Capítulo 1705: 19
ACT I
SCENE I. Orkney. A dimly lit castle basement.
Enter MORDRED and SHAKESPEARE
MORDRED
Bastard, coward, foul knave! What spell is this?
MORDRED draws their sword, but cannot move
SHAKESPEARE
No blade, good knight! Only false harm on stage!
We're naught but phantoms to tale on page.
No act of ours can change what will appear,
When curtain falls reduce me to a smear.
MORDRED
Mere illusions, is that all this is?
SHAKESPEARE
Illusions, yes. Enough exposition!
Enter a YOUNG MORDRED and MORGAN. MORDRED attempts to speak but cannot.
MORGAN
Of all mine arms, child, thou art the sharpest.
Thine origin art one of treachery.
Borne entire of artifice and treason,
the king, in his good grace, shalt welcome you,
but before then I shall fill thine young ears
with such poisons you will become a snake,
rested, sleeping, deep within his bosom
and on my call bite out with venom'd fangs…
YOUNG MORDRED
Mother! My studies for the day are done.
The contents of the books you bade me read,
now lie within the volume of my brain.
My swordplay can outmatch an agile foe
I cleaved thy magic doll from head to toe.
MORGAN
Well done my tool, my blade, my snake, my child.
But you must improve. Grow swiftly, quickly.
Each and every babe of mine hath failed, but
in thine eyes I see the king and kingdom's
fated doom. Learn faster, oh venom'd one.
Exeunt YOUNG MORDRED and MORGAN, hand in hand.
SHAKESPEARE
A truly tragic childhood, think you not?
MORDRED
You filthy rascal, take this base play hence!
You show me nothing I did not yet know.
She saw me as a weapon, to be sure.
But I perceived this many years before.
SHAKESPEARE
Your patience: this is just Act One, Scene One.
The meaning shall be clear when Play is done.
-
Karna and I have continued out back and forth as my internal timer on him counts down. Visibly, it's a total stalemate, as neither could land a telling blow without relying on our more powerful attacks, and I was withholding Reid's Swordplay entirely to counter any such attack from Karna.
"I assume it was you who defeated Saber of Black. While I am grieved beyond words for breaking my oath to such a warrior, I am grateful from the bottom of my heart to have had the opportunity to clash blades with two skilled foes."
Karna's unexpected words drag me out of my focus on the internal timer, even as my body already moves to tap aside another barrage of thrusts. I open my mouth to reply, before closing it. Right; any reply I make will fall on deaf ears, thanks to that Command Seal. With him seemingly content to leave the matter at that, and me unable to reply there's a brief moment of silence as we both stand there.
Suddenly, my link with Fran flares, and I feel her pain and panic as something gives her a deep and serious wound. My links with Astolfo and Atalanta also burst into panic, meaning-
'Berserker, get to safety!'
One of the Command Seals under my jacket blazes into existence and vanishes, as I teleport the heavily wounded Fran out of whatever situation she'd been in. A few seconds later, and across Atalanta's link I hear an undirected scream of hate and rage and pain, and the pull from Atalanta on my mana increases as something about her changes, eating up more mana. With the reaction of Astolfo and Atalanta to Fran's injury, followed by this…I suppose Achilles must have pushed Atalanta to use the Pelt.
This all happens quickly, but these moments of distraction are all Karna needs. He leaps backwards, wings of flame burning bright as he takes to the air. I don't follow immediately; Roswaal's flight is significantly slower than Reinhard's land speed and finally Karna manages to get the distance he needs. Instead, I crouch low for a moment, fingers on my left hand trailing on the glassy earth below me, before standing and taking hold of Reid with both hands. Above me, the whole region of Trifas is illuminated as night turns to day as Karna glows with the light of the sun.
"Oh Master of White, know that you are worthy of the greatest attack I have at my disposal in this second life."
As he says this, his armour begins to disappear, burning away from his body to fuel the new sun in the sky behind him.
"Know the mercy of the king of gods! This is destruction, this one rift!-"
Reid's Swordplay sings out, even as the sunlight and flames of the sun that is Karna are dragged into his long lance. Rather than cancel his attack to defend, Karna twists mid-air to dodge while maintaining his Noble Phantasm's chant, something he doesn't quite manage to do. The spatial cut of my Swordplay carves through his body as easily as air, deleting an arm and leg from existence. But it isn't the arm holding his spear aloft. I could maybe swing out another slice before Karna finishes, but it'd be a nearer thing than I'd like, and I have no intention of being locked in any kind of beam war with this of all attacks. Reinhard himself could probably win a direct clash with Karna's strongest attack, but I wasn't truly Reinhard, not after only four days.
"-Incinerate them! Vasavi Shakti!"
The lighting of the field distorts, as the fire that had been burning around Karna swirls down and through Karna's spear before emerging from the tip as a solar flare, the massive bolt of red-gold light blasting down from the floating hero towards the empty earth where I had been standing moments ago. As soon as Karna had called the name of the attack, I'd activated a portal to my Pocket Home beneath my feet and, pushing my speed to its limit, dove through and closed it behind me. While I'd hoped to prevent the use of Vasavi Shakti entirely, moving the fight kilometres away from everything and everyone, having him use it exclusive on me and then bailing had always been my plan B.
Inside the pocket dimension, I wait for the last seconds to tick down, and then open the portal again. The heat that blasts through would be enough to burn a person down to ash, radiating as it is from a lava pool that seems to extend out for hundreds of meters all around. Even as flame-resistant as I am, I can feel my exposed skin start to flake from the temperature, and even as I raise my arm to my face to shield it, I rapidly resume healing myself with water magic.
Karna is where he was last, but the light behind him has dimmed to nothing as he hangs in the air, missing two limbs and his golden armour. From where he's flying, he makes me out, gives a small, accepting smile and nods, before my binding catches and he immediately vanishing into nothingness on my mental command.
As he vanishes, there's a surge; my Defences, my Shroud and my Heritage upgrades all coming online; I'm finally cleared of my debt. Instantly, the radiating heat from the aftermath of Vasavi Shakti vanishes, as Environmental and Wild Defences both kick in to protect me from it. With that, I drop my healing spell and pull on Wind, Earth and Fire mana to craft Roswaal's flight spell. As I leave the Pocket Home, closing the entrance behind me, I feel a mental 'warning' that I need to select my now-active Dragon Scale element and with a thought go with Time- one thing I'd appreciated this War was the massive advantage of speed, and Time both tied into that while synergizing with my Shroud.
It's the work of a moment to reorientate myself in the sky and then blast off towards Trifas and Fafnir, and I reach out to my Servants as I do.
'Karna's done.'
No immediate replies at all from Mordred or Fran, two wordless acknowledgements from Astolfo and Artoria and a continuous stream of unrelenting hate from Atalanta that would have drowned out anything I said to her. Right. My mind flicks over options, pauses for a half-second and then I pour almost all my new points into two new purchases. As I'm doing this, I continue telepathically 'speaking', while shifting my flight back to Trifas proper and away from the sun-scorched crater I had been flying above.
'Artoria- move to help Atalanta and Astolfo. I'm heading to Fafnir in your place.'
-
ACT II
SCENE III. Camelot. Castle Courtyard.
Exeunt KING ARTHUR and all her KNIGHTS. SIR MORDRED lingers.
SIR MORDRED
Our great and mighty king once more succeeds,
His foes lie vanquished on the field of war.
Ne'er so complete a victory achieved,
Not one opponent lives to flee our shore.
And yet this vict'ry did not move our King;
No triumphant feast, no parade nor smile.
Indeed, he now returns to court forthwith,
To judge the pleas his subjects bring to him.
Does he truly have not one moment free,
Simply to celebrate his victory?
Enter MORGAN
MORGAN
I placed such hopes in you, my poisoned blade.
I trained you well in all aspects of rule.
I armed and armored you and sent you here,
To hone ambition, to drive you forward.
Why do you not desire your station true?
SIR MORDRED
Mother? What do you mean, 'my station true'?
MORGAN
Oh child? Can you not tell? From face to voice
You are King Arthur's true and rightful heir.
No mere false copy, but born of his seed!
You should desire his stolen throne and crown.
And yet you play the knight, the serf, the slave!
SIR MORDRED
I am…King Arthur's true and rightful son?
Turn and exeunt SIR MORDRED, pursuing KING ARTHUR. Exeunt MORGAN after.
Enter MORDRED and SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
What pure and tragic irony is this?
Mordred, the world-renowned Knight of Treachery,
Held not a single thought of disloyalty?
MORDRED
Foul spok'n coward, who only fights with words,
and with weapon nothing dares perform
Thy worthless words are all too late and dull;
This matter hath this been raised and settled.
Thy waggling tongue shall find no purchase here!
SHAKESPEARE
What plot and narrative deceit is this?
True character development offstage?
If this is true, then now let us move on.
-
The instant Atalanta cries out the name of her Noble Phantasm, dark purple flames erupt from the clasped pelt and engulf her in a whirlwind that blocks out all sight. As the fire dissipates, the silhouette of Atalanta can be made out, but only for a moment.
"I'll kill you, Achilles!"
There's the sound of tearing and warping flesh, and from her bare back two black bird wings sprout. Atalanta leaps into the air, raising her darkened bow, but-
"This happens every time. I'm ruin to all I hold dear."
The words reach Atalanta at the same time as Achilles' spear punctures into her side. A yowl of pain and once more Atalanta's body twists unnaturally, letting her kick him free as her leg bends perpendicular to the rest of her body. Pulling on its mana well, her body instantly begins to reform itself, closing the wound without conscious effort. Instead, all her focus is on the still tumbling Achilles. The string of her dark Tauropolos, partially merged with her left hand, pulls back, and arrows of dark purple mana are launched in a barrage.
However, even without leverage or the ability to fly, Achilles is a great hero, and deflects the arrows away from his entire body even as he falls. The shots that are parried slam into the earth around the fight with the force of A-rank attacks, carving great craters into the surroundings. Achilles hits the earth, regains his balance before tumbling and once more launches himself at the airborne Atalanta, blocking even more incoming arrows from the Altered Archer. Even boosted as she is, she can't keep up with Achilles movements and his spear scours another deep gash across her body as he flies past her. Again, however, her flesh bulges and morphs, evolving on the spot to cover the wound and let her keep fighting for her goal. The speed of Achilles' charge carries him past her, even higher into the air until he reaches the clouds above. Atalanta turns mid-air, trying to line up her shots on the should-be-falling Achilles. Then, suddenly, there's a burst of mana and a metal, horseless chariot appears mid-air. Without its divine horses it can't fly, but Achilles does not need it to. He flips himself about mid-air and kicks off his Noble Phantasm to slam Atalanta down into the earth below the pair, the single shot Atalanta managed to launch deflecting off his blessed skin.
A stroke of his spear tears one of Atalanta's wings off, and while the flesh bulges and the wound itself seals, the wing does not sprout forth again. Bones crack, and Achilles dances back as Atalanta's right arm dislocates and lengthens, fingers turning into sharp claws that swipe at where his heel had been.
The field of battle is illuminated as, distantly, a sun is called into existence. Illuminated by its glow, Atalanta staggers to her feet, tearing off her now-useless second wing and faces Achilles down with a look of fury. Achilles, for his part, has an expression of pain on his face, clearly visible thanks to the light covering the field. He once more raises his spear, even as he mutters to himself.
"Slaying those who fall astray is the duty of heroes. Somewhere along the path, you were tricked into taking a wrong turn…"
Atalanta's bestial ears pick up his words, and she lets out a bark of anger as her weapon also rises and her voice turns spiteful.
"You never could understand those of us following paths more important than mere heroism. Die, tent-sitting Achilles!"
As both prepare once more to fight, the distant sun falls from the sky, and-
"Your Master's gon-"
The bereaved howl of despair that bursts from Atalanta's mouth makes even Achilles unintentionally take a step back and cutting off his words. Both heroes had felt White's Master vanish, right as the falling sun had smashed into the land where they knew him to have been. Atalanta's bow flies up to the sky as she lets out a yell.
"I'll kill you! Tauropolos!"
The once-more dark sky seems to be slashed to pieces, as thousands of purple-black lines lance down from the heavens, all concentrated on Achilles. However, even this barrage is not enough to make Achilles waver. He takes a mere three steps back and, as the barrage twists to seek him like a thousand-headed hydra, raises shield and spear to defend.
"I'd hoped the death of your Master wou-"
From the corner of his eye, Atalanta once again begins to move. This time, it is her bow that morphs, flowing as if liquid down her arm and over body until Tauropolos has been entirely consumed by her. The bow now coats her body in a darkness that seems to absorb what little light there is from the glowing aftermath of her Master's demise. As soon as her weapon has vanished, Atalanta launches herself at Achilles, leaping between her descending shots, as if jumping stone by stone across a mountain range.
"Ane-san, to even abandon the bow you received from Artemis…I suppose you've been truly dead since you donned the pelt."
Achilles' eyes harden, and he focuses all his attention on the onrushing Archer and her barrage of hydra-like missiles. Tracking her purely with vision is hard, with the incoming projectiles acting as cover, but the overwhelming blaze of her blackened mana is easy enough to focus on. He re-hefts his spear, leaving his defence to his shield, and as she makes her final leap, he prepares to thrust forwards, piercing her head or heart all the way through in a single action. Even the evolutionary powers of the Caledonian Boar would not prevent that. He moves to thrust, and-
"Oh no you don't!"
His spear doesn't move, and he recognizes the voice of Rider of White. In shock, his head whips around and there she is. She's still weaponless and wounded, utterly worthless as a combatant in a fight on this level, but she's grasping onto the butt of his spear with both hands, her strength shockingly inhuman. Still, he could overpower her easily enough, just one burst of effort on his part and-
Atalanta slams into him like a ballistic missile. The sticky black liquid coating her explodes outwards as a wave, flinging Rider of White and the spear she had been holding in one direction while Achilles and Atalanta are launched in another. The two heroes impact the ground as a tangled ball of wrestling limbs and grasping claws. As they struggle, Atalanta seems to hug Achilles in a parody of a lover's embrace, all the while her impossibly long, claw-tipped arms try to reach down his back and slash his heel. Achilles, for his part, tries to wrestle Atalanta off him, but her flesh twists and morphs around his movements, changing on the spot to not let him get a proper grip. As the boar head on Atalanta's shoulder opens it's mouth to slam it's jaws uselessly against his skin, Achilles finally manages to get a single hand loose. Before he can free the other, one of Atalanta's arms whips away from his back and, as if all the bones in it had vanished, wraps all around his second arm like a snake.
As Atalanta presses herself ever closer to him in an effort to strangle or suffocate him, as if he were the Nemean Lion and she Heracles, he feels something like a dagger on his belt press against his skin. Instinctively, his free hands darts in, pulls it loose and with a tight grip plunges it into Atalanta's bare chest. It's only after he does so that he remembers what the dagger is.
It's the bone dagger he had found in the aftermath of his failure to protect Saber of Red from White. And when Assassin of Red had inspected it, she'd said the dagger was imbued with hydra venom, though apparently the quality of said venom was so low that she had felt it would be more useful as a way to build immunity or cure a more serious case of poisoning. She had laughed at modern man's attempts at crafting toxins, and then had returned the dagger to him. And now he had-
"Ane-san, I'm-"
A cry of pain blasts from both Atalanta's own mouth as well as the mouth of corrupted boar head on her shoulder, and even as he drops his hold on the dagger to hold her with his free hand, he sees the black and dripping boar head begins to dissolve from her shoulder and onto the ground.
No, no no no! He never meant to poison her with hydra venom of all things! A peac-
And then something tears into his heel, and he feels the world shift ever so slightly. Acting on panicked instinct, he tries to push Atalanta away, expecting to see her twisting and crying out at the impossible pain of the hydra's poison, so unbearable it had forced his teacher to give up his immortality just to find escape in death. Instead, her eyes are…sane. They don't not show that awful pain, nor are they even filled with the bestial madness they had been mere moments ago. Instead, that madness has been replaced by the calculated coldness that he had so admired when they first met after being summoned.
By now the head of the boar has totally disappeared, and instead two long black boar tusks have sprouted from the chitin-like pauldrons now on each of her shoulders. The dark fur that had been covering her body has smoothed out into black plates, and the more extreme evolutions she underwent during their grapple have disappeared. She shakes out her right arm, still twice as long as it should have been, her clawed fingers still dripping with his blood. Using this hand, she pulls the bone dagger from her chest.
"Artemis and Apollo, guide my hand!"
And with those words, she stabs the dagger into him in a single motion, movements suddenly accelerated via Command Spell to the point where even Achilles, off-balance as he is, cannot defend himself.
-
By now, Mordred has gotten used to the darkness that signals a new scene change in the play that is her life. Soon, the theater lighting will illuminate the stage, she'll watch the next part of her life play out in front of her, and then that damn playwright will interject with his own useless comments. She also has a fair idea of what the next scene will be, and while she's certainly dreading it, at the very least this should be the last scene, letting her escape this nonsense and finally reduce this Caster to a smear on the ground.
The click and the light cutting into the darkness are all expected, as is the scene of death and tragedy that is the battlefield of Camlann. What isn't, though, is where Mordred stands in all this. She isn't off to the side as a ghostly audience, but rather is directly on the field. She can feel her armoured boots sink into the bloody mud of the hill she's climbing, despite her efforts to halt her movement and look around. It seems this body, at least, is still a puppet on Caster's stage. She can't even her head, which tilts on its own to look up the hill, the one where…
And there he, no, she is.
Seeing Father now, Mordred can instantly see so much more about her than she could previously. Her gender is obvious, and even after spending only hours in her more-free presence than the years she spent before, minuscule emotional tells can be seen. For all that Father wears an emotionless mask, Mordred can make out a moment of pain in her body when she looks over Mordred's shoulder, to where the corpse of Gawain would be. Mordred feels her mouth open to speak, but the words that emerge are not her own. No, that isn't quite right. The words that emerge were certainly once hers.
"How's that?! How's that, King Arthur?! Your country ends here! It's finished! Regardless of who wins—everything is already in ruins!"
Father raises her sword, wordlessly, and again Mordred's mouth opens against her will.
"You should have known this would have happened! You should have known it would end up like this! If you had just turned over the throne to me, it wouldn't have turned out like this! Do you hate me!? Do you hate me that much!? Did you hate me for being Morgan's son!? Answer me… answer me, Arthur!"
"I could never hate you, Mordred."
The words…are not the words of King Arthur. They are close, but not truly what she had said that day.
"After all, who could hate a mere tool? Even when dying, a knight does not hate the sword that slew him over the foe that wielded it. I can no more hate you than that. You were just a vessel, filled by others with the poison that killed Camelot."
Finally, finally Mordred wrestles control of her tongue from Caster's script, and she can respond with her own words.
"Caster! You filthy coward! You dare imply I was just a tool, using the mouth of Father to do so? You'll pay-"
Artoria's words continue, as if she could not hear when Mordred had broken character, and what is said next by Artoria causes Mordred to respond directly despite herself, until she remembers what is happening.
"The blame of this does not fall on you, Mordred. It falls on me. In my attempt to be perfect, I brought destruction upon all I held dear. As Tristan said, I could not understand the hearts of men."
"No! No! It was me! I did it! I rallied the fools and cowards and nobles whom you rebuked for their excesses. You ruled as well as could- Caster! Stop this!"
"Then if the blame is not on my rule, it is on Morgan. Vengeance for a crown denied. She raised you as a weapon to destroy me, and you fulfilled your goal admirably."
As Artoria says those words, it seems to Mordred that Artoria's face has changed to more resemble her mother's. Some trick of the light, perhaps.
"You think I destroyed Britain just because my old lady wanted me to do that? You're wrong, Caster! I was the one who wanted to be the next king, and who tore the kingdom to shreds out of spite when denied that. My reasons don't matter, and I bear the responsibility! I won't let you pawn it away to my mother, no matter how much I hate her! I did it all of my own damn volition."
Artoria shakes her head at that, and this time the lighting shift is dramatic, the light behind Artoria that had been the sun setting cuts off, and from above the hill is bathed in a cold and harsh light. So altered, it seems like Artoria's silver armor is now black with blood, her skin a pale white and even her eyes seem a different color when she looks back at Mordred.
"Even then, the blame is on the world itself and not you. Merlin told me that the world itself was acting against my people. The sudden shifts in weather, the crops that failed for no true cause, even the invaders from beyond the waters. All were attacks driven by the world towards my people. And when all else failed, the world turned to you, twisted you to become its weapon, crafted you with origin of treachery. You never were more than a tool of others, which is why I will not blame you. Why I'll accept you even now, after we have killed each other and you once more wish to fight alongside me. My hatred for you is equal to that which I bear towards Clarent."
Mordred is struck silent at this. For the first time, the play has pulled from knowledge beyond her own to speak. And while it could just be Caster's insight, there was the possibility that- The light snaps off, and there, in the black void, is Shakespeare. He claps, and then speaks.
"But as a tool, your purpose is done. The kingdom and it's king find their end on your blade, as the world decreed. Time to be put back into history's storage, to be hung up alongside all other 'Heroic Spirits', to be called forth by those in need of a tool over and over and over until the universe ends. A blade wielded by others forevermore."
Shakespeare leans forwards, a mocking look on his face.
"The End."
Mordred, eyes still fixed where Artoria's presence had been, feels something pressed into her gauntlet and looks down.
"That is a dagger you see before you. If you desire to escape your fate of being once more a tool for some new Master, plunge it into yourself and claim a moment of freedom."
There's a stillness, as Mordred turns the dagger over in her hand. A simple knife, not even a true weapon but the kind an Elizabethan man might carry on his person. And then her other hand blasts out, and grabs Shakespeare's shoulder. The Caster barely gets out a gasp of pain before he's forced to his knees, the sharp fingers of the gauntlet digging into his flesh and leaving trails of blood to flow down.
"You came close at times. Closer than you realize, maybe. But what you forced your puppet to say there at the end was bullshit. Hell, maybe it was even true back then but, see, I know my Father hates me now. Not as a tool, as a person. Since we sat down that night and talked it could not be clearer that she tolerates me being around her because she hopes I can do better. And you don't think that way about a tool."
Her hand twists, tearing into Caster's shoulder, and when he tries to say something, he finds the knife under is throat.
"So, I'll bear her hatred and disappointment with pride, because that's how I take responsibility for what I, not anyone else, did to her. Saying "oh, it was all Artoria, or all Morgan, or even all the World" doesn't just insult me, it also insults Camelot and, worst of all, it insults my Father, and that means you die!"
And the knife stabs forward.
-
When her link to her master cuts off, suddenly, even as a sun falls from the sky onto his position, Artoria does not waver. The continuous flow of mana showed that he was still alive. There was no fragmented millisecond like there had been where he had truly died. As such, he was alive, and would emerge victorious.
In the meantime, she had her own responsibility- the great dragon before her, who fought not at all like a dragon. Ignoring its shocking resilience of its scales, the dragon before her was avoiding any direct challenge in strength. Whenever she tries to call forth even the briefest light from Excalibur, as if through precognition it either repositioned itself to use her ally or the city as a human shield or let loose its breath to force Artoria to counter with what energy she had filled the blade with. Even so, this was not a fight she could lose. The dragon, as strong and tough as it was, was gradually accumulating bleeding wounds across its body while Artoria remained utterly unharmed, the blood that covered her entirely from the dragon's shallow wounds. With Avalon and Excalibur, and her Master's mana, it was merely a matter of time until she was victorious.
Out of the three combatants in this battle, Jeanne had had by far the worst of it. She lacked the strength to harm Fafnir through his scales, and the blades the dragon shot forth could penetrate Ruler's Magic Resistance; in addition to her petrified shoulder, dark red flames lapped around Ruler's left foot from where one of the blades had nicked her thigh and set it on fire.
As she scours another gash across the dragon's flesh, a familiar connection springs back to life.
'Karna's done. Artoria- move to help Atalanta and Astolfo. I'm heading to Fafnir in your place.'
The plan is…not one she agrees with. While it is true that she is the only one in the party who can bypass Achilles' invulnerability, she was also the only one capable of grounding Fafnir just through the threat of her Noble Phantasm. Leaving Jeanne with Fafnir, if only for the moments it would take for her Master to reach the dragon, would likely be leaving their ally to die.
'Master- I will do so, but you must attract Fafnir's ire. Instead head straight for his true objective, the Grail, and so have him move towards you with all speed.'
'Got it. I'm…just…'
The mutterings of her Master are put to one side, and Jeanne and Artoria exchange glances. The Ruler must have sensed Karna's defeat, and what that meant for White. Ruler nods her head in assent, and with that Artoria turns and blasts away from Saint and dragon. Behind her, she feels Fafnir's shock, and then-
"-YOU THIEF!"
Flames spew high into the sky above the battlefield, as Jeanne leaps forward and slams her glowing flag into Fafnir's neck, throwing the beast's head up even as it tries to spew fire into the air above the Grail, where White's Master would be. Without even looking at the Saint, the dragon swats it's neck with its left arm, glowing blue circles around the upper portion increasing its strength and speed beyond even its draconic nature. Jeanne is knocked far away, even the protection of Luminosité Eternelle not fully preventing the blow.
The burst of air behind Artoria tells her that the dragon has finally taken flight again, headed as planned towards the Grail. All the while, it's booming shouts of rage can be heard.
"I WON'T LET YOU TAKE IT. THE GRAIL AND THE RHEINGOLD ARE MINE! THAT TREASURE BELONGS TO ME ALONE! NO ONE CAN HAVE IT! I'LL TAKE IT TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD AND KEEP IT FOR ALL ETER-"
And then a blast of magic cuts over Artoria's head. A blinding purple-white beam, that had not shone on the battlefield for the past five minutes.
There's a roar of utter fury from the dragon, and a torrent of black fire, far greater than any the dragon had yet unleashed, belches back along the path of the laser to tear into and through the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, straight towards the central pillar.
-
Semiramis calmly watches her own hand rise, palm first, to face the image of the great black dragon on the screen before her. The dead Caster below her, and the Saber who had killed him all vanish from her mind as she slowly, ever so slowly, watches her arm move.
How often she had thought about betraying her Master. Ever since he had first summoned her, the temptation had always been there. Right from the start, it would have been a simple matter for her to, even as he planned the puppeteering of the other Masters of Red, to erase his will, steal his rights as Master and puppeteer him. She could even have betrayed him mid-war, taking the reins of the Red Faction for herself. And it would have been the work of moments to betray him after the War was won, right when he stood on the finish line of his dreams.
How sweet the moment would have been, when her poison took hold, and he breathed his last. The Grail and his wish would have been only one step out of reach, but that step would have been impossible with her dagger in his back.
And yet, she hadn't betrayed him. She'd followed him, hoping to see where his drive would take the pair of them. She had not wished to betray him, because she knew he wouldn't have lamented, or given in to despair. After all, her Master had abandoned his regrets and had been willing to forgive and save everyone. Having discarded his despair, he would simply have moved on with a slight smile, as his sixty years of work came undone at the last minute. It would have been an…unsatisfying betrayal. And now she never could betray him. Because-
"-I'LL TAKE IT TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD AND KEEP IT-"
Because by now, her Master and his dream was surely already dead, swallowed whole by the great, black dragon of Greed despite his best efforts to use his ideals to harness and command the beast. She could no longer betray him, but she would attempt to avenge him. And accept the consequences of such an action.
It was truly laughable, for the world's greatest poisoner and queen of betrayal to attempt a righteous action like dragon slaying.
The beam from her Garden strikes the dragon in the torso, the strength of her magic allowing it to pierce scale and tear through flesh. But a dragon on Fafnir's level would not fall from the sky from that. It wheels in the air, and through her screen she can see the black fires that emerge from its mouth. She closes her eyes, expression peaceful. What a foolish end to a-
Something grabs her!
"Are you a moron?! Like hell I'm letting you die like this, not after all I put up with coming here!"
And like that, the treacherous Saber of White hauls her off her throne, hoists her over her shoulder and breaks into a run, even as the endless black flames begin to tear through the prow of her Garden.
-
I'm mid-flight, still finalizing my purchases (Mind Defence 2 and Corruption Defence 1 to try and offset the Metamorphosis) while also giving Atalanta another direct Command Seal boost all in an attempt to keep her alive until Artoria can aid her, when I see Semiramis strike out at Fafnir, and Fafnir's nuclear retaliation. My link to Mordred is still jammed by the Hanging Garden but no notification pops up, as it has with Gordes, to inform me that she died in the aerial fireball. The anger at the mere attempt, though, causes my new wings to beat faster, slamming into to the side of the hovering Fafnir with my new dragon form.
Mid-air, we become a confusing tumble of limbs and wings, each clawing away at each other's scales with talon and tooth, and it's a miracle we stay airborne at all. His scales are harder, but my magic is constantly active, healing me from the jagged tears he cuts with his claws. Still, it's clear that he's the better dragon in combat. We might mass around the same, and I might have had the advantage of the first strike, but he knows how to use his mass, how to simultaneously attack with all six of his limbs and head and tail. Even as all four clawed feet slash at me at once, my foresight shouts a warning and I see him pull back his head, flames massing around his mouth. I detransform, my 25-meter dragonform reverting to Reinhard's human size instantly. The sudden shift causes the flames pass over me and, as I begin to fall without my wings, I stab still-drawn Reid into Fafnir. The anti-dragon blade goes in with ease, doing nothing to arrest my fall as it simply carves through the scales and flesh of the body like air. Above me there's a shriek of pain as Reid keeps on cutting.
Dropping my healing, I call up my flight magic and rise up, Reid still cutting through dragonflesh all the way, covering me with hot ichor from the deep V of my slash. A wall of white speeds towards me, a precognitive warning in advance of the dragon's attempt to swat me with his rear left leg. Reid pulls out of Fafnir's main body as easily as it entered and when Fafnir's attempt at attacking me with its clawed foot meets Reid, the dragon comes away with a bloody stump.
'Master, distance yourself!'
Artoria's voice reaches me, and I kick off the bleeding body of Fafnir as a golden light from below shines. Fafnir's head twists towards it, desperately calling black flames, but as I get clear of Fafnir I begin to fill Reid with mana, readying my Swordplay. Fafnir's eyes flick between the two charging swords, one to his flank and one below him, and then he lets loose his black flames towards the shining light below, all while desperately trying to drop down and right in a rolling aerial dodge. It isn't enough. The flames do counter Excalibur's beam, but he can't avoid my attack, not against a target that big and at this range. The air, dragonscale and even the texture of the world parts before my Swordplay, the maelstrom of concentrated mana severing everything along the line of the swung-out blade. And, at the close of the torrential sword-slash, nothing remains in the air before me. The great black dragon that had been there is gone without a trace.
Finally, after what feels an age but was only around ten or so minutes of fighting, the battle of Trifas, and with it the Great Holy Grail War itself, was over.
Notes:
So, I obviously tried something new with Shakespeare's section. Was going to try it for all three, but I realized that it would be better for Mordred to be stuck in the play in that one rather than being on the sidelines as a Greek Chorus, which'd let her directly respond to what Play-Artoria said. That, and the real important scene was the third, so writing it normally was both simpler for me as a writer (syllablecounter got a fair bit of use), and also probably easier on readers. As for the actual 'fight' itself, I feel Apocrypha-Shakespeare would have actually been a pretty nasty counter to Apocrypha-Mordred, bundle of issues held together by string and pride that she is. Unfortunately for him, Mordred's already been hit by the Character Development bat thanks to direct Artoria interaction, so the words that could have cut deep only glanced, and he winds up with a knife in his neck.
Atalanta v Achilles was intended to play up the body horror of the Metamorphosis, which felt fitting given Apocrypha's writers compared its Self-Evolution powers to the T-Virus, but only really wound up putting Atalanta in a fur bikini with wings and cloven hooves for feet. Here, with one (and later a second) Command Seal, infinite mana and a goal she's striving for, it's going all out on instant 'evolution' to counter and best kill her opponent. At the end, she regains her sanity and gets some control over the Metamorphosis thanks to Rein splurging most of his new Karna points on Mind Defence 2 and Corruption Defence 1 specifically for her, leading to her heelslash and counterstab while Seal-Boosted. Speaking of, Kairi's dagger last seen (well, last not seen where it should have been seen) in Chp9 makes a reappearance. Finally, Ascension 2 Atalanta (aka Massive Boar Pauldron Atalanta) evolves into Ascension 3 Atalanta (aka Semi-Armored Womb Tattoo Atalanta) when the Defences kick in, partially to show her getting a handle on the Metamorphosis' bestial corruption and I'll admit partially out of personal preference.
Fafnir partially-Fafnir'd LBK-Surtr in LB2, so Shirou actually coming out on top of their mental struggle was never on the cards. He retained his drive long enough to reach the battlefield, which is impressive given the Siegfried interlude shows how even a tiny fragment of Greed Corruption can make people go from 0 to 100 in no time flat, but the fight with Dragon Reactor Artoria and then sight of Full Dragonform Rein moving full-speed towards his Reingold caused Fafnir to overwhelm Shirou and take the reigns as full on Great Black Dragon Fafnir. The Kaiju-battle going Fafnir's way at first was mostly cause Rein had had like seconds of time getting used to how to Dragon, but once Super Anti-Dragon Reid was used it was over.
And thank God for that. Basically 4 straight, fairly long chapters of action wore me out quite a lot (honestly at times came fairly close to burning me on the story, which is why I tried to engage myself with the Shakespeare bits), and I never really want to do that again- or at least come up with a better way to do it. Up next is probably around three or so chapters of relative calm (1 War Wrap-up and Future Planning, 1 World Exploring, 1 World Wrap-up+Wishmaking), and then I'll be rolling where next.
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