain he'd be able to pronounce Connla's name.

 

“No. I won't tell you he can't be summoned, but I have never seen him. There's no reason for him to… to be of any interest to Alaya.”

“She doesn't need much.”

“No, she doesn't. But I met a lot of people, and he was never among them.”

“What about Finn?”

“She was never there. Neither was Emer, nor Ferdiad.”

 

Sétanta breathes out in relief. If Archer has never run into them, it must be good. A proof that they can't disturb the survival of mankind, that Alaya can't make him kill them, that they're safe. At least from him. At least this time. Killing them once is more than enough. Archer's arm comes around his shoulders, and Sétanta lets himself be guided against his lover's chest. The rhythmical beat of Archer's heart is like a balm to Sétanta's own, and he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. What would he do without him?

 

“Thanks fer bein' here, love,” Sétanta breathes out.

“Always,” Archer whispers back.

 

They end up laying down on the rooftop, and Sétanta lets sleep take over. A nap can't hurt, especially when he's in Archer's arms, safer than he's ever been. Shinji is safe, he can afford it… At least for a bit.

 

Sétanta wakes up hours later, to the sound of Archer's deep voice and soft caresses in his hair. Groaning, he tries to hide in his lover's arms, unwilling to get up. He wants to stay asleep, damnit, they deserve some bloody rest. But Archer gently kisses his temple, and Sétanta forces himself to sit up, knowing Archer wouldn't wake him up for nothing. After yawning, he meets the grey-and-gold eyes of his lover, who hold all the gentleness of the world, for once not hidden under a carefully crafted mask of indifference and pragmatism.

 

It's only with him that Archer is open like this, and that fact makes Sétanta want to weep. One day. One day, they'll be free and Archer will be able to be as kind and gentle as he wants.

 

“Hey there,” his lover says softly.

“Hey… Som'thin' happened?”

“Shinji's up, everyone's hungry, and there's going to be a strategy meeting.”

“Fine…” Sétanta sighs, standing up and stretching. His back pops. “Let's go, then!”

 

 

Five minutes later, Sétanta is leaning against the kitchen wall of the Tohsaka manor while Archer is cooking. The three magi are seated around the table, and Diarmuid is sitting further away, looking like the personification of guilt. Sétanta gives the Lancer three minutes before he apologises for being carried.

 

“Where's the Emiya lad?” he asks.

“Senpai is asleep,” Sakura replies gently. “I had to use magecraft, or he would have been unable to rest. He was heartbroken...”

“Aye…”

“It's not like he can help either way,” Shinji shrugs. “Emiya is barely a magus to begin with, and I'd rather he doesn't get himself killed trying to play hero.”

“Yeah, it's better if he stays out of this,” Rin sighs. “He shouldn't have been a Master to begin with. Anyway!” She claps her hands. “Saber's out, so we need to get back to whoever is going after the school. I'm betting on the Caster you've found, Cú Chulainn,” she declared.

“She'll have to be eliminated anyway, so let's start with her. If she's not behind the barrier, it will force whoever is behind it to show up,” Shinji says.

“Our odds against a Caster on their territory aren't the best,” Archer intervenes, giving the three teenagers plates of food. “We'll need to be at our strongest.”

“Definitely. Shinji, how much prep do you need?” Rin asks.

“Two days, I'd say. I need to get used to what I've taken from Saber's leftovers. That, and fixing the cemetery exhausted me…”

“Sounds good to me, I'll prepare jewels then.”

 

Shinji nods and digs in his plate, taking a few bites before turning to Sétanta.

 

“How is… how's Caster's barrier?”

Sétanta blinks, surprised by the question. “Uh, it's pretty solid I'd sae, why?”

“No, I mean… is it human mana?”

“I think so? It's ain't divine, but it might be monstrous,” he frowns.

“Good.”

 

It takes Sétanta three seconds to realise what Shinji means, and a grin splits his face in half as he realises it. His little master is going to steal all the mana in Caster's barrier and probably her entire territory. This magecraft of his is perfect to deal with a Caster.

 

“What do you mean, good?” Rin asks, confused.

“I mean your Lancer is going to break her barrier, and I'm going to have a five-star meal,” Shinji replies.

“A five-star… Holy shit! Oh hell yeah!” she exclaims.

 

Sétanta's chest slightly warms as he watches a small smile appear on Shinji's face. It's nice to see the kid have good things. After all the horrors he went through, he deserves to be happy for once. And, once this bloody War is over, he'll get to be a teenager.

 

When night comes and all the kids have retreated to bed, Sétanta patrols the perimeter while Archer surveys it from the roof. Diarmuid is still weak, and it's better for him to rest some more. They'll need all the energy they can in the following days to deal with both Caster, Kotomine and fucking Gilgamesh. Considering Rider always got her ass handed to her quickly, Sétanta isn't really worried about her. Especially if she's as limited as he was.

 

‘We should sick Casta' an' Gilgamesh on each otha',’ he tells Archer.

‘She might give him a run for his money with all the mana she's accumulated. But Gilgamesh isn't stupid enough to go after a Caster on her territory. That's our own brand of stupid, apparently,’ Archer replies drily.

‘What if we challenge 'is pride?’

‘Then we might as well off ourselves.’

‘Should we go after ‘im instead ov Casta'?’

‘Not necessarily.’ He can practically see Archer shrugging. ‘You said he doesn't feel like intervening, so he might not be as bad as the other ones we've met.’

‘I don't like it.’

‘Me neither. But convincing Rin to change her mind is a losing effort. Once Caster's dealt with, we can focus on him.’

‘Aye…’

 

---

 

Gilgamesh, it turns out, blatantly lied to Sétanta. That, or he has changed his mind. It doesn't matter, in the end, because the King of Heroes has decided to enter the fray, demolishing Caster so thoroughly Sétanta feels like an idiot for thinking Medea ever stood a chance. They're left staring at the burning remains of Ryūdo Temple the very next night, eyes wide with the realisation that the King of Heroes is coming at them in all his golden glory. Armour on, standing on top of a lamppost, Gates of Babylon glittering like a thousand stars, he stares at them with the haughtiness that comes with his power. At the bottom is Rider, pink hair floating and mask on.

 

“We're so fucked,” Rin breathes out. “This guy was our father's Servant ten years ago…”

“Let me guess… Gilgamesh, King of Heroes?” Shinji says dryly.

“In the flesh… or rather, in the mana. Diarmuid? Your spears, can they do something?”

“Yes, my lady. But I'm begging you to retreat!” the Lancer replies.

 

Sétanta doesn't have time to focus on the rest of their conversation, because dozens upon dozens weapons are suddenly hurled in their direction. Gritting his teeth, he steps in front of Shinji, deflecting what his Protection can't stop. His little Master shrieks, but Sétanta can't pay much attention to it. Gilgamesh is merciless and relentless, his assault never-ending.

 

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Diarmuid doing the same. Behind the Lancer, the two sisters are hugging each other, crouching and waiting for the attack to end. 

 

But it doesn't, because Gilgamesh won't run out of projectiles. Suddenly, Archer is in front of them, arms extended and chanting.

 

“Rho Aias!”

 

The shield instantly blooms to life, pink flowers of protection shining. The downpour of weapons stops, unable to break through the shield. For now.

 

“Lancer, get Gilgamesh! Sétanta, go for Rider! I'll keep the kids safe!”

 

No need to tell him twice. He rushes towards the pink-haired Servant, who propels herself towards him. She's just as fast as him, if not more, a speed granted by her class. But he's more agile and a better fighter. Moreover, her spikes are nothing to Gáe Bulg. She can't afford to directly parry his blows, only redirect them. Unexpectedly, though, she's just as physically strong as he is, and a brutal kick to the ribs sends Sétanta flying with a curse. He twists in the air, landing on his feet and jumping right back into the fray.

 

She's had the time to remove her mask, and bright purple eyes petrify him where he stands – almost literally. He's facing Medusa. Motherfuckin' Medusa. Mystic Eyes of Petrification, terrifying monster of the Greek mythology Medusa. If it wasn't for Lugh's blood, he'd be halfway to a stone statue. Fuck. He takes everything back he thought about her not being an issue.

 

Quickly tracing his runes, the magecraft creates a small protection against the growing stony feeling of his arm. It's not perfect, and it won't hold forever, but it's a start. He's going to need to stay out of her line of sight, which is going to be a hell of a problem. He might fast, but a properly powered Rider will be able to keep track of him, which is enough for her Mystic Eyes to keep petrifying him.

 

He needs to strengthen his protection, which means he needs five fucking seconds. She's not about to give them freely, of course.

 

‘Archer, can ye keep busy fer five seconds?’

‘On it.’

 

Arrows whistles in the air, blowing up between them, and Sétanta takes this opportunity to bolt and hide. He hastily traces the runes, focusing most of his mana in them. Swiftness, life, growth. Anything to counter the bloody petrification. When he's done what he can, Sétanta goes back on the offensive. Approaching Medusa isn't easy; she's caught on to his plan, and she's ready to call it a day. In the single second it takes Sétanta to reach her, she drops to her knees and slams her hands to the ground. Instantly, a blood sigil appears.

 

“Like 'ell!” he roars.

 

Gáe Bulg whistles as he throws the weapon, and Medusa is forced to roll to the side, ending the summoning. She curses and stares at him again, eyes wide and shining, but Sétanta's runes hold strong and the petrification doesn't take, the two manas unpleasantly clashing against his skin.

 

Gáe Bulg flies back to his hand as he twists, feet planted in the ground. Medusa raises her chain just in time, but she doesn't have time to redirect the weapon. And so, the chain inevitably breaks, powerless against Gáe Bulg. The woman screams as the blade cuts her face, but Sétanta doesn't allow himself to feel pity for her. Kicking her down, he plants his blade straight through her heart. Medusa's mouth opens on a silent scream, and she gargles as blood fills her throat. Her eyes dull slowly, but Sétanta finds no hatred in them. Just the simple acceptance of defeat, and perhaps even relief.

 

With a Master like Kotomine, it only makes sense.

 

“See ye 'round, Medusa.”

 

She gives him a small smile and disappears in a myriad of purple lights.

 

Sétanta wants nothing more but to close his eyes and take a break, but he can't. With Medusa gone, Gilgamesh is probably going to go all out. Looking up at the King of Heroes, he is pleased to see that Archer is matching him projectile for projectile while Diarmuid prevents him from focusing and summoning Ea or Enkidu. Thank Lugh, otherwise they'd be fucked. He didn't expect Gilgamesh to be this agile, gracefully avoiding almost all of Diarmuid's attacks, but he supposes Clairvoyance makes things easier.

 

Jumping straight into the fray, Sétanta goes on the offensive right next to Diarmuid. With his catastrophic luck, Sétanta knows using Gáe Bulg’s ultimate attack is useless. It will never kill Gilgamesh, if it even touches him. What they need is a fucking miracle, because like fucking hell is Archer sacrificing himself like last time. They'll find another way. The thought of losing his lover one more time gives Sétanta a burst of energy, and he grins as Gáe Bulg cuts Gilgamesh's cheek. One of Archer's arrows destroys one of the blond's earrings with a ting. They're making progress. They're going to get him.

 

“ENOUGH!” the King of Heroes rages.

 

A dozen portals appear just around him, and Sétanta jumps back in time to avoid the blows.

 

Half a second later, he hears Sakura scream in horror. At the same time, the bond with Shinji flares in panic. Turning around, Sétanta feels his eyes widen in horror. 

 

Shinji has jumped in front of Sakura, and three swords are embedded in his body. Stumbling, the teenager falls against Sakura as blood taints his clothes.

 

No no no no no no no no no NO NO.

 

But before he can move, Shinji's voice echoes in his mind.

 

‘Cú Chulainn, by the Power of my Command Seals, I strengthen your luck. Use your Noble Phantasm and kill the King of Heroes.’

 

 

Shinji must admit, the sight of Cú Chulainn roaring in rage as he impales Gilgamesh on Gáe Bulg almost makes up for the fact that he's dying. The satisfaction to know that it was his Servant who took down the King of Heroes is enough to make him forget about the pain. He feels his lips stretch into a smile as Gilgamesh disappears in thousands of bubbles of light, screaming and raging as he does so.

 

“S-senpai…” Shinji looks up from his place on Sakura's laps. Her pretty face is covered in tears. Next to her, Rin looks shell shocked, immobile like a statue. “I… the bleeding won't stop…”

 

That's fine. Dying sucks, but he'll get his Wish so that's fine. Even better, Sakura is safe.

 

“C-can you do something for me?” he articulates. She nods hurriedly. “The Matō… burn it… the manor… the books… everything… make it… I want… this family… to end… with me…”

 

Her eyes widen but she nods, tears flowing down her cheeks. She must care for him. That's nice. Really, really nice.

 

“I promise. There will be nothing left,” she sobs.

“G-good… In that… case… I win… the Grail… War… since… I'll get… my Wish…” he cackles through the blood pooling in his lungs.

 

She sobs at this, so Shinji forces himself to smile at her. She's so, so pretty. And kind. He's glad his family never got their hands on her like Zōken once wanted. She deserves so much better than this cursed family.

 

At the same time, his Servants kneel next to him, silent and face twisted in guilt. Ah, his dear Servants, who went to War for him, with him. He's glad he met them, he's glad they deemed him worthy enough of answering when he threw a call in the wind, with for only wish the destruction of his family.

 

‘Don’t feel bad for me. My family line ends today, and that's what I wanted anyway. I hope your next War will go better than this one,’ he tells them mentally.

“Don't sae that!” Cú Chulainn chokes.

‘Why not? It's true. Can you help me sit?’

 

Archer is the first to react, sitting him against his torso. He's warm, almost as warm as the sun that currently shines on them. Shinji smiles, looking up at the sky. He always thought he'd die alone and in pain. But dying to save the girl he likes, surrounded by friends, knowing his wish will be granted, all that with the sun shining… It's not so bad.

 

Shinji Matō closes his eyes, and a last thought comes through his mind.

 

‘It doesn't hurt anymore.’

Notes:

Aaaaaaand Shinji's dead (⁠｡⁠•́⁠︿⁠•̀⁠｡⁠) Please don't hate me! It's necessary for character development (and angst) ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ

Chapter 37: Over and over and over –

Summary:

Counter Guardians don't get breaks...

Or: our boys aren't doing too well, folks.

Notes:

Angst angst angst –

The sun of Unlimited Blade Works seems especially cold, so much so that Archer finds himself shivering. Not that he notices, anyway. His eyes are fixated on his hands. Shinji's blood is physically gone, unable to follow them in his reality marble, but Archer can still feel it on his hands. The warmth of the liquid, the metallic scent in his nose, the way it stained his clothes and skin. He can still feel the way his Master stopped breathing, the way his body went limp as his life went out, blown out like a candle in the wind.

 

It's over. They lost. They failed. Their Master is dead. A teenage boy is dead. A kid who should have had the chance to live, who should have had the opportunity to make something of his life despite all the horrors he endured. And they failed him. He's dead, and he's never coming back.

 

No tears come, but no words do either. Archer is frozen, paralysed, numb. He doesn't react as he hears Sétanta scream in rage and frustration, doesn't look up when his lover throws Gáe Bulg in a fury, doesn't move as the shockwave sends dust and rubble and swords flying. What's the point? There's nothing to say, nothing to do, nothing at all. He's been an idiot, and an arrogant one at that. He believed that because he knows that war, winning would be easy. It shows he never learns from his mistakes, and he almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Who knew he would one day mourn Shinji Matō of all people? That the sight of his mangled corpse would send him into despair?

 

Sétanta falls to his knees before him, but Archer doesn't even find it in himself to move in any way. He can't bear to look at his lover's eyes, can't bear to see the grief they hold. But Sétanta doesn't let him run away, instead taking his face in his warm hands, forcing their eyes to meet. And Archer immediately feels tears fill his eyes. Sétanta's rubies hold so much grief it makes the bowman choke on his saliva. He wishes he could take it all away. Wishes he could go back in time and take that famous day back. Wishes he had never told Sétanta about his fate, so that he would be free of all this pain. And yet, he's never been so thankful to have him by his side. Grief is unbearable when carried alone, but if it's shared, it becomes at least possible to breathe. Especially when shared with someone as loved as Archer loves Sétanta.

 

They stay like this, forehead against forehead, for what might be eons like mere milliseconds. Time cares little for a reality marble, and neither can focus on the clicking gear in the fake sky. All Archer knows is that the grief doesn't go away, but neither of them shatters. Neither lets the tears roll down his cheeks. They hold it down for the sake of the other, and it doesn't make sense because crying it out would be healthier, but they don't.

 

And Alaya…

 

Alaya doesn't care.

 

The pull of her summoning comes, as merciless as Gilgamesh and as cruel as humanity can be. Archer closes his eyes for a second as reality shifts, only opening them when he feels solid again. He and Sétanta are in the middle of nowhere, nothing but a wasteland. Information and orders come at the same time, cold and detached in the way only she can be. There is a lab, somewhere, and they have to destroy all trace of it. Neither the test subjects nor the scientists can be allowed to survive. She doesn't care about the method, as always, nor about collateral damage. Humanity will survive it.

 

Archer is the first to move, guiding Sétanta back up. Wordlessly, they make their way to the place Alaya guides them. It's nothing special, from outside. Just a simple building, but it's the last thing standing in this wasteland. Armies have fought for it, clearly, and someone won. Someone uses it. Archer doesn't care why, or how. He's still numb, still tired, and Shinji's blood still taints his hands. Summoning his bow, he plants his feet in the ground and calls upon a Broken Phantasm. That ought to do the trick.

 

Next to him, Sétanta just stares and waits, doesn't even react as Caladbolg, his beloved uncle's weapon, is used to blow up a factory of horrors. The shockwave echoes in the wasteland, but they're not sent back. Not yet. Something is still alive. They walk, look for whatever it is. Sétanta finds it first. A chimera, quickly dispatched. Then a scientist, half-burnt and half-dead, but with more fire in him than both of them combined at the moment.

 

“Why! Who sent you? We could have paid you twice, no, thrice more than your boss!” he rants through a burnt throat. 

 

It's almost impressive, but Archer has seen people survive worse. He's seen a teenager with three Noble Phantasms embedded in his torso using his Command Seals and dying with dignity, a smile on his face. He cuts off the scientist's head without a word. There's nothing worth discussing here.

 

They're sent back to Unlimited Blade Works before the head touches the ground. Alaya is satisfied. Humanity will live another day.

 

The gears click a few times and, before they can even talk, Alaya sends them out again, her favourite dogs. She doesn't give them the time to mourn properly, nor the time to even remember the people they are sent to kill. Why would she? She cares little and less, and she has no reason to give tools a break.

 

Terrorists try harder to survive. They have machineguns and shotguns and mines and explosives. But none of them has Sétanta, who throws Gáe Bulg. Their base explodes like a piñata, with blood and guts and rubble instead of confetti. The blast is impressive, almost as much as the explosion caused by Caladbolg. They have to get closer to finish the job, have to clean up the place, and kill even the innocent prisoners who were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Archer supposes none of them is meant to cure cancer. That, or Alaya doesn't care about cancer being cured. Perhaps it's a good way to ensure that Humanity doesn't get too cocky. He doesn't know, and she won't tell.

 

Why would she?

 

Wasteland after city after village after forest after battlefield, they are sent out over and over and over again. They kill and destroy and murder and blow up and assassinate and burn down places and people. 

 

They kill a man riding a red wyvern to end a civil war. They destroy a castle in the sky because of the weapons it contains. They murder a man who can still and bestow powers from and unto others. They assassinate several state leaders before they can start a world war. They make sure another world war begins. Archer doesn't bother remembering their faces nor their names. It's not worth the hassle at best or the pain at worst. Innocent faces hurt; guilty ones don't matter.

 

And, among all of that, Shinji's face remains. His peaceful smile as he passed, his voice, his last order, his sacrifice for the person he loved, the warmth of his pooling blood, the resolute strength of his wish. All that stays, clear as a summer day, and Archer doesn't know how to feel about it. If it faded in the back of his mind like the hundreds of thousands of faces he's seen, like the hundreds of children he's seen die, like the dozens of Masters he's served, then it would be easy. It would mean no more grief, no more pain.

 

But Shinji stays, and so does Lady Helene.

 

Archer doesn't talk about her, and neither does Sétanta. They don't talk about Shinji either. They don't talk much, to be true, because Alaya has become relentless in her summonings. She never gives them more than an hour of peace, and they're too busy breathing to do anything else. Speaking is hard, reminiscing is out of the question. 

 

He watches as Sétanta chooses brutality and efficiency over himself, watches as shining rubies dull over the dozens of timelines they ‘save’. He has to do something, anything, or the sun will never feel bright and warm again. 

 

They're standing on top of a skyscraper in a bright neon-coloured city in a future Archer has never seen before – or maybe he just doesn't remember it, judging it uninteresting. Publicities float in the sky, holograms created by automatic drones of various sizes. There are droids everywhere in the streets, and transhumanism seems the norm. Archer shivers; it's a terrible era for magecraft, and an even worse one for beings made of mana. Being here is unpleasant, itchy. Alaya doesn't care; she only wants a man gone.

 

Why would she care, anyway?

 

Readying his bow, Archer aims, breathes, and releases. The projectile goes right through a window on the other side of the street, and the target falls to the ground in his pristine office. Dead. 

 

Unlimited Blade Works returns, with its cold sun and colder wind. 

 

Sétanta takes a few steps away from Archer, but this time, Archer stops him. He grabs his wrist and spins him around. He chokes for half a second when Sétanta seems to barely react, numb and tired and eyes so dull Archer wonders for a second if he's too late.

 

“Talk to me, please,” he begs.

 

Sétanta's eyes widen a bit, and he tries to look away, but Archer won't let him. He needs to do something, or the sun will set forever, and he can't have that. He swore he would keep Sétanta safe from Alaya, and he might be late, but he will still succeed or disappear trying.

 

“I… I can't remember their faces,” Sétanta eventually articulates. “I can't remember their fucking faces!” he screams.

“Whose?” Archer asks, frowning.

 

Sétanta jerks back, grabbing Archer's wrists desperately, like Archer doesn't understand something capital. And maybe he doesn't. His lover's eyes are wide with madness and grief and frustration.

 

“Lizzie! Zander! Lady Helene! I can't remember what they fucking looked like!”

 

Oh. It's true that Lady Helene and the twins mattered a lot to Sétanta. He spoke of them from time to time and doted on the children the little time they were in England.

 

“I can share my memories with you,” Archer offers, not knowing what else to do to ease Sétanta's pain.

“But you shouldn't have to! She was – She is our friend! And I can't remember what she looks like!” Sétanta exclaims, begging a greater power or maybe his own mind to give him his memories back.

“I know…”

“How do you… How do you get to remember her and not me?” he weeps, envious and broken.

“I… I'm used to it. To push away the unnecessary memories and keep the good ones.”

 

Sétanta sobs and collapses against him. Archer hugs him tightly, leading them both to the ground. He puts his head against his lover's and tries to send the memories. Lizzie's and Zander's chubby faces covered in freckles, Lady Helene's fire-like hair and pale unseeing eyes, the feeling of her mana. It elicits more heartbreaking and heartbroken wails from Sétanta, who desperately tries to remember on his own. But it doesn't come back, and it seems to break something in Sétanta, who screams in frustration before looking up at Archer. His lover's hands come to the side of his face, holding desperately, like a man lost at sea would cling to a wooden plank.

 

“What if I forget them? Emer, and Ferdiad, and Connla, and Finn? What if I forget the faces of my own children?” he cries.

 

Archer chokes on his breath, unable to answer. Because the sad truth is that Sétanta might forget. Himself forgot all but his name before seeing Rin again, and there's no telling how long Sétanta's own memories will hold. And so, he cannot promise that Sétanta can't forget. He cannot promise that he will forever remember the faces of his children. The unfairness guts him, and he wishes he could do something tangible about it.

 

“Share your memories with me,” is all he can offer. “I will remember with you.”

 

Sétanta realises the implication of his words, of course, and he roars in pain, body taunt like a bowstring. The sound is heartbreaking, carrying so much grief, and Archer doesn't know what to do but pray. Pray to Lugh, and the Morrígan, and any other god who might have ever cared for Sétanta. Pray that they can save them before Sétanta loses what's left of him, before he forgets what makes him Cú Chulainn, what makes him Ireland's Child of Light, what makes him Ulster's greatest hero, Ireland's greatest hero, what makes him Sétanta.

 

‘Please, please. If you can hear me, please, don't let the sun set,’ he begs, looking up at the fake sky as Sétanta mourns on his shoulder. But no answer comes; the sun doesn't shine any brighter, and no crow is heard. Only the clicking of the gears and the never-ending wind.

 

When Alaya pulls at their core once more, Archer can't help but laugh bitterly. Of course, she would choose this moment to send them back to another wasteland. Bitch. Archer holds Sétanta tighter against him as they're sent into a new reality, protective and furious that she can't give them a single fucking hour of rest. He'd like to think something is making her act like this, that Lugh is almost done, but she might just be doing her best to break Sétanta. She might have done the same with him forever ago, but he doesn't remember.

 

The wasteland around them isn't so much of a wasteland. It's a plain with nothing special, with a city not so far. Archer slowly stands up, guiding Sétanta and making him lean against him. His lover still isn't in any state to stand or act on his own. Looking around, Archer waits for the order, for the pull in the direction of their target. It comes, steady and uncomfortably alluring.

 

“Let's get goin',” Sétanta mutters.

 

Archer nods and takes his lover's hand, leading him towards their destination. They make their way through cobblestone streets, ignoring the looks they receive. Some faceless mortals they won't remember in half an hour don't matter. The pull stops in front of a bloody orphanage of all things, and Archer bursts out laughing at the absurdity of it all. Of course. Of fucking course. She keeps the best fort last. Next to him, Sétanta is deadly silent, numb and shell-shocked. Archer laughs for a good thirty seconds before calming himself.

 

“Let's find somewhere to wait until night falls. I'll do it,” he tells his lover.

“N-no… I can't… I can't let you do that alone,” Sétanta replies weakly.

“It's not about can,” Archer says as he guides the other man to a café, projecting some money to buy them something to drink. “You need to rest. I'd rather lose myself than see your light dim.”

 

Sétanta's eyes are filled with both anger at himself and gratitude. Their beers are served, and they taste horrible, but finally, finally, there's a small smile on Sétanta's face despite the tears in his eyes.

 

“Tastes like fuckin' piss,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

“Worst beer I've had in centuries,” Archer chuckles. “But it's perfect to talk, isn't it?”

“Talk? Talk 'bout what, love?” Sétanta asks, voice wet with tears.

“Connla. Finn. Emer. Ferdiad. Ulster. Tell me about all of it. Make sure the memories live, and they'll stay.”

 

Sétanta visibly chokes, and it takes him a few seconds, but he tells Archer about everything. He tells him about Ferdiad, first, about his freckles and his green eyes, how he couldn't dance to save his life but could play every instrument he got his hands on. He speaks about Emer, who would read everything she could find – a rarity at the time – and would embroider by the fire every night as a way to decompress when she wasn't composing poetry. He recounts the first words of Finnscoth, her first steps, how she would wake up with the sun and run everywhere in the house demanding attention. He describes the landscapes of Ulster and Muirthemne, the lands of which he was lord. He relates the day he became lord of Dún Dealgan Motte, his home, and how he was scared he would fuck everything up.

 

By the time he's done, his eyes are shining again and, although they're not as bright as they once were, they're not pale imitations of the glittering rubies Archer has learnt to love anymore. It's not perfect, but it's a beginning. Above them, night has fallen, and they've drank more beer in one evening than Archer has drank in his whole life.

 

It's time to go.

 

Of course, Sétanta tries to come, but Archer refuses adamantly.

 

“One of us needs to be able to hold the other, and I don't want you to grieve any more,” he states.

 

His lover looks away as he leaves, but Archer is fine with it. He makes his way into the orphanage and goes to work, refusing to look at a single face as he kills everyone, room after room after room. It's dirty work, but thanks to the darkness, he doesn't see the faces of his victims. 

 

When he returns to Unlimited Blade Works, the sun finally seems a bit warmer, and Sétanta hugs him right away, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Archer lets him, returning the affection in kind, kissing his lover deeply. They don't talk but this time, it's not out of pain. Instead, they sit in comfortable silence, holding hands and staring at the setting sun. Above them, the gears click endlessly.

Notes:

We'll be entering a big arc next chapter! See you soon !! (⁠◠⁠‿⁠◕⁠)

Chapter 38: The Morrígan

Summary:

A goddess' love should never be underestimated...

Notes:

Welcome to the beginning of the Chaldea arc!!

 

Damn I've been dying to begin this arc for so long :') I have to introduce some new characters (Gudako and her Servants, mostly), so the boys will only appear in chapter 39 or 40 depending on how things go. Please bear with me!!

Odin doesn't like this place – North America, it's called. It isn't safe for him. He feels Cú Chulainn's personality fighting harder than usual, trying to get his body back. Why, the One-Eyed god cannot tell, but he needs to understand this quickly so he may settle this problem. He cannot afford to have this blasted personality bother him while he's helping Chaldea. Pretending to be a happy-go-lucky, kind-hearted, brave warrior is already annoying enough as it is. He would much prefer to be himself, but Gudako's kind heart wouldn't allow a god to take over someone's body without their consent. The idea is ludicrous, of course, but the girl might just turn on him. If she decides to cut off the mana supply, it would be a pain, and he cannot afford it.

 

Humanity depends on him and his effort to survive. Cú Chulainn is nothing but a mask and a sacrifice for the greater good, and he'll have to get over it. It's not like he intends this farce to go on forever.

 

“Huh, Grimr-san, are you alright? You seem lost in thought…”

 

Odin plasters Cú Chulainn's usual bright smile on his face, thankful he wasn't too far in his thoughts. He can't afford to slip, or things will become bothersome. Mash is easy to fool, though.

 

“Of course, Lil' Mash. Just wondering what we're up against this time.”

 

The Demi-Servant smiles softly and nods, returning to Gudako's side. Glancing around, Odin tries to analyse the mana floating around, hoping it will give him some clue as to whom they will have to fight in this Singularity. However, all he can feel is Jeanne d'Arc's pure aura. The French Saint has put a small shield around them, allowing the air to be more breathable. For some reason, the dry air is saturated with something foul he hasn't had time to properly identify. Since their Master's ability to breathe comes first, he's had to give up for now. Once he's able to set up a proper territory, it will be easier to figure out the details of this place.

 

Still, it doesn't hurt to work on some theories. Putting it on ‘his’ trademark smile, he slings an arm around Hector's shoulders. Touching those Servants so casually displeases Odin, for they are all beneath him, but he needs to play his part.

 

“Say, Hector, Jeanne, any thoughts on this place?” he sing-songs. “I'm betting on the American Civil War going wild with Servants involved.”

“If that is the case, we must ensure the former slaves are properly evacuated and protected!” Jeanne exclaims passionately. “Right, Master?”

“Of course!” Gudako promises. “We can't let innocents get hurt!”

“Ah, Master, that's a lot of work for an old man like me…” Hector falsely complains.

“Hector-san!” Jeanne chastises, hands on her hips.

“Ara, ara, I'm joking Jeanne…” the cool-headed Lancer replies.

“Don't fight, guys,” Gudako gently admonishes. “What about you, Mash? Any idea?”

“O-oh, well, I'm not so sure… The American Civil War seems to be a good guess, after all… It's one of the United States' most important wars, and considering the few buildings we've seen, the era seems to fit…”

 

As the three women keep chatting, exchanging ideas, Odin takes a careful step out of Jeanne's aura of protection. The vile, uncomfortable feeling returns, and he has to swallow a grimace. Whatever is out of place is only getting worse, but it's not a Servant's work. It seems to be an overall feeling covering the entirety of the region. Probably an effect of the Grail or whoever is responsible for the singularity. It's strange; not even Jeanne d'Arc Alter gave such an uncomfortable feeling, and she wasn't pleasant to be around in any way. The sensation is both familiar and alien at the same time, which Odin dislikes greatly. Something entirely unknown would make much more sense, but for some reason, it isn't the case.

 

“What a weird place,” he mutters.

 

It's when they reach the outside of the forest they've been walking through that reality slaps Odin in the face.

 

A god is coming. An angry one, at that. Jeanne, Hector, and Mash feel them at the same time as him, all moving into combat position while Gudako's face becomes characteristically stern and focused. For all her good heart and useless gentleness, the girl is always calm, even in the face of great danger. It makes her a much better ally than he initially thought. Over the intercom, the annoying Dr. Romani panics over numbers and other stupid statistics. As if mortal minds could ever be able to comprehend divinity.

 

“Let's get ready to welcome whoever's comin', Masta'!” Odin exclaims, readying his runes while Cú Chulainn thrashes even harder in his head.

 

Thankfully, no one of them notices his faltering smile. Mash is predictably glued to Gudako, ready to stop an incoming attack, while Jeanne and Hector take the front of their small formation. 

 

“Everyone, we're meeting a Divine Spirit. A peaceful encounter is our best option, so I want everyone to stand down for now. We might be able to chat,” Gudako commands.

“Chat? With a god? Master, trust this old man, gods are rarely in the mood for a friendly chat,” Hector replies.

“Even then –”

 

Before Gudako can finish her sentence, the god comes into view, paralysing them with their tremendous power. Or rather, the goddess. Odin finds himself struggling to lift his head, but he succeeds and quickly details her. Hair red as freshly spilled blood, black bottomless eyes, and pale as a corpse. She wears a white dress torn above her knees and elbows, the fabric stained with the blood of the fallen. That's when Odin realises it – the unpleasant feeling they've been feeling is coming from her. Foul and vile, she gives the same impression as a walking cadaver would. In the sky, crows that aren't his scream. Cú Chulainn thrashes harder, tries to reach out to her, and Odin finally understands who he's facing.

 

Dammnit. 

 

Of all the gods they could run into, they have to meet the one who is desperately in love with the body he's possessing. The Morrígan, who knows Cú Chulainn by heart. She probably even came for her favourite hero to begin with. Time to play his role to the perfection, or he's in for a rough fight.

 

“Master, I know her.”

“You do? Who – Oh! Is this the Morrígan?” the teenager realises.

 

Before Odin can reply, though, the Morrígan is right in front of him, lips pulled back and forming an angry snarl.

 

“You don't know me. Not the way you pretend to, One-Eye!” she rages.

 

Gasps from his companions are heard, but Odin can't pay attention to them. Instead, he tries to jump back, but the Morrigan catches him by the neck and slams him to the ground.

 

“Give that body back to his owner, thief. Or I will make you!”

 

Thankfully, Gudako still believes him to be the true Cú Chulainn, and so Jeanne and Hector jump on the goddess. Sadly, she's War and Massacre, made more powerful by her wrath. Letting go of Odin, she whirls around, grabs the two mêlée fighters’ weapons and throws them away from her in a swift movement. 

 

“Don't interfere, child,” she orders Gudako.

 

But the girl doesn't stand down. Odin tries to move away from the goddess but she grabs him by the neck again, standing up and lifting him effortlessly. If only he was himself, this wouldn't be happening. But being stuck inside of a demigod who fights against his presence is dulling his reflexes. Gudako shrieks.

 

“Nonsense! You've attacked Grimr, Cú Chulainn! He's my friend! Why?”

“This isn't Cú Chulainn!” The Morrígan declares. “Am I not right, Odin? Did you think I would let you steal his body so easily?”

“N-nonsense! Argh!” he cries out as she holds his neck tighter.

“Careful. I could break this neck more easily than you'd break a twig,” the goddess threatens darkly.

“Wait please!” Gudako exclaims. “Explain yourself, please. Both of you.”

 

The goddess’ eyes narrow, but she relents, and Odin finds himself thrown to the ground like a ragdoll. It's infuriating, and he wants nothing more but to drive Gungir through that bloody goddess' chest. But he cannot. Not only is Gungir sealed away, she'd probably defeat him.

 

“I do suppose you are owed an explanation, child. No, little warrior. Gudako of Chaldea, I am the Morrígan. The goddess of war and slaughter. Many of you will know this but I love Cú Chulainn. This man isn't Cú Chulainn.”

“You called him Odin,” Mash says with slightly wide eyes.

 

The Shielder has firmly moved in front of her Master, while Jeanne and Hector have gotten back up. They're ready to pounce again, their faces blank and unreadable. Ready for battle.

 

“I did, for that is who he is. Odin, the One-Eyed god of the Norse Pantheon. He has taken over Cú Chulainn's body to approach you. And because he has never for his permission, Cú Chulainn is trapped within him, forced to look upon what his body does. He's been praying and calling for help. It took me some time but here, I can come and help him. There are enough of my believers for me to manifest properly.”

 

Gudako stays silent, digesting the information. Mash swallows visibly, and there are tears in her eyes.

 

“S-senpai… now that I think about it… Grimr is another name Odin used in Norse mythology…”

 

Gudako steps forward, eyes falling to Odin.  They're cold, and her fists are clenched at her side.

 

“Is she telling the truth? Don't lie to me. If you were ever my friend – no, if you were ever my ally, you will be honest.”

 

‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, seems I'm found out. Idiotic goddess,’ Odin thinks. With a heavy sigh, he stands up and smooths his clothes. No need to bother with playing pretend anymore. He only needs to convince Gudako to let him stay, and the Morrígan will have to go on her merry way. That, or they can send her back forcefully. She can't stay here forever, after all. The part about her believers being here troubles him, but he cannot afford to think about it right now.

 

“I am Odin, and I have taken that Heroic Spirit's name and appearance, but I have my reasons. Have I not helped you since the very beginning? I only want to protect humanity. I knew something terrible was coming, and so I forced myself upon this world so that I might be of help,” he explains as gently as he can. “Have I ever given you a reason to distrust me, Gudako?”

“Well, you just bloody did!” the girl exclaims. “You lied to me from the beginning. Your abilities, your mimics, your likes and dislikes, the way you talk and hold yourself… Not even your name was real!”

“It was a mistake on my part to lie about those things, but Cú Chulainn is more likeable than I am, and his face more trustworthy. I believed he would make a better guide than I, but I admit I was wrong,” Odin replies. 

 

He's lying, of course. His strategy was no mistake, but he needs Gudako to stay on his side. Sadly, the girl's face doesn't become any kinder. On the contrary, she looks furious beyond belief. Odin has to stop himself from tsking. Cú Chulainn thrashes, a sharp sting of pain in his head, and the god has to swallow a curse.

 

“Is it Cú Chulainn fighting back? The cause for your regular discomfort?” Jeanne suddenly asks, eyes narrowed.

 

Odin clenches his jaw. Bloody Saint.

 

“I'll take it as a yes,” Gudako says, voice laced with anger. “You… I don't want you as my ally! Give that body to his rightful owner!” she commands.

 

This time, Odin can't help the amused smile on his face.

 

“Or what, child? You cannot Command me to leave – it wouldn't work. The Morrígan might remove me forcefully, she certainly has the strength to do so. But then what? I am this Servant's core. Remove me, and he'll go down with me. Cú Chulainn is nothing but a mask, a costume I'm wearing. For all his mind fights back, he cannot exist without me, for he's nothing but part of Cú Chulainn, snatched from the Throne of Heroes when I had the opportunity,” he replies.

 

Gudako stumbles back, eyes wide. Her body is tense with frustration. Jeanne looks beside herself with rage, eyes shining with wrath. She almost looks like her Alter, like this.

 

“Why do you believe I have come?” the Morrígan suddenly says.

 

Odin's eyes widen as he stares at her, dumbfounded. She must be insane.

 

“You cannot be serious! You would imprison yourself for the shadow of some mortal?”

“You know nothing of love, do you? You wouldn't recognise it if it slapped you in the face,” the goddess replies. “Gudako of Chaldea, I will need him subdued. Fear not – I will not cause Cú Chulainn any harm.”

“Jeanne! Hector!” Gudako exclaims in lieu of an answer.

 

‘Traitors! Idiots!’ he wants to roar. Jumping back, Odin calls upon his runes, his magic and divinity. Gudako has stopped Chaldea's mana from reaching him, but it matters little. He has amassed enough, and he's a god. He will not let himself be defeated like so.

 

Hector is the first one upon him, but Odin dodges his spear. He retaliates with fire and wind, but the spell is stopped by Jeanne's saintly abilities. Her flag is shining with the powers bestowed by her ridiculous faith, and Odin wants nothing more than to impale her on it. He cannot, of course, because his main problem remains the Morrígan. She's faster, stronger and power leaks from her like a cloud.

 

The snowy landscape he's been trapped in ever since his Summoning is shaking. The clouded sky seems to be breaking apart, like porcelain breaking. Around him, the snow is slowly but surely melting. Crows are heard, and he's quite certain it's getting warmer. Outside, he can see the Morrígan doing her best to subdue Odin, assisted by Jeanne and Hector. The French saint has been badly burnt on the arm, and the Greek warrior sports a nasty gash on the face. Gudako, sweet and brave and gentle Gudako, is doing her best with support spells and some shots of Gandr. His friends – or at least people he should have been able to fucking befriend – are hurt, and it's all because of this fucking god controlling him like he's some fucking puppet.

 

Screaming in rage, he tries to send all of his magic outside, towards Odin's anchor. It's stupid and useless, because it never worked before, and there's no reason it would work now. Odin is nothing but careful, and he's never loosened the leash. But here, for some reason, his control is weaker. Maybe he can do something. Maybe he can escape, move his body, talk to others, congratulate his Master on working so hard and doing so well. Or maybe he can at least distract the god.

 

Odin is slammed to the ground by the Morrígan, and the three Servants – Jeanne, Mash, Hector – all jump on him to keep him down. The god rates and roads, sounding so inhuman it's terrifying. He's never heard his voice make sounds like those, not even during a ríastrad. The Morrigan screams right back at Odin, a thousand voices coming out of her throat.

 

Crows sing, and the sky explodes. He closes his eyes, protects himself as a waterfall of mana crashes down on him. However, no pain follows. Nothing. Slowly, he dares open his eyes.

 

He's standing in a green plain looking like his native Ireland, and tears fill his eyes. Even the scent is nostalgic, and he can feel the wind on his skin.

 

“Hello, Cú Chulainn.”

 

He whirls around. The Morrígan is here, a soft smile on her corpse-like face.

 

“H-Hello…” he stammers, unused to speaking. There's no one so speak to in this place.

“You can go out, now.”

“What… What about you?”

“Me? I'll sleep. I will act as your core and sleep so you may help your Master. You will remain a Pseudo-Servant, but you will be in control. When you return to the Throne of Heroes, I will leave, for you won't need me anymore,” she explains.

“But… Why would you do this for me?”

She blinks, surprised by his question. “I love you, of course. Lugh is helping the rest of you, and so he couldn't come himself, but even then, I would have helped you either way.” She puts a hand on his face, thumb caressing his skin under his eyes. “Leave this place, now. Your Master is waiting for you.”

 

Cú Chulainn opens his eyes. Immediately, a wave of nausea assaults him, and he rolls to his side, throwing up whatever is in his stomach. Hands touch him, hold him, support him. He pants as his stomach settles, but he can't focus on the nausea.

 

He's free.

 

He's out.

 

He can move.

 

His body belongs to him.

 

There's air on his skin, clothes on his body, smells in his nose, light in his eyes, sounds in his ears. He's out, he's fucking out, he's bloody free! Uncoordinated, he twists around and finally sees them all for real, not through the eyes of a god he's never believed in. He's leaning against Jeanne, with Gudako and Mash kneeling next to him, looking worried. Hector is standing up, breathing heavily. Their wounds are gone, but he can't think about it. His mind is foggy, his body heavy. Still, it's amazing. He's free, and it's worth being overwhelmed a thousand times over.

 

“Agh – I – ukh –” he tries to articulate, but words fail him miserably.

“Shh,” Jeanne says gently. “You need to get used to having a body again. Don't force yourself just yet.”

“Jeanne is right,” Gudako agrees. Then, a smile appears on her face. “It's nice to properly meet you though, Cú Chulainn!”

His throat is tight with emotion and gratitude. Articulating is like having glass in his throat, but he's Cú Chulainn, and he can do this. “M-m-master… N-n-ni-ce to… m-meet… you… Lil'... M-mash… J-jeanne… Hec-tor…”

“It's my pleasure,” Jeanne says softly.

“Same here,” Hector adds with a half-smile. “Welcome to Chaldea, man.”

Notes:

Yup, Odin is gone very quickly, because a) I hate this plotline in the game, he should have been a Celtic's god envoy and not a NORSE one and b) the Morrígan is overpowered compared to Odin in North America due to the Celts' presence and this being an all-out war which empowers her. There will be more details about what happened to Odin, etc., when Caster Cú Chulainn (he'll get a new nickname, promise) returns to Chaldea.

Chapter 39: Cú Chulainn

Summary:

Gudako meets Thomas Edison and a new Cú Chulainn.

‘The Morrígan's mana is gone,’ Gudako realises as the air becomes easier to breathe. ‘Or rather, it has settled in Cú Chulainn's core.’ She glances at the Heroic Spirit; Jeanne is making him do simple exercises, like walking in a straight line or juggling a cup. Her conclusion is often to administer some healing spells, even if she doesn't seem convinced it will work. Unsurprisingly, Cú Chulainn is going to need time to get used to being in control of his body again, and even more to get used to the goddess functioning as a core and a partial source of his power. As she looks at his focused expression, the relief in his eyes when he successfully grabs an object, or the sheer joy on his face as he eats something, Gudako can't help but think she's been stupid.

Grimr's – or rather Odin's – expressions were always a bit stiff, always a bit forced, like he was never truly enthusiastic about anything, never truly cared about Chaldea's antics. She never noticed nor particularly paid attention to it, of course, because she didn't think her oldest ally would be nothing but a fraud. But now, she can see what Cú Chulainn's true expressions and mimics look like, and the Irish hero is nothing like the god.

 

‘You'll regret getting rid of me, child!’ Odin's laughter as he disappeared still haunts her, but Gudako refuses to let it scare her. Some self-absorbed, self-centred god said she'll regret something? Fat chance. The only thing she regrets is not noticing earlier and allowing someone to suffer so horribly for so long just under her nose. That's what she regrets. If he wants to help so badly, he can find himself a willing body. But even if he somehow does, she's not about to Summon or work with him again. He's untrustworthy, and a massive asshole at that. The way he referred to Cú Chulainn as nothing but a mask was so infuriating! She wishes she could have punched him.

 

Suddenly, the intercom flares to life and the panicked voices of Dr. Romani and Da Vinci come through, snapping her out of her thoughts.

 

“Gudako-chan! What happened?” the doctor exclaims. “And who's that new Servant with you? I'm getting new reading – has the Morrígan joined your cause?”

“Huh… Somewhat?” she says awkwardly. “Long story short: Grimr wasn't Cú Chulainn – it was Odin, pretending to be Cú Chulainn and possessing his body. The Morrígan freed him and took Odin's place as Cú Chulainn's anchor.”

“WHAT?” Da Vinci. “I need more details!”

 

With a heavy sigh, Gudako recounts the events that occurred two hours ago. The fight, Odin betraying them and attacking, Cú Chulainn being a prisoner this whole time, the Morrígan taking his place as Cú Chulainn's core. Da Vinci and Dr. Romani listen in silence with the exception of some noises of agreement and understanding. Cú Chulainn cuts at the end to explain that the goddess is dormant, keeping her word to only stabilise him.

 

“She's weird, but she's not a liar. She's asleep, like she said she would…” he explains, hands on his chest. “I can't feel her presence, just the mana.”

“I see… Cú Chulainn, would you be willing to return to Chaldea for now? I can safely Rayshift you back,” Da Vinci says. “As much as I want to believe the Morrígan, it would be better if Dr. Romani and the rest of the medical team took a look at you. Moreover, you've just been given a lot of mana and powers by a goddess of war. I would rather you don't discover new abilities near Gudako-chan.”

“I ain't gonna hurt Gudako!” the Caster exclaims, outraged.

“Not intentionally. But can you assure me, without the shadow of a doubt, that you are perfectly aware of your full abilities at the moment?”

 

Gudako glances at the Irish hero, and her heart breaks as she sees his conflicted expression. She can tell he wants to stay and probably prove himself, but Da Vinci is right. The recent events have taken a severe toll on him, and it's better if he gets to rest properly before being sent back to fight. Moreover, she wants to make sure as well that the Morrígan won't be able to take over like Odin did. He deserves as much.

 

“Cú Chulainn…”

“Fine…” the blue-haired hero relents after a few seconds, jaw clenched. “But someone needs to replace me.”

“Of course. Gudako-chan? Someone specific you'd like us to send?”

 

The young woman takes a second to think this over. Jeanne and Hector are both mêlée fighters. So is Mash when she doesn't have to protect Gudako. They're in severe need of someone with long-range abilities. William Tell or Shadow – the corrupted Archer from Fuyuki City – both fight from long distances and are reliable in every situation. Shadow is extremely versatile thanks to his tracing abilities, but they also need someone knowledgeable about magecraft. Which means a Caster is a must, leaving only one person available.

 

“Send Medea. I feel like we'll need a mage,” Gudako decides.

“Right away. She will be delighted to come and help. I will prepare the Rayshift!” Da Vinci declares before disappearing from the screen.

 

Gudako nods and hands over the intercom to Mash. There's something she needs to do.

 

“Mash, can you hold this for me, please?”

“Of course, senpai!”

“Thank you,” she says before turning to Cú Chulainn. “Hey, let's take a minute to talk just us?”

 

The hero nods, looking a bit numb, and Gudako guides the Caster a bit further away. She trusts the other Servants to keep their ears to themselves. Her heart breaks as she looks at her friend's face. He looks miserable.

 

“I'm sorry,” she blurts out, and his eyes widen. Before he can say anything, she continues. “I should have noticed something was off with Gri – with Odin. Hell, we should have noticed with his name alone! Why would you want to be called Grimr to begin with?!” she exclaims, frustrated with herself.

“It's not yer fault. I'm pretty certain he would have wiped everyone's memories. He could have,” Cú Chulainn says lamely.

“I should have anyway. If I look Fafnir in the eye, I can handle some self-absorbed god with delusions of grandeur,” she replies.

“Maybe ye should've kept'im. He's stron –”

“Oh hell no!” Gudako exclaims, and she grabs the druid by his collar. “Listen right here. In my mind, I befriended you. Not him. And I'm not keeping someone like him around. I don't care that he's stronger. If I need overwhelming destruction, I have Artoria. Excalibur is more destructive than Odin will ever be. I don't want a manipulative bastard like him in my team.”

 

The hero stares at her for a second before chuckling and running a hand through his hair. There are tears in his eyes, and Gudako forces herself to smile at him. She won't allow one of her Servants – one of her friends – to think so low of himself.

 

“I'm glad we saved you. And I am truly sorry it took us so long. Now go home and trash his room. We'll get you a new one, so you can go wild. You can even burn the sheets, I'll sort it out with maintenance if they're not happy.”

 

Cú Chulainn bursts out laughing, and Gudako giggles with him.

 

“Good idea. It will definitely make me feel betta',” he admits.

“See? Now get some rest, you'll have the next Singularity to show off those new powers of yours.”

 

The Servant's smile is sincere this time, and Gudako sighs in relief. She couldn't let him go back to Chaldea when he felt so miserable. It wouldn't have been fair. And she truly wanted to apologise for taking for long, for literally needing divine intervention to act.

 

As the Rayshift circle flares to life, Gudako thinks about the Morrigan's last words before she vanished inside Cú Chulainn's body. ‘The rest of him is coming. He is hurting so much, but I cannot help him at the moment. You, however, may. Give him a place to rest, child, and you will have my gratitude.’ The rest of Cú Chulainn… Does this mean he is part of this Singularity? The goddess did mention having many believers here, and she cannot be referencing to the American citizens. No, there must several Celtic heroes in this place. Considering what she witnessed in the former Singularities, it's not very surprising.

 

She only hopes this other Cú Chulainn will be an ally.

 

---

 

A lion.

 

Thomas Edison is a lion.

 

This Singularity is testing her patience, it's official.

 

However, lion-head or not, the President-King is strong, and so are the two Servants with him. Especially Karna, the Lancer. She doesn't trust them yet, but they need information about this Singularity, about whom the war is fought against. She has her suspicions, of course, but she wants to hear it confirmed.

 

“They're Celts,” the lion-headed man explains. “They suddenly appeared in this era and began their invasion. While they can't match a Heroic Spirit, they're still warriors from the myths. This era's American army couldn't hold a candle to them and was defeated.”

“This is when you were summoned, I suppose?” Gudako summarises. “To protect America from the Celtic army.”

“Indeed. Would you like to join forces with us?”

 

For a second, Gudako considers accepting. But then, Nightingale intervenes, asking about the commander from the hellish battlefield they've seen. The answer comes, calculated, cold, detached. A re-education centre. A beautiful name for a torture camp, where people are broken emotionally and psychologically in order to turn them into perfect machines. It makes Gudako's blood boil, and she clenches her fist.

 

“Well, I can't judge the method too harshly, it is war after all,” Hector mutters.

“Like hell!” Gudako exclaims. “I'm never siding with someone like this!”

“How illogical. I wouldn't have minded a temporary alliance,” Edison replies calmly. “Alas… Karna. Capture them.”

“Jeanne! Hector! Medea!”

 

Jeanne and Hector rush forward as Medea unleashes bullets of pure mana in the direction of the demigod. Gudako sends more mana towards the Ruler Servant, for her abilities are the best matched against Karna. Her saintly magic is the closest thing they have to divine blood, and so she will have to bear most of this fight.

 

‘Hector, go for Edison! Medea, you take Helena.’

‘My pleasure, Master. I will show this little girl –’

 

Before the fight can fully erupt though, a violent explosion shakes the area. The ground cracks and breaks, destabilising everyone. Gudako whirls around, trying to see what caused the attack with a yelp of surprise. Her eyes move quickly, scanning the desolate plain, but she sees nothing. Edison's radio screams about an enemy Servant, and then, a name comes.

 

“It's Cú Chulainn! The Mad King is here! But something's different with him!”

 

‘What?’ Gudako can't afford to think too much, because Medea suddenly unleashes her magic in the direction of the sky. Looking up, Gudako's eyes widen. There's a chariot, dragged by two horses. Inside the chariot is a man holding a spear above his head, the sun shining behind him. The chariot is rushing towards them, easily avoiding all of Medea's and Helena's magical projectiles.

 

Karna goes on the offensive, jumping to reach the attacking Celtic hero, but he's pushed back by a burst of pure mana that Gudako can feel even fifteen metres lower. It's heavy and hot, implacably burning the air like a cruel sun. The Indian demigod brutally crashes in the ground, unable to scream due to the violence of the shock.

 

Then, the chariot lands right in front of them, perhaps two metres away, and Gudako wants to vomit. The two horses neigh and stomp the ground, threatening. It's Cú Chulainn, skin shining like a jewel, eyes like rubies, exuding so much mana it's crushing her lungs. But his expression is closed, cold. Is this the rest of the Cú Chulainn she knows? The part of him that is in pain? He looks haunted, even more so than her Cú Chulainn after he woke up.

 

“Gudako ov Chaldea, aye?” he says.

 

Mash is in front of her in an instant, Medea by her side, while Jeanne and Hector take defensive positions at the front. Cú Chulainn tilts his head to the side, blinking.

 

“Jeanne d'Arc, Hector of Troy, Medea, an' some otha' dumbasses I don't need to remember… I've been sent to 'elp. Name's Cú Chulainn, but ye know that already.”

“You're the King of the Celts invading this land! What help could you offer us?” Jeanne exclaims.

“No, it's not him. It's the rest of our Cú Chulainn,” Gudako intervenes, walking up to stand next to the French woman. “You're not part of this Singularity, are you?”

“Nah. Don't care 'bout this America place. Looks ugly, smells like shite. I'd never conquer this place. But whatever, bring yer ass an' yer friends. I'm s'pposed to keep ye safe,” he orders, clearly annoyed by the conversation.

“Who are you working for, then?”

“The fuckin' World 'erself. She's been yappin' in me head fer the last five minutes. Now move yer ass, or I start killin' everyone 'ere an' grab ye by the collar,” he snaps.

 

Gudako takes a second to detail him. More than haunted, he looks exhausted. Like he desperately wants something to end. And whatever it is, it can only end if he protects her. His words about the World remind her of Shadow, the Counter Guardian. Has Cú Chulainn somehow become one? It doesn't make much sense, but it's the best explanation she has for now. Usually, she would be put off by the threat, but she can see he isn't being sincere. He's just desperate and threatening her seems to be the best solution he can come up with in his current state.

 

“Alright. But my Servants are coming with us.”

“Sure. I don't care.” Then, he turns to Edison. “Ye gonna let us go peacefully, or do I need to rip yer 'ead off? Yer demigod can't win against me. Not 'ere.”

“Go,” Edison spits furiously.

 

Gudako walks over to the chariot, followed by her friends. There is barely enough place for all of them, Mash's shield taking a lot of space.

 

“S-sorry,” she stutters.

“I don't give a fuck. 'Old on to som'thin', we're movin',” he replies, snapping the reigns.

 

Half a second later, Gudako is shrieking as the chariot flies away, the horses galloping in the air. Clinging to Mash, she watches as everything becomes blurry, the chariot moving too fast for her eyes to properly see the landscape. Her stomach twists painfully several times when their ride turns sharply in the sky, and the teenager begins closes her eyes, focusing on the feeling of Mash's arms around her. It's not ideal, but it's better than throwing up in a chariot. Eventually, after what seems to be forever, the chariot lands and slows down.

 

Gudako slowly opens her eyes and looks around. Immediately, her eyes widen. There is an old castle in front of them, made of a single tower on top of a small hill, surrounded by a lower bailey. She's seen pictures of such castles during her history lessons about Europe.

 

“Welcome to me place, Dún Dealgan,” Cú Chulainn announces. “I've summoned it to work as a safe space.” He turns to Medea. “Ye can use it to put up yer workshop, I don't care.” Medea merely nods, looking a bit pale; it seems she didn't like the chariot ride either. “Now get down, ye got people to meet.”

 

Before Gudako can ask whom, she feels the now familiar signature of several Servants. Jumping down from the chariot, she takes a few steps towards the tower as the door opens, allowing three men and two women to come out. Immediately, a bright smile appears on her face.

 

“Nero! Elizabeth!” she exclaims happily. “It's so good to see you!”

“Umu!” Nero replies, and Gudako soon finds herself engulfed in a hug by both Servants. “I'm delighted as well, Gudako-chan! You too, Mash! Come here!”

 

 

Sétanta stares at the girl they're supposed to protect. Gudako whatever from who cares, Japan. She seems to a brave, compassionate little thing, but she's not half the mage she should be. The bottom of the barrel, at best. It's a miracle if she can use Gandr or reinforcement. But it's not what irritates Sétanta about her. Her abilities as a mage are none of his problems, just a factor he needs to keep in mind if he wants to do his job properly. No, she infuriates him for a different reason. How come she gets a happy ending every time she saves the world but Archer never had a single ounce of kindness or gratitude? How come she gets a real place to call home between Singularities? How come she gets to rest?

 

This is fucking enraging.

 

Pushing  the thoughts away, the spearman looks at the other Servants she brought. Jeanne d'Arc, a Ruler, Hector, a Lancer, and Medea, obviously a Caster. Looks like they're doomed to meet repeatedly. Oh well, this time, she's an ally, he supposes. Not that he cares.

 

The other Servants, the one Archer went and got, are mostly uninteresting, their names supplied by Alaya's disincarnated voice. Billy the Kid, Robin Hood, Nero Claudius – why is she a woman? –, Elizabeth Bathory – why is she a Japanese idol? Isn't she supposed to be Hungarian? – and the only one who seems to have a decent brain, Geronimo. With a heavy sigh, he lets the kids hug for five more seconds before clapping his hands.

 

“Y'all know each otha', we love to see it, now can we get inside an' talk 'bout this Singularity bullshit? The sooner'it's over, the betta'.”

 

At this, Gudako looks up from her group hugs and opens her mouth to reply when her eyes widen as she sees Archer.

 

“Shadow?” she exclaims. “Wait no, you're a non-corrupted version of Shadow, right?” she exclaims.

“Shadow?” Archer repeats, crossing his arms.

“A version of you in Chaldea!” she explains happily, going over to shake his hand. “What should I call you? He told me he hates your  name… Is that the case for you as well?”

“It is. Archer will do,” his lover says politely, not looking remotely interested in that other version of himself.

“Archer it is, then! Nice to meet you! And you too, Cú Chulainn,” she says happily, like she doesn't notice or doesn't care about their flat tones. “I have a contract with another you as well. A Caster.”

“Sétanta.”

“Alright!”

 

She extends her hand to shake, and Archer grabs it first. Instantly, a rush of mana from Alaya electrifies the three of them, and Sétanta needs to use Gáe Bulg as support to stay upright. Two seconds later, the feeling ends, and the World speaks.

 

‘Until Goetia has been defeated, you will assist Gudako of Chaldea and act as her Servants. I shall provide the mana, but you will keep her safe until Goetia is dead. It does not matter how.’

Notes:

The boys have met Chaldea!!

Chapter 40: Dún Dealgan

Summary:

After some talks, Sétanta finally gets a nap.

Meanwhile, an Assassin finds this Singularity's biggest secret.

Notes:

Alternative summary: Sleep deprivation is bad, y'all.

They're all sitting at the table of Dún Dealgan's main hall, but Sétanta finds it to stay seated. He wants to go out and break something, preferably someone's skull. They have to play babysitter until Goetia is defeated? Wonderful. Fucking perfect. Just when he thought things couldn't get worse, they're stuck with these Chaldea guys. He just wants to be done with it already! Can't she just send them to eliminate the sources of all those Singularities? Wouldn't that be faster? Chaldea isn't needed. Those little Servants Archer went and found aren't needed either. Sure, it's better to have them than to let them run around stupidly, but their usefulness is limited. Killing them all would take him less than five minutes. Two if he tries hard enough.

 

Breathing deeply, he forces himself to listen to the current conversation.

 

“We're facing Celtic Servants, led by an alternative version of Cú Chulainn. Do you know any of the other Servants?” the Chaldea girl asks Geronimo.

“Not yet. But there's an Assassin among us. She went to their base in the hopes of identifying all the Servants, their strengths and weaknesses,” he explains.

 

‘Ah, so at least one of them's useful,’ Sétanta thinks drily.

 

“Isn't that dangerous? I know Assassins have the ability to conceal themselves but infiltrating the enemy base…” the Demi-Servant wonders.

“She has a cloak that allows her to fully hide herself from anyone and anything,” Geronimo replies. “Even with all my tracking abilities, I can't get a hint of her presence if she hides herself.”

“O-oh I see…” the girl stammers.

“Then we'll wait until we have information from Assassin,” Gudako decides. “Will she be able to find us?”

“Yes, I've left her a small spell that will guide her to me,” the Caster confirms. “We told her she has two more days to return, after which we'll consider her captured or defeated and move on.”

“I agree,” the little Master says. She turns to Sétanta. “What should we expect from a Celtic army?”

 

He takes a second to think about what he's seen. The warriors are nothing but creation from the Grail or a Noble Phantasm, and Servants don't need to eat or sleep so long as they have a reliable source of mana. The answer is evident.

 

“They don't need prisoners. That Assassin would be kill'd the second she's discovered, by the wae, let's 'ope she doesn't get caught. Same with the American soldiers and civilians, no need to keep 'em alive,” he says. “They'll assault several bases at the same time to make sure no reinforcements can come when they go to the capital. They 'ave the numba', so they can just overwhelm the American with brute strength. The Servants will be deployed to deal with the enemy ones and might use themselves as bait. Or at least, that's 'ow I'd do things if they were me army.”

 

The girl nods slowly, eyes strangely cold. She might have come to the same conclusion herself.

 

“When would you go on the battlefield?” she asks.

“Well, I'd be on the frontlines ov some assault to act as a distraction. That 'indu guy wouldn't 'ave a choice but go afta' me. That leaves the rest of me Servants basically free to do whateva'. But since that Alter ain't doin' that, he might be preparin' for a massive attack. That American capital will never 'old if 'e goes in person,” he replies.

“An army that doesn't need to eat, sleep or rest… it's almost unfarr,” she sighs. “Alright, I see… I know you might not like this, but has Alayashiki offered more information about this place?”

 

Sétanta freezes in shock and anger. How dare she ask about that? Can't she mind her own fucking business? He wants to slap some sense in that moronic head of hers, but Archer thankfully reacts faster.

 

“No. She's been clear that we need to eliminate the Servant responsible for this Singularity, but she hasn't said much more. I don't think she knows much, to be honest.”

“Eh? Doesn't she like… know everything?”

“No, she doesn't,” Archer says drily. “Singularities aren't part of the Human History she protects. In a way, they're out of her league. Which is why she hasn't sent us earlier even though you might have died. She couldn't. Sétanta’s link to this Singularity allowed her to force an entry point, but she's likely limited. Hence why she can only provide mana.” He marks a pause. “That's my theory, at least.”

 

The girl nods thoughtfully before clapping her hands together.

 

“Well, it's not like we're getting an answer anyway! Let's focus on what we can do instead,” she grabs her bracelet. “Dr. Romani, Da Vinci, you heard everything, right?”

“Yes!” a woman replies from the other side of the intercom. “Romani is busy with our Cú Chulainn right now, so I'm the only one here, but I've heard everything. I must say, Archer-san, your theory about Alayashiki's limitations makes sense. It's likely she would have interfered before had she been able to.”

Archer shrugs. “Whatever. Like Gudako said, we can't do anything about it.”

“Indeed, but I do love a good problem to solve. Anyways ~ I have prepared some supplies for you. Cú Chulainn, would you allow me to Rayshift them in the courtyard?” the feminine voice continues.

“Go ahead.”

“Wonderful! There will be food and medical supplies for Nightingale's treatment of Rama!”

 

Ah, right, Rama. The guy barely clinging to life in one of the guest bedrooms with the insane nurse keeping him breathing and the saint throwing healing spell after healing spell. He's the definition of resilience, for Sétanta has yet to meet someone who can last this long after having his heart cursed by Gáe Bulg, but he's still a dead man walking. There's no curing a wound caused by Gáe Bulg. There's only one person who should have survived, and he didn't. Sétanta feels his throat tightens as he recalls bright red eyes and an eager grin. Just like his own. He should have been the one to survive Gáe Bulg's thrust.

 

“Ye won't be able to save 'im,” he says, hoping he doesn't sound resentful. “Ye ain't curin' this wound.”

“We'll figure something out,” Gudako replies confidently, and it grates on Sétanta's nerves. Stupid little girl. “We have two days maximum of rest, after which we'll have to march against the Celts. As much as Edison is a problem, the Celts are behind this Singularity and threaten many civilian lives.”

“Yes senpai!”

“Aye, aye, Master,” Hector says.

“Hector, can I trust you with the first watch? We need to figure out a rotation.”

“Sure thing, leave it to this old man.”

 

The Lancer leaves the room, and Mash turns to him, trying to look as brave as possible. It fails miserably.

 

“Hum, S-Sétanta-san… Is there a room senpai could use to rest?”

“Second floor. There are several bedrooms, use them 'oweva' ye want. Howeva', don't ye go to the third floor.”

“O-of course! Thank you very much!” she exclaims.

 

The two teenagers excuse themselves before going up, encouraging the other Servants to rest as well. Sétanta watches Nero and Elizabeth Bathory follow them up, giggling among themselves. No doubt the four girls are about to nap together. What he wouldn't give for a nap as well. When was the last time he slept? Alaya has been relentless, and he can't remember the last time he took a nap. It was probably when they were with Shinji. His heart sinks as he thinks about the teenager. Another child he failed. Another child dead before his time.

 

He just wants to lie down, wants to close his eyes and sleep, or he might just go entirely mad. Killing is one thing; it sucks, and it's ugly, but he's used to it. Being unable to take a break, however… It's eating alive, like a growing fire he can't put out. All he needs is just one nap.

 

Hold on. He can take a nap. His bedroom is here. He can walk up the stairs and lie down in his bed. He can sleep. He can rest. Sétanta chokes at the realisation, a shiver running up his spine. It didn't even occur to him until now. What has Alaya done to him, that he forgets he can bloody sleep? He wants to hit the wall in anger, wants to scream his frustration, but above everything, he wants to sleep.

 

‘A shod, 'ow 'bout we go to sleep too?’ he offers Archer.

 

His lover blinks adorably, probably just realising as well that they have the time to rest.

 

‘Y-yeah. Let's go. Now.’

 

Sétanta nods and turns to the remaining Servants speaking among themselves.

 

“Archer an' I are gettin' some shut-eye too. Ye can use this floor and the second one.”

“Thank you,” Geronimo says respectfully. “Rest well.”

 

It's hard not to run up the stairs, and even harder to ignore Finn's room, but Sétanta knows he can't handle going in there, not now. Maybe when he's rested a bit. But right now, he makes a beeline for his chambers, Archer behind him. He's almost frantic as he opens the door, inhaling deeply as he takes in the sight.

 

It hasn't changed in the slightest. The large bed he shared with Emer, the shelves of knick-knacks, the ones with his clothes and armours. The armchair and the small table near the window, where Emer used to sit to embroider, read or play music. The rug on the floor, where Finn took her first steps, only to fall right after. She would have fallen flat on her face if he hadn't been quick enough to catch her. The baby found it hilarious, while he had been scared half to death that she would get hurt. Tears strangle Sétanta, and he makes a choked sound, no better than a gargle.

 

A warm touch on his shoulders snaps him out of it and he whirls around, forgetting for a second that Archer is with him. His lover gently takes his hand and guides him to the bed, making him sit and crouching in front of him.

 

“Talk to me,” he says softly.

“Not much to sae. It's 'ard, bein' 'ere an' all. Finn used to plae right there on that rug. Emer hogged the blanket, so I had to orda' more,” he finds himself saying. The rambling continues despite his best efforts to stop it. “Finn would show up at dawn, gigglin' and runnin' around. Almost caught Emer and I 'avin' some fun once. 'T'was a close call, an' we definitely learnt our lesson,” he chuckles, the sound went with his tears.

“She sounds like an energetic kid,” Archer comments in that same soft, kind tone. “Do you want to use another room? Or… I can sleep somewhere –”

“No!” Sétanta exclaims, clumsily dragging Archer against his chest.

 

What's he saying? Why would he go anywhere else? He doesn't want to be in this room, in this place, without Archer. He can't. It's unthinkable. It might hurt right now, and he might want to tear out his own heart because of how much he misses his daughter, but Archer isn't going anywhere. He wouldn't be able to handle it. The idea of Archer leaving makes his chest heave in panic.

 

“Stae. Stae, please,” he half-sobs.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Archer reassures him. “Let's nap, alright? We've earned it.”

 

Sétanta nods, dismissing the mana-made clothes. Archer does the same, and they snuggle under the blankets with a sigh of comfort. The pillows smell wonderful, the blankets are gods-sent, and the mattress is the most comfortable thing he's never laid on. With Archer in his arms, gently playing with his hair… Sétanta could die again, and happy. Already, sleep is taking hold of him, and he feels himself slip.

 

“Sleep, my love,” Archer whispers, kissing his brow.

“You too,” Sétanta mumbles back.

 

He's asleep before he can hear Archer's answer.

 

---

 

Assassin pushes the exhaustion away as she slips inside the White House’s compound – or rather what's left of it. Her cloak is heavy on her shoulders, the hood diminishing her line of sight, but she cannot remove it. Without it, she would be discovered in an instant. Hopping on one of the many pillars, she takes note of the many Celtic soldiers. Like Geronimo supposed, they are beings created by a Noble Phantasm. There are few siege weapons, for the Celts were never too fond of them, and several wyverns. More must nest nearby, even though she cannot see them. It is about as bad as they thought, perhaps worse. She needs to investigate more.

 

The oppressive mana in the air is unpleasant, and she needs to take a few seconds to breathe before she can properly jump down to infiltrate the main building, but she is swift in her movements. Her mission is of paramount importance. Wordlessly, she makes her way in the corridors. Knowledge that isn't hers tells her that the portraits of the American presidents have been removed, although they haven't been replaced. She slips through the hallways, undetected, until she falls upon a throne room. Immediately, Assassin slams her hands on her mouth to stop herself from screaming in fear.

 

Cú Chulainn is here, monstrous and deformed by the Grail or perhaps his Wish. His chitinous tail and armour – unless it is part of him? She cannot tell – give the impression that he's huge and large, too big for a man. Thankfully, once she focuses, she can see that the exterior of his armour is only that. He's still much taller than her, of course, and he could kill her with a slap, but telling herself he isn't completely a monster makes things easier. With a deep breath, Assassin removes her hands from her mouth and looks at the other Servants.

 

There is a woman with pink hair and a crown sitting near the throne, preening like a dog in heat near Cú Chulainn. According to the myths she knows, this cannot be Emer. No, this is surely Aife or Queen Medb of Connacht. She cannot say just yet, but she will have to figure it out. There is another Servant as well, with flaming red hair, but Assassin has no clue about his identity. There must be others, but they seem absent at the moment. Assassin gets closer and notices the red-haired Servant has green eyes and freckles. He looks a bit older than Cú Chulainn, in his mid-thirties rather than his late twenties. Other than that, she still doesn't have the faintest clue of he is.

 

“So, what do the reports say?” the pink-haired woman asks, sounding terribly bored.

“They keep fighting back. The Lancer particularly might be a problem.”

 

This seems to get Cú Chulainn’s attention.

 

“He's causing you trouble?”

“Not as much as you would,” the red-haired replies with a light-hearted smile.

“Don't,” the Mad King growls, and the red-haired raises his hand in mock surrender. “How about the rogue Servants?”

“Scattered and mostly uncoordinated. Fergus is hunting them as we speak.”

 

‘Fergus… Fergus Mac Roích? Yes, it would make sense. He was Cú Chulainn's foster-father after all,’ Assassin deduces. But, more importantly, the Celts don't know the Rogues have regrouped. That is good news, and Geronimo will be pleased to hear so. She needs only map the castle now, so they may mount a proper attack on the place. She quickly turns around and leaves the throne room.

 

As she wanders the hallways, Assassin notices a wing that seems heavily guarded. With a small smile, she slips in, unnoticed. This cloak might be inconvenient in battle, but it's perfect for infiltration. It suits her class perfectly, after all. Slowly, she makes her way, always staying close to the walls so she may avoid anyone coming through. She notices what seems to be maids, strangely. Why would the Celtic army need those? Perhaps the queen-like woman wishes to be attended to, but it is a waste of resources. The Cú Chulainn she has just seen doesn't seem the type to allow frivolous distraction.

 

There must be something in this wing.

 

She swiftly climbs up the stairs when the sudden screams of a child are heard. A little girl, to be precise, who screeches her lungs out in Gaelic.

 

“No! Go away! I want my daddy and my mommy!”

 

Assassin rushes to the scene, and her eyes widen. A bedroom door is wide open, and a maid desperately tries to calm the screaming little girl. Said child, no older than five, is hiding in a boy's arms, who doesn't seem to have turned ten yet.

 

“P-princess, you must eat, please,” the maid gently cajoles.

“No! I don't trust you!”

“Please, sis, just a bite…” the boy encourages.

 

The girl seems on the verge of wailing but she angrily swallows her plate before hurling it past the maid's head with far too much strength for a regular little girl. Assassin easily avoids the projectile and watches as the maid scrambles to pick up the pieces.

 

“I want mamaaaaaa!” the girl sobs.

 

Assassin enters the room before the little boy closes the door, avoiding him as he returns to his 'sis' to hug and shush her. The Servant's heart breaks as she remembers her own sons consoling their sister when she would have nightmares. Slightly shaking her head, she swallows and pushes the thoughts away, instead focusing on the two children in front of her. Both have vibrant blue hair, and the boy's pupils are slit like a cat's. They are both fair-skinned, with slightly pointed ears.

 

They look just like Cú Chulainn.

 

Legends of her childhood come back to her like a tidal wave, about a little boy dead before he was ten, and a little girl who lost her father before she was six.

 

She's just found Cú Chulainn's children.

 

She's just found Connla and Finnscoth.

Notes:

Enter Finnscoth and Connla!! Don't worry, absolutely nothing horrible will happen to the children... Especially not the one who already had a very tragic fate... I would never do that... Of course... (•⩊•)

But!! Victory!! The boys finally get to SLEEP a bit!!! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

Those who read Of loaded guns and bloody roses and my little notes about mythology probably already know who the "mysterious" Assassin is, but who do you think the red-haired Servant is? He hasn't appeared in Fate yet!

Chapter 41: Finnscoth and Connla

Summary:

An escape happens, and Sétanta talks to his other self. It goes better than expected.

Notes:

Alternate summary: take naps, it helps.

Connla hugs Finn tighter against him, hushing her as she dries her tears. The little girl is terrified by the situation, not really understanding that this isn't Eiré, or even the world they know. She's too young and hasn't died. It took him a long time to get her to trust him, because she believed him dead. Which he is, technically. Or rather which he should be. But he's alive, and not a Servant like Medb or this monstrous version of Father. He doesn't know why or how this happened, as it's not something Scáthach ever spoke of, but he can't afford to focus too much on that right now. He needs to comfort Finn, and then he has to find a way to escape this place with her. As much as Monster-Father seems to want them safe, Medb is clearly unhappy with their presence, and he doesn't trust her, especially not with Finn's safety.

 

“Come on, Finn, no need to cry… I'll find a way out, and then we'll find Lady Emer and Father alright?”

 

The little girl sniffles and nods, trying to wipe her tears. Connla smiles softly at her.

 

“That's right, just like that. Father would be so proud of you, you're being very brave.”

“Mhm… but I'm scared.”

“I know, so am I. But Scáthach once told me that you can't be brave if you're not scared. People who aren't afraid aren't brave, they're stupid,” he tells her, trying to mimic his teacher's wisdom.

 

It seems to work, because the little girl smiles at him with all the bravery of a five-year-old, and her tears slowly stop. Relieved, Connla kisses the top of her head, making her giggle.

 

Suddenly, the air shimmers in the corner of his eyes and Connla immediately jumps up, pushing Finn behind him, ready to fight. A beautiful woman appears, seemingly coming out of nowhere. She has long copper-coloured hair and hazelnut eyes, and she wears men's clothes made for travelling. The boy's eyes narrow on the dagger at her waist, and he immediately raises his fists. He doesn't know who she is, but she isn't laying a hand on Finn!

 

Seeing his reaction, however, the stranger quickly raises her hands.

 

“Wait, wait, wait!” she says in perfect Gaelic, voice soft and kind. “I'm here to help. I can get you out of here.”

 

But Connla doesn't lower his guard, so the woman sits down on the floor, legs crossed. It would be hard for her to run away or react to an attack like this, so this must be a token of good faith. Slowly, Connla lowers his fists, although his muscles remain tensed. He will hear her out, but he is ready to kick her straight in the neck to incapacitate her.

 

“My name is Gráinne MacArt. You must be Connla and Finnscoth?”

“We are,” Connla replies. No point in hiding this information when she clearly knows the truth. “Are you with the –” He grimaces, trying to pronounce the strange name of the people from this land. “– A-me-ri-cans?”

“No,” she replies, shaking her head softly. “I am with another faction. We want to return this land to what it is meant to be, and for the Servants to leave this place.”

 

Connla nods. He heard a few maids and his great-uncle Fergus mention them. The Servant who visits them the most, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, also spoke of them once. They're called the Rogues and sabotage the war for both sides but mostly for the Celts.

 

“Why would you help us?”

 

They are the enemy leader's children. It doesn't make sense that she would help them. Perhaps she means to keep them hostage? No, if that were the case, she would have knocked them out already. A Servant is easily capable of such a feat, now that he thinks about it.

 

“You are children, thrown into a world you do not belong to. I would take you somewhere safe, where my allies will protect you,” she replies.

“We're safe here,” he bravely says.

“Is this why you mean to run?” she replies gently. “I have run for a long time of my life, I know the road. It is unkind. If you prefer it to this place, then you are not safe within these walls.”

 

He bites his lips, thinking it over. Lady Gráinne is a Servant, so she might be able to keep them safe from Medb, especially Finn. He can fight, but his sister can't. She's too little. And… she feels kind and safe. Like she can be trusted. Scáthach always told him to trust his instincts, so he supposes he will. What else can he do in this strange world? This isn't Eiré.

 

“Alright, we'll follow you.”

“Thank you for your trust, Connla,” she says before turning to Finn. “Little Finnscoth, will you trust me to take you somewhere else? If your parents are here, I will find them.”

 

Thankfully, Finn must feel like Connla, because she goes to Lady Gráinne and jumps in her open arms, snuggling against her. Lady Gráinne easily balances her on her waist with one arm – she must be a mother, and he swallows his resentment over the fact that Aife never did this for him – before turning to Connla.

 

“Anyone hiding under my cloak will remain so even from the eyes of a god. I must carry you as well until we have left this place.”

 

It's a bit awkward, because he's almost as tall as Lady Gráinne, but she truly is a Servant and lifts him easily. He puts the hood on the woman's head, and their journey through the many corridors begins. 

 

Lady Gráinne is swift despite carrying them both, her movement always graceful even as she avoids the maids and warriors in the corridor. He knew that her cloak would hide them, but seeing it firsthand is impressive, and they slip through the hallways like ghosts. Finally, they reach the courtyard. The woman carrying them makes her way to the wyverns, and Connla notices her breathing deeply.

 

“We will use one of the wyverns to escape. It's only a matter of time before your absence is no –”

 

A horn is blown before she can finish her sentence, and the warriors around them all rush to the castle entrance. Connla hears shouts, but he cannot make out what they say.

 

“Already?” Lady Gráinne mumbles, expression showcasing her anxiety over the horns. “Alright.”

 

Putting them down, she removes her hood and jumps in front of one of the wyverns, hand extended towards it. Her mana shines like a beacon, glowing and warm like a mother's embrace.

 

“Wyvern of unnatural creation, I, Gráinne MacArt, daughter of the High King of Eiré, put druid bonds upon you. You shall act as my mount and take us away from this place to safety!” she orders in a commanding tone.

 

The beast growls and snarls, but the geis is too strong and soon, the animal lowers his body to allow them to ride it. Heart hammering against his chest, Connla takes Finn and quickly climbs on the beast’s back. Lady Gráinne does the same, snapping the reins and ordering the animal to fly away. As soon as they take to the skies, Connla hears the furious roar of the monster wearing his father's face. He looks behind and sees him outside, on the marches of the castle, eyes wide with fury.

 

Childishly, he sticks out his tongue while Lady Gráinne shrieks and orders the wyvern to hurry up. As for Finn, she seems to find the whole experience hilarious and giggles when the beast speeds up.

 

“I hope he will be too busy raging to pursue us personally,” Lady Gráinne mutters. “I cannot fight him head on.”

“Don't worry, Lady Gráinne. I wouldn't let him hurt you,” Connla promises.

 

This makes the woman smile sadly.

 

“You are just as brave as my own sons… But no, little one, I wouldn't have you fight for me. You are to remain safe.”

“But I'm a warrior!” Connla protests.

“You are a child. Don't chase glory if it will only break my heart, please.”

 

He opens his mouth and closes it. Her eyes are incredibly sad, and he wonders whom she lost that it still hurts her so much. He wonders if Father ever mourned him like this, and for how long.

 

---

 

Gudako yawns as she wakes up, thanking all the gods for the comfort of this mattress. Fortress-type Noble-Phantasm that come with beds are the best. Her body isn't sore, and she was able to cuddle with Mash all she wanted. Glancing at the Demi-Servant, the teenager feels herself blush slightly. Mash is sleeping soundly, face unhidden behind her hair for once. She looks so peaceful like this, like all her problems have vanished. Gudako, entranced, gently caresses her cheek. The other girl shivers in her sleep, and Gudako freezes, but Mash relaxes and adorably snuggles deeper in her pillow. Gudako stifles an amused giggle before looking at where Elizabeth and Nero fell asleep.

 

Predictably, the two Servants have woken up and left the room already. They need far less sleep, after all. Slowly, Gudako gets out of bed as well and puts her Mystic Code back on before silently making her way out of the bedroom. They are safe here, so she can relax a bit. For all his harshness, Sétanta will keep them safe, she doesn't doubt it. And perhaps he will even warm up to them after some time. After all, fighting against his own people, against himself, cannot be easy. That, and being stuck as a Counter Guardian… She hopes she will be able to help him, like to Morrígan asked her.

 

When she reaches the main room, Gudako finds Hector drinking some water while chatting with Billy the Kid and Robin Hood. If her senses are correct, Medea is outside, working on establishing her territory while Jeanne is still with Rama. They really need to find a way to help the Saber. Sétanta told them it's a lost cause, but perhaps her Cú Chulainn will have an idea. The girl feels her heart break at the thought of her friend. She hopes he's doing fine. She hopes that Dr. Romani found nothing wrong with him. She hopes that the Morrígan is keeping her word.

 

“Hello everyone!” she says.

“Master,” Hector replies, nodding his head.

“Miss Gudako,” Geronimo says respectfully.

“Lil' miss!” Billy the Kid says with his usually roguish smile.

 

She grabs the ration bags and grabs some dry beef before sitting down.

 

“What are you discussing?”

“Geronimo was askin' about yer adventures,” Billy replies. “Looks like Chaldea's a wild ride!”

“It is,” Gudako giggles. “I was wondering, could you tell me what your specialties are in battle?” she asks.

“Of course. Billy and Robin are marksmen, obviously. I am a Caster and I specialise in ancestral magic. You know Cú Chulainn, you say, so you must be familiar with druidic magic? It is a bit similar,” Geronimo explains.

“I see… Nero and Elizabeth are close-range fighters with a lot of damage output, but they lack resistance to magic or blunt force damage…” she rambles a bit before looking up again. “What about your Noble Phantasms?”

 

The three Servants explain their abilities, Archer-san appears in the middle of the room, stepping out of Spirit Form. Gudako can't help but jump in surprise, cursing as she does so. She's not sure she'll ever get used to this.

 

“Okay, let's make a no Spirit Form rule please,” she sighs, hand over her thundering heart. “I'd rather not die of a heart attack.”

 

Archer-san unexpectedly chuckles.

 

“Sure.” He glances at the food in her hand. “What in the fresh hells are you eating?”

“Beef jerky?”

 

His eyebrow twitches, and he quickly opens the provision bag, looking equally dumbfounded and annoyed. Then, slowly, he turns to her, and there's a threatening expression on his face, but it doesn't seem for her.

 

“Put that Da Vinci woman on the line.”

“Sure?” Tapping her intercom, she calls out for her mentor. “Da Vinci? Archer-san wants to talk to you.”

“Of course! Archer-san, I wanted to speak about Ala–”

“What the fuck are you feeding her?!” he exclaims before she can finish her sentence.

 

Oh. Seems like Shadow and Archer have more in common than Gudako thought. She should have seen this coming, really. Shadow is obsessed with cooking proper meals – they all taste amazing, really, so Gudako isn't complaining –, to the point it's probably a pathology, and it looks like it's the same with Archer.

 

“Ah, you are just like Shadow-kun, it seems! You are free to cook something else, of course but –”

“I wasn't waiting for your permission, woman. I'm asking why the fuck you'd send her with some of the worst food mankind ever came up with?”

“It needs to be easy to transport and easy to digest.”

 

Archer turns to Gudako.

 

“Turns that off before I kill her through the intercom.” Then he marches towards what seems to be a kitchen and starts rummaging through it, although she can hear curse to himself. “Humanity's last Master is going to die of bloody high pressure because of those morons…”

 

About two minutes later, Sétanta is the one to arrive, hair undone and looking a bit less haunted than a few hours ago.

 

“Mornin' y'all. Whot 'appened to Archer?”

“He's not happy with how Chaldea is feeding me, I think,” Gudako replies.

 

This gets a genuine laugh from the Celt.

 

“A shod wouldn't! Sae, there's anotha' me in Chaldea, right?”

“Yes! His life is complicated, but I think he should be the one to tell you.”

“Huh… Care to put 'im on the line? I'd like to 'ave a word with 'im.”

“Of course!”

 

 

Sétanta sits in the grass, waiting for his other self to show up. He's curious, he must admit. How can another him be summoned? Alters are one thing, but just another class? It shouldn't be possible. Not without Archer. Their Origin Spirits are merged; one can't be summoned without the others. Maybe that other him will have an answer.

 

“So ye're the rest of us?” a voice suddenly calls out.

 

Sétanta looks down. There's a hologram of himself, with untied hair and looking about ten years older. Weird. He's dressed like a druid, which makes sense if he's a Caster.

 

“More like ye're a part ov me,” he replies.

“Yeah, that's true. Gudako told ye 'bout me?”

“Just that ye're a Casta'.”

“Odin made me. Kinda.” At this, Sétanta arches an eyebrow. “Yeah. Fucker needed a face in this world, snatched the face ov a hero that can do runecraft an' locked me inside. Spent six months stuck 'til the Morrígan came along,” his other self says bitterly.

“Seriously? The hell did she do?”

“Ripped 'im out, put 'erself as me core an' went to sleep. As far as Origin Spirits are concerned, I'm 'er envoy now. There's a term, Pseudo-Servant or som'thin' like that. Figurin' out me abilities is still a work in progress, though.”

“Well shit, sounds like a crappy hand ye got dealt.”

“Well, we've neva’ been lucky, 'ave we?”

“We got Emer and Ferdiad and Finn. That's luck.”

“That is fair. Ye're a Counta' Guardian?”

“Aye. Got Da involved to help one be freed, an' it ended with me workin' as one until 'e can make Alaya piss ‘er pants.”

“Is he worth it?”

“Of course. Ye got one yerself, don't'cha?”

“Shadow? Shit, ye're with another Shadow? Damn. Tell me, that Counta' Guardian ov yers… ye fuckin' 'im?”

“The hell?!” Sétanta roars.

“Shit we're really the same person. I'm bangin' 'im too,” his other self laughs.

 

Sétanta stares for a few seconds, dumbfounded, before bursting out laughing.

 

“Seriously?”

“I wanna forget ‘bout bein' a god's play toy, an' 'e wanna forget 'bout some shit too. No great love story here, but 'ey, it does the job. I mean, we started yesterdae too, so it's whateva', but ye know. Sex is nice.”

 

They both have another laugh, and Sétanta finds himself forgetting about Alaya for a while.

 

“Is he a feral cat too?” he asks.

“Shit, I thought 'e'd claw out me eyes when I offered.”

“Yeah, sounds like 'im… how do I call you, by the way?”

“Soar.”

“Free?” Sétanta repeats. “I understand. It's a nice name.”

“Thanks.”

 

There's a small pause, and it's back to business.

 

“Sae, Gudako told me there's some guy who survived Gáe Bulg…” Caster says after a few seconds.

 

“She wants to bloody cure him. Is she always like that?” he growls.

 

He fucking hopes not, because otherwise he might knock that kid out for the duration of the Singularities to spare himself the bullshit. Their job is to get rid of the Demon God or whatever. Not play hero.

 

“Oh, she'd save every puppy if she could.”

 

Of fucking course. Would Archer be terribly mad at him if he did knock her out? They would have to deal with her Servants, though, and that would take some time and effort he doesn't want to dedicate to some useless fights. Well, saving every puppy under the fucking sun it is, then.

 

“Fuckin' great… ye don't got any idea, do ye?”

“They could transfer the curse, but it would have to be to a willin' Servant,” Soar replies, shaking his head.

“Good luck with that,” Sétanta snorts.

“Aye.”

“I gotta go back, see what these morons came up with. If I show up Chaldea with Archer afta' that, let's get a drink, Soar.”

“I'll get us som'thin' strong enough to obliterate the memories of the last ten years.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Notes:

Soar means free in Irish! Caster uses this name as a way to thank the Morrigan for saving him and celebrate the fact that he is free from Odin. I considered using "Sun" "Sunny" or "Crow" (the Morrigan's symbol being crows) but I didn't like how the words sounded so I stuck to Soar, which is pronounced "shor". Speaking of, I'm working on a OS recounting Soar's version of events once he returned to Chaldea, because it would be in parallel to this singularity and the beginning of his relationship with Shadow. Would you guys be interested?

Chapter 42: Father

Summary:

In which Finnscoth and Connla see their father.

The wyvern is getting tired, and their pursuers will soon catch up with them, Gráinne knows so. Soon enough, the three wyverns chasing them will be too close to ever have a chance of escaping. She glances at the two children sitting in front of her, and her heart tightens. She needs to get them or safety before the Celts can catch up, or they will be locked in that metaphorical tower all over again. Yet, she doesn't see how she can do so right now. There is no forest to hide, no river to erase their tracks. She thinks of all the things she did while she was on the road with Diarmuid, of all the ideas they came up with to lose Fionn's men.

 

Finally, an idea comes. She needs a bait. Something to distract the Servants on their tracks. The wyvern alone will not be enough, and so she needs to be the one to do it. Swallowing thickly, she removes the necklace given by Geronimo.

 

“Little Connla, I need you to listen to me carefully,” she tells the little boy, loathing that she must put such a heavy responsibility on him. “This necklace will guide you to my friend Geronimo, who will keep you safe. He may not speak our tongue, but he will find a way, I promise.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” the child asks, eyes wide.

“I will distract our pursuers. In the meantime, you must take your sister and flee. I will do my best to catch up with you.”

“I can fight!” he protests.

“I know,” she cajoles. “But who will watch over Finnscoth, then?”

 

There are some tears in the child's eyes, but he wipes them angrily and nods. Gráinne smiles, as encouraging as can be. Connla takes the necklace, putting it on. He gasps as the magic pull comes over him, and his eyes immediately go in the direction of Geronimo, miles and miles away from them. Turning around, she sees the enemy wyverns closing on them. Clenching her teeth, she orders her own wyvern to go lower so that Connla may jump safely. As the beast descends, she removes the Cloak of Aengus, a gift from Diarmuid's sídhe foster-father, and wraps it around Connla's shoulders.

 

“To keep you safe and hidden,” she says. “Now go, little one.”

 

The boy nods and, in one swift movement, grabs his sister and jumps. Gráinne hears Finnscoth scream in fear but forces herself to ignore her motherly instincts. She must buy them as much time as she can. So, she turns the wyvern around and goes straight for the enemy Servants. There will be no more flying for them, and she will hold them here as long as she can.

 

The other wyverns roar angrily at hers, but Gráinne's own mount returns the animalistic roar, slamming into the nearest creature. At the same time, the Servant takes out one of her two daggers and hurls it at the other wyvern’s left eye, blinding it. Thankfully, there are only two of them, meaning only two enemy Servants. She can mayhaps hold the line for fifteen minutes. Focusing mana in her legs, Gráinne jumps as high as she can, twisting in the air to reach the Servant on the wyvern she's just blinded. 

 

She needs to ground them, whoever they are, no matter what.

 

It is the red-haired Servant she saw earlier in the throne room, who seemed so strong. Mayhaps fifteen minutes was optimistic, but she will be damned if she fails. Children are counting on her. Two littles ones, having to act so brave despite their young age. She will ensure they can get away, even if it is the last thing she does.

 

Gráinne gracefully lands on the wyvern but doesn't go after the Servant. Instead, using her second dagger and the advantage of surprise, she immediately attacks the beast’s wings, tearing it apart with her weapon. The animal howls as it crashes to the ground, and Gráinne jumps away just in time, rolling to the ground as she lands. She is covered in dirt and wyvern blood but at least, both animals are down. The Servants are stuck on the ground. Finnscoth and Connla may yet escape.

 

Standing back up, she grips her weapon tight as the two Servants emerge from the wreckage, likely unharmed but furious.

 

Gráinne's heart suddenly drops, and she wants to vomit. Black hair, golden eyes, a cursed mole, twin swords. The second Servant is Diarmuid, her husband. He seems equally horrified as he sees her, but she cannot afford to dwell on such feelings. Finnscoth and Connla are counting on her.

 

“G-Gráinne,” Diarmuid articulates, and her heart all but shatters. She missed his voice so much, it hurts to hear it again, even more than she ever thought it would. “Please move out of the way,” he begs.

“I cannot. There are two children counting on me, and I will not let them down,” she replies, trying to sound firm, hoping her voice doesn't crack too much.

“Gráinne?” the red-haired Servant intervenes. “Your wife? That sucks, man. You can skip this one, I'm more than enough, and it's not fair to ask this of you. Go after the prince and princess.”

 

Diarmuid's conflict is palpable, his face showcasing his broken heart, just like a lifetime ago when she cast a geis on him. She is once more the cause of such feelings for him, and she curses herself for it. Yet, she cannot afford to mellow. This is not about her.

 

“I will allow neither of you to pass,” she declares.

The Servant snorts. “And how are you planning to stop us? You're not a fighter.”

“Who knows? I would argue you are no warrior either, for you will not even tell me your name despite knowing mine,” she replies, provoking him.

“Ferdiad, son of Damán,” he announces proudly.

 

Gráinne's stomach sinks. Ferdiad, Cú Chulainn's rival and equal on the battlefield.

 

---

 

Connla tightens his grip on Finn. She's holding onto him as he runs as fast as he can, trying to put as much distance as possible between them and Lady Gráinne. He found a forest to run through, allowing him to use the cover of some trees. He needs to honour her choice to stall their pursuers, he needs to get Finn to safety. Moreover, Lady Gráinne's allies will surely be able to go help her and defeat whoever is hunting them, right? He just hopes it's not Ferdiad; he's almost as strong as Monster-Father, with impenetrable skin and a great sword. Swallowing his worry, Connla pushes harder on his legs. The necklace is pulsing, telling him they're getting closer to this Geronimo man.

 

His lungs burn, his muscles scream for a break, his mouth is dry, but Connla pushes the pain away. He's almost there. He can do this. Geronimo is getting closer; he probably feels the pull of the necklace as well and is surely coming towards them. Good; he'll be able to help Lady Gráinne.

 

There's a sudden bark, and Connla instinctively jumps in the nearest tree, baring his teeth. Wolves. Wolves are bad, he's too tired to send a pack running, especially the strange, monstrous ones of this land. Quickly putting on the hood of Lady Gráinne's coat, he hugs his sister against his chest, hoping they will remain hidden from the animals.

 

A man emerges from the bushes, followed by a wolf-like spirit. He has strange, dark skin and long black hair, with white markings on his face. Is this Geronimo? The answer comes as the man calls out in the unfamiliar tongue of this land. Among all the words Connla can't understand is one he knows. Gráinne. Assassin.

 

“He knows Lady Gráinne!” Finn whispers. “Is he her friend?”

“I think so, it's what the necklace says.” Removing the hood of the coat, Connla hails the man who immediately looks up. “Ge-ro-ni-mo?” he articulates.

 

The man nods, responding something in his tongue. Jumping down with Finn in his arms, Connla removes the necklace and hands it to Geronimo. The man takes it, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, so Connla points to the direction he and Finn came from.

 

“Gráinne! Help her!” he says, hoping the man will understand what he means.

 

Geronimo nods and calls out something. A blond boy about the same height as Connla with weird clothes and a weirder weapon quickly arrives, followed by an older man with a spear and an iron arm. The three men quickly exchange words, and the spearman sighs before taking off in Lady Gráinne's direction, followed by the blond boy, their movement so fast that they're almost blurry.

 

Turning back to Geronimo, Connla is surprised to see the man putting a knee on the ground and opening his arms. Is he offering to carry them? He can walk just fine, and he's fast too! Glancing at Finn, he sees that his little sister looks exhausted, her eyes filled with tears of exhaustion and skin pale. He could still carry her, but Geronimo is bigger. His arms are probably comfier than Connla's.

 

“Why don't you let him carry you? I'll be right next to you,” he gently tells Finn.

 

She nods and walks up to Geronimo. The man gives her a kind smile and gently picks her up. Then, he gestures at Connla to follow him, and they take off in the direction Geronimo came from.

 

It's when they reach a plain that Connla's eyes widen. This castle, this motte, he knows it. Before he can say anything, Finn screeches and jumps from Geronimo's arms.

 

“It's home! It's home, it's home, it's home! Connla, we're home! Mommy and daddy are here!”

 

Not waiting for him, the little bolts in the direction of Dún Dealgan. Connla stays frozen in shock. How is it possible? How can Dún Dealgan be here? Is Lady Emer here? Is she the one who summoned the place? Or is it a trap? No, Geronimo clearly led them here, meaning it's safe. Lady Emer must be here then. He swallows, hoping she won't mind having him in her home. He's not her son, after all. But he must at least meet her and be certain Finn is safe. Taking off after his sister, he easily catches up with her. As they're about twenty metres from the gates, they flow open and a man comes out. No, not a man.

 

Father.

 

He's here. Their real father. Both children stop in their tracks, and Finn jumps in his arms with a fearful yelp. Connla hugs her tightly, eyes wide. He can feel her heart hammering against her chest, so loud it almost eclipses his own.

 

How?

 

Father takes a few steps towards them, face anguished, like his heart has been ripped from his chest. Connla takes a tentative step forward, gulping. Is it really Father? It has to be, right? Monster-Father wouldn't put up an elaborate trap like that just to get them back.

 

“Papa?” Finn says timidly.

 

Her voice seems to break the tension and Father is in front of them in half a second, engulfing them in a tight, warm hug. Connla doesn't move, still frozen by the shock. But it feels good and safe and warm, and he was never hugged like this when he was alive and, and, and –

 

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, my babies, my little ones, why, why, why? Why are you here?” Father sobs, pressing kisses to their hair.

 

He lifts them up, and Connla finds himself forced to hold onto him so as to not fall. Father's hold only gets tighter, and it's the safest Connla has ever felt, even when he was alive.

 

“Daddy, daddy!” Finn chants, her joy overflowing through her voice.

“I'm here my love, I'm here. Everything's fine, now. Nothing bad is going to happen, I promise,” Father replies, voice broken by the relieved sobs shaking his body. “Let's get you inside, and you'll have a good bath, something warm to eat and a long nap, alright?”

“Will you stay?”

“Of course.”

 

They are carried inside the walls of Dún Dealgan, and Connla looks around, observing the place he could have called home if he had lived longer, if he hadn't been so ill-fated. It's beautiful, much more than the Land of Shadows and Aífe's home. The smell of food permeates the air, coming from the kitchen. A red-haired human girl comes out of the castle, eyes wide and babbling in that weird tongue Connla doesn't speak. Father barks back something in that same language, and everyone makes way for them.

 

It's only when they reach a bedroom on the third floor that Father gently puts them down, on a big four-poster bed. Judging from the dolls and everything else, it's Finn's room. 

 

Father kneels before them, eyes filled with tears and holding their hands in his own. He's warm, much more than Monster-Father is.

 

“Daddy, where's mommy?” Finn asks innocently.

Father visibly swallows his saliva. “She's not here, my little sun. She's in Éire, with your grandmother.”

“Oh…” the girl's face falls. “Are you a spirit too? Like Connla and all those other people?”

“Yes, I am,” Father articulates, looking like he's just swallowed glass. “I'm sorry little one.”

“It's alright, it's not your fault,” Finn replies with all the wisdom of a five-year-old. “Will you fight Monster-Father?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Are you going to win?”

“I promise. And then, you'll be back home in Éire with your mother, and this will be just a bad dream.”

“But you and Connla won't be here!” she protests, and her voice cracks.

“Finn –”

 

But she bursts into tears, wailing, and Connla's heart shatters in a thousand pieces at the sound.

 

“I don't want you to go! I want to go home with both of you!” she sobs.

 

Father hugs them both instantly, and Connla can hear the tears in his voice as he apologises. His own tears start rolling down his cheeks, and they're all crying.

 

“I'm sorry, my little sun, I'm so sorry,” Father articulates. “I love you both so much.”

 

Connla doesn't know how long they stay like this, with Father hugging them and kissing their hair, apologising and telling them he loves them. It seems like forever and not enough at the same time, and he wishes the pain would just go away.

 

There's a sudden knock on the door, and Father sharply looks up, his chest vibrating as he growls. He snarls something in that other tongue, and there's a response from behind the door. Whoever it is and whatever they say, it calms Father instantly and the newcomer is allowed to enter the room. It's a man, as tall as Father, with strange dark skin, like Geronimo, and white hair. He wears weird black and red clothes, and he carries a tray of food.

 

“This is my friend, Archer,” Father says. “You can trust him, even if he doesn't understand Irish.”

Connla nods. “Yes, Father.”

 

Archer puts the tray of food on the table, gives them a small smile and leaves, closing the door behind him. Father stares at the door for a couple of seconds before giving them each a kiss on the forehead.

 

“Why don't you eat? Archer's food is super good, you'll see.”

 

Finn needs a bit of coaxing, for grief has ruined her appetite, but she needs to eat and she eventually relents. Thankfully, the food is just as good as Father said, and she quickly eats everything, much to Connla's relief. Even if Father is here, Connla needs to keep looking after his sister. Father has to fight, so Connla will be the one to care for Finn. This way, Father doesn't have to worry.

 

They're given a bath too, for which Father stays, washing their hair himself. It's a bit embarrassing, because Connla is old enough to wash on his own, but it feels really good, and he finds himself relaxing so much that he almost falls asleep in the bath. Thankfully, he's able to stay awake until he reaches Finn's giant bed, falling asleep the second Father puts the blanket on them.

 

 

The second his children fall asleep, Sétanta feels tears fill eyes, and a sob choked his throat. Then another, and another, and another. Why are they here? His babies, his sweet little ones, why are they here? Has Alaya done this? Will she make him hurt them? Biting on his fist to stifle his cries, Sétanta forces himself to stay silent. He can't wake them up. They need to rest. They deserve some peace.

 

‘Sétanta?’

 

Archer's mental voice is followed by a wave of love, and it's like getting his heart torn out of his chest. Half a second later, his lover appears right next to him. Before Sétanta can react, Archer is dragging him into a tight hug, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Sétanta bites down on Archer's shoulder to swallow his cries, thankful his lover doesn't say anything about it. He'll apologise later. Right now… right now he can't.

 

He can only worry and wonder why.

 

“They'll be safe, I promise. Even that kid from Chaldea swore it. Her Servants too. Nothing will happen to them, I promise you. Alaya didn't send them here, and she can't make us hurt them. We'll protect them, no matter what.”

“They should be home,” he sobs.

“I know. We'll send them home, to safety.”

“Promise me they'll come first no matter what, please,” Sétanta begs selfishly.

“Of course. Always.”

 

Slowly, the pain recedes, his worries become manageable, and Sétanta feels like he can breathe again. It's like air slowly returns to his lungs after being choked for hours, like slowly seeing the light again after being in the dark forever. And it's all thanks to Archer holding him, comforting him, sending him wave after wave of love through their bond. His lover gently guides him to the nearby table, making him sit on the cushioned chair and kneeling before him.

 

“Jeanne d’Arc has offered to make sure they're unharmed and cast some wards over them,” he says gently, softly holding his hands.

“Y-yeah, I'd like that. The best ones she has. Spells to keep them safe, right?”

“Yes. Medea can probably do the same.”

“Alright, yes, alright.”

“We'll wait until they are awake, then. Do you want me to stay with you?”

“Please.”

Chapter 43: Gráinne McArt.

Summary:

Gráinne stands between her husband and two children, gets rescued and meets a hero from her childhood.

Notes:

This chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but we'll return to actions soon!!!

Gráinne stares at the two warriors before her. She doesn't stand a chance, she knows it, especially in a frontal confrontation. She's an Assassin, and she's discarded her only way to hide her presence to protect the children. Out of her two daggers, she only has one left. She used a fair amount of mana to keep control of the wyvern, and her reserve has been depleted by half. There's no way two Servants with decent to superior magic resistance will fall prey to any half-baked geis she could cast, so this isn't even worth trying. She cannot win, and probably cannot stall them for long. But she has one final trump card left. Her Noble Phantasm. It won't last long, but it will imprison them for a while.

 

Breathing deeply, Gráinne jumps towards the two men, gathering all the mana she has left, and summons her Noble Phantasm.

 

“Tóraigheacht Dhiarmada agus Ghráinne!”

 

Immediately, thick trees and dense bushes spring from the ground, climbing high, high, high. An entire forest comes to life, tearing the ground apart in a thunderous crash. Thorns cover the ground, climb on the trees, and create a wall around the small forest. Her Reality Marble is a maze that only she can make her way through. Usually, it would allow her to attack undetected, but without the Cloak of Aengus, she knows it is useless. Diarmuid's instincts alone will notice her the second she gets close enough.

 

But that's alright. She doesn't need to kill them, just buy time. Gráinne jumps from branch to branch, getting as far as she can from the two men. If she stays too close, they will find her and kill her. No, she needs to stay hidden, like a good Assassin. Silent, she leans against the tree trunk, easily spotting the two Servants. Diarmuid has regained his composure, like she expected. He's always been a calm man, after all, although she finds him all the more handsome when he allows himself to smile and have fun. Even if he cannot sing at all and is one of the poorest dancers she's ever seen. Still, Gráinne can't help but smile fondly as she remembers their life together.

 

The years on the road weren't kind to either of them, but there were moments of happiness as well. Festivals held in villages where they could participate, Diarmuid getting her flowers for her nameday, their first kiss, their first night together, and so many other moments. Simple things, like helping him cut his hair or mend his clothes, meant so much as well. She finds herself missing their first fight, as ridiculous as it may sound. Tears fill her eyes, and Gráinne sniffles, wiping them angrily.

 

‘Not now. You cannot think of such things now. Don't forget your duty. You will cry later,’ she tells herself, swallowing a frustrated sob. She closes her eyes, remembering the children's terrified faces. They remind her so much of her own little ones. Saoirse, who was so energetic and always smiling, and her sons, her sweet, brave sons. All of them dead before their time. She cannot fail Connla and Finnscoth, if only to atone for failing her own children.

 

‘I hope they made it Geronimo. I know he will keep them safe with his life. Billy will surely be able to comfort them, he's such a sweet boy, easy to love and with a quick smile. Even if I do not make it back to them, at least my friends will protect them,’ she thinks as a single tear rolls down her cheek. 

 

There's a sudden spike in mana, and Gráinne's eyes widen. Bracing herself, she focuses on the source. It's Diarmuid, channeling mana in Móralltach. Clenching her teeth, Gráinne gets ready for the incoming attack. A swing of the red sword will be enough to wipe the forest, and perhaps blow her Reality Marble to smithereens. As Diarmuid swings his blade, she raises her arms in front of her face in a futile effort to protect herself.

 

Everything explodes. White light blinds her as the sound of her Reality Marble collapsing deafens her. Gráinne finds herself sent flying and crashing on the ground. Rocks break beneath her, the ground cracks. Her entire body hurts, and she can barely feel her left arm. This isn't good. She knows little and less about fighting, but she recalls what Diarmuid once told her. Pain is good, for that means the limb is still here, for that means the nerves are still alive. Numbness means losing consciousness at best, dying at worst.

 

Coughing some blood, Gráinne rolls to the side, spitting the red liquid over the ground. Her left arm is still here, but it's been shattered by the impact, and she cannot move it. Her legs are littered with wounds, and her head throbs painfully. Something warm is leaking on her face. She's bleeding. Gripping her dagger despite her bloody hand and broken nails, the woman drags herself to her feet. It's hard; her knees are weak, and her vision is impaired in her left eye. Her hearing and balance are not too good either.

 

Slowly, she turns around. Diarmuid and Ferdiad are mostly unharmed. Some minor cuts left by the collapse of the Reality Marble, but nothing that will impair them in any way.

 

She's going to die here. But that's alright. Connla and Finnscoth are far away now, likely hiding with Geronimo. Selfishly, she hopes Diarmuid will be the one to kill her, or that he will hold her as she disappears. Being a Servant isn't so bad, she supposes, if it allowed her to see him one more time. Even as an enemy.

 

Raising her dagger, Gráinne McArt prepares herself for her last stand. Diarmuid's face breaks in anguish, and she wishes she could comfort him, but she cannot. Perhaps one day they shall be lucky enough to be summoned on the same side, or perhaps they are happy in the Throne of Heroes, but she cannot linger on those thoughts. They only cause unnecessary problems.

 

“Gráinne, you've done enough,” he begs.

“Enough? Those two children were crying!” All she can think of is her own children crying over their father's body, her little girl not understanding why her father won't wake up. “I'll hold you here until I die, even if it's the last thing I do!”

“Please –”

“I was never one to bow to the whims and wishes of men.” She raises her dagger the way Diarmuid once taught her, and his face breaks. “I might not be able to take either of you with me, but I will hold this line!” she proclaims.

 

There's a beat and then –

 

BOOM.

 

Magical projectiles hit the ground like a hundred arrows, and Gráinne feels someone behind her. Is Ferdiad so fast? She whirls around, raising her dagger, but stops at the last second. It's Billy, with his usual easygoing smile.

 

“B-Billy!” she stutters.

“Nice speech, miss Gráinne! How ‘bout you let us handle the rest, now?” he says, carefree.

 

 

Medea watches the little Assassin collapse in the Archer's arms, unconscious. Poor thing has almost no mana left; she put up a good fight considering her odds. Raising her hand, the mage summons a few magical circles behind her, ready to fight. If push comes to shove, they can definitely win. A call to Master will have Jeanne and perhaps Cú Chulainn himself come, meaning they even have reinforcement available if necessary.

 

“Aaah, this old man doesn't really want to fight right now,” Hector says lazily. “What if we called it a draw for today? We'll take that pretty lady with us, bring her back to base and heal her… And we'll have a real fight another day,” he concludes, voice just a tad colder.

 

The two Celts analyse the situation in silence, probably calculating their chances of winning.

 

“Fine by me,” the red-haired declares before turning to the other, the one with the cursed mole. “It's not fair for you, anyway.”

“I appreciate it,” he says.

“We'll be moving, then! See you around, Chaldea!”

 

‘Oh? He knows we are from Chaldea. Well, no matter. They will die either way.’ Her magic disappears, but, before Medea can turn around, the one with the cursed mole calls out to her.

 

“You're a magician, are you not?”

“I believe that is rather obvious.”

“Make sure Gráinne survives… please.”

 

‘Gráinne? He knows the Assassin? A hero with a cursed mole… Ah, I see. Her husband.’

 

“Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, I presume. I will do my best. She is an ally, after all.”

 

He nods gratefully before taking off, and Medea sighs before turning to the unconscious Servant. Lifting her hand, she examined the girl. Healing magic isn't her speciality but she can easily assess someone's state.

 

“She's almost out of mana,” she declares, infusing some in the Assassin's body, just enough to keep her alive. “We need to take her back to Dún Dealgan, where Jeanne and Nightingale will be able to help her further.”

 

---

 

Gráinne's body is numb with pain, but she is able to realise she is lying somewhere comfortable, much more than the hard bed of the Rogues' last hiding place. Where has she been taken? Have her allies been able to secure a better place? She hopes so, at least for Finnscoth and Connla's sakes. The thought of the children is the shot of energy she needed, and Gráinne quickly sits up in bed, looking around. She's in a large room that looks like an ancient Dún's one. How is this possible? There shouldn't be any other Celtic Servants battling the Mad King's army.

 

“You're the one who helped my children,” a deep voice says in Gaelic.

 

Gráinne whirls around, eyes wide as terror twists her stomach. Cú Chulainn. But he is different from the Mad King she has seen. How is this possible?

 

“I ain't the other one. That alter or whatever,” he says. “I'm the real Cú Chulainn.”

“Oh… It is… fortunate,” she replies, unsure of what she can say.

The man bursts out laughing. “I wouldn't say fortunate, but yeah, let's go with that!” Then his face regains its seriousness and he stands up. Gráinne can't help but flinch, which prompts the hero to look a bit sad. “You saved my children, and I'm in your debt. If there is something I can do, tell me. I'll do my best to honour it.”

“I didn't help them for any reward,” she replies. “They were scared, and that is enough for me to help children.”

“Even so. I owe you, Gráinne McArt. I don't forget debts, in good or bad,” he declares before turning to the door. “The Chaldea Servants have looked after your wounds, so you should be fine after a good day of rest. The children have been begging to visit you; can I send them in?”

“Of course! I'm reassured to know they're safe and sound.”

“That's thanks to you,” Cú Chulainn replies with a sad smile.

 

The demigod walks to the door with the grace of a feline, looking even more inhuman than Diarmuid used to, even at his most godly. Gráinne cannot linger on those thoughts, however, because as soon as the door opens, Finnscoth and Connla run up to her with worried expressions on their adorable faces.

 

“Lady Gráinne ! Are you alright?!” Connla exclaims.

“You had blood everywhere! It was so scary!” Finnscoth cries, climbing on the bed to hug her.

“I'm alright, now,” Gráinne replies, returning the little girl's embrace. “I just need to rest a bit. And you two? Have you rested? Eaten?”

“Mhm, Papa’s friend makes super great food!” Finnscoth says happily.

“That's wonderful to hear,” Gráinne says, kissing the girl's hair as Connla settles against her. 

 

There's a choked sound, and she looks up to see Cú Chulainn look at the scene with a mixture of sadness, remorse and frustration. She is probably not the woman he would like to see hug his children at the moment. Before she can say anything, though, a man with tanned skin and white hair enters the room with a tray of food.

 

“I've been told you're awake. Gráinne McArt, right?” he says in Japanese. “I'm Archer. Eat something, it will help with your mana. After that, we're going to need everything you have on the enemy forces.”

“Thank you, ser,” she replies, taking the plate and putting it on her crossed legs.

“I'm not a knight,” the man grumbles before leaving the room, visibly uncomfortable with gratitude.

 

Cú Chulainn watches the man disappear, and Gráinne is quite certain they are communicating through their mind. Nonetheless, it isn't her business to pry, and so she focuses on eating the stew.

 

 

Around fifteen minutes later, she is sitting at a table, with the children next to her and Cú Chulainn facing her. Behind him is the man named Archer, and by his side is Gudako, the Master of Chaldea. They have a map of the White House, which she completes with what she was able to discover.

 

“I didn't dare stay too long after finding Finnscoth and Connla; it seemed more important to ensure their safety,” she explained. “So, sadly, I lack some details.”

“You were right to save the children,” Geronimo says gently. “Whatever information you've discovered is already a lot.”

“This is the throne room; I have seen the Cú Chulainn of this land, and… well… He looks deformed,” she says after searching her words, glancing awkwardly at Cu Chulainn, who seems entirely unbothered. “He has a tail and red markings all over his skin. He seems… taller and larger than you, but he wears impressive armour and it is hard to know where it ends.”

“So 'e's some sort ov freak show? Gran'. It might make kickin' 'is arse fun,” the hero chuckles darkly.

“Queen Medb is here as well, and I believe they are… involved,” she adds, embarrassed at the memory of the display she saw earlier.

 

Cú Chulainn makes a retching sound at that, looking absolutely disgusted. Behind him, Archer seems slightly amused from the light in his eyes, while Miss Gudako stifles a giggle at Cú Chulainn's antics.

 

“The fuck?! Medb? Fuckin' Medb?” he exclaims, outraged. “Whot next?” he grumbles.

 

Gráinne allows him to rant a bit more before finishing to tell all she's seen and learnt. Connla shared with her the names of the other Celtic heroes present while they were escaping, and she doesn't think he has told anyone else.

 

“My husband, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, and Fionn McCumhail are present as well. Fergus Mac Roich and Ferdiad Mac –”

 

Cú Chulainn jumps up before she can finish her sentence. His eyes are wide, his skin shines as he loses the mask of humanity he seems to usually wear.

 

“Ferdiad?” he whines. “My Ferdiad?”

“I am terribly sorry,” is all Gráinne can say.

 

He doesn't reply, instead storming out. His children rush after him, calling out for their father to wait for them. Archer seems to wish he could follow as well, but he remains behind, only looking at the closed door for a few seconds before turning back to them.

 

“Well, at least it will be doable. Sétanta is the strongest of all Celtic heroes, so any of them would lose in a one-on-one battle. I can probably take some of them as well. What about you?” he asks Miss Gudako.

“I believe we need to heal Rama-san first; his power is second only to Cú Chulainn, and he will surely be able to handle a lot of battles once he has recovered. Luckily, Dr. Romani found a way. Rama-san said his wife Rita is here, in this world. With her presence, we should be able to improve the treatment. Between Jeanne's purification abilities and Nightingale's medical knowledge, we will be able to save him.”

“Or we can just transfer the curse,” Archer remarks neutrally.

“Archer-san!”

“What? If we need Rama's firepower, then we need to be logical about this,” he replies.

“I do not disagree, Master,” Medea says gently. “But this curse can only be moved willingly. Unless Rita truly wishes for it, it wouldn't work.”

“Well we're not doing this,” Gudako declares firmly. “I'll accept nothing but a flawless victory!”

 

Gráinne finds herself smiling at this. What a kind girl. She only hopes she will get this desired victory. It is unlikely, but she still hopes she will.

Notes:

Tóraigheacht Dhiarmada agus Ghráinne means the Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne, which the name of the text retelling the story of my second favourite lovebirds! Here, it's a small reality marble creating a forest where she can move wherever she wants. It's an amalgamation of all the forests she used to hide in with Diarmuid while on the road.