Fate/Ethereal Order

You need time, more than anything else.

The battle behind you is still going on, but it's winding down. You can warn your Servants, but you don't know if they'll be able to warn the others in time—Circe you have no idea where she is at all, and Archer would be in the thick of combat. Maybe if everyone had been there to start with, and maybe if the enemy didn't have so many potential hostages, you'd take your chances fighting two other Servants, but with just yourself and Goemon you can't possibly risk it. Illusions are one thing, but a faerie as old and as powerful as Melusine is something you can't possibly defeat alone. Holding her back, though...

<"Goemon, find the others and tell them to retreat, I'll stall-">

Without warning, the ninja vanishes, and for once you're not mad that he cut you off. If he's doing what you told him to, then maybe you'll all actually get out of this alive, including the people Matchstick has trapped in illusions. You speak the instant Goemon leaves, desperately trying to keep their attention on you—if you can keep them talking, maybe they won't hurt anyone.

"What are you doing with all these people?" It's the first thing that comes to mind—you'd like to say it was calculated, not too personal that it could hit something raw, tantalizing enough that if there was any pride in their plan they might want to hint at it, but the truth is that you really are just desperate to know. There's never a good reason for something magical to start hoarding humans.

Excepting Avenger, you suppose.

"Taking them away. Isn't it obvious?" The tip of Melusine's tail sways in the air, an idle, almost hypnotic motion. There's not a hint of tension in her the way she carries herself, not the faintest bit of caution in her gaze. She's in control, she knows it, and she knows you know it too. "Or we were, until we were interrupted. Are you one of Jeanne's Servants?"

"He's a Master." The little girl speaks before you can, dull red eyes as empty as a void. "He's got Command Spells."

"Ah, so he does." Her voice doesn't change at all—whatever interest she had in you is wavering. Desperately, you call out again, trying to put just enough fire in your voice to tempt them to hit back.

"You know that's not what I meant. Why does Buné want all these people? They haven't done anything to you—they can't have done anything to you."

"Ah, so Jeanne told you his name? That does make things easier..." Her voice is almost dreamlike, an airy murmur that would be pleasant to listen to if it wasn't coming from the woman with the power to murder everyone in the square before you could blink. The creatures, the undines, they moved fast enough to be a danger to Servants. Normal people wouldn't stand a chance.

"What we're using them for...hm, sacrifices, I suppose? Maybe satisfaction? They'll be fed to the blackened saint's pyre, and then our little Matchstick will—"

"You're letting him stall." The girl cuts across her again, the tiniest bit of sharpness to her voice.

"I know, dear, but does it matter much? I'll kill him, and then his Servants will disappear." If she's annoyed with Matchstick, she doesn't show it. She might as well be discussing the weather for all the care she's giving the conversation, but you can't think of that right now. Your thoughts are focused on what she said—fed to the pyre. Paris and Chartres—how many people had they already killed, if this is the third city they're bleeding dry? The pyre you saw in Chaldea had been unnerving the moment you'd caught a glimpse of it. Now, knowing that it was kindled and fed with human souls, the thought of it makes you feel sick.

"Then just kill him now." Matchstick's voice lacks any edge at all, and Melusine sighs softly, pale white fangs glinting in the morning sun.

"One more question, dear." She turns to you and offers you a pleasant, polite smile, as if she hadn't just admitted to planning on killing you with the same casual tone you'd use to talk about ripping up some weeds. "The faeries earlier, the ones who fought my undines. Would you mind telling me about the one who summoned them?"

You blink.

Deep down, you know it's really not all that surprising, fae recognizing fae. But even though you're facing down a Servant that unnerves you more than any besides King Arthur did, even though you can feel cold sweat trickling down the back of your neck, even though you're forcing your breathing to grow more even—it's infuriating. You're standing here, a Demi-Servant, an impossibility of modern magecraft brought about by some miracle—you're even the only real Master of Chaldea left! You're standing right in front of her, and the only reason you've bought more time than it took Melusine to argue with the girl is because of your sister.

You almost laugh at the absurdity.

"If you don't want to tell me, I can start now." It's a threat, but it hardly sounds like one, not with her voice that soothing and calm. "Is she your Servant?"

You stay silent, thoughts running a mile a minute as you work against your frustration to figure out what you're going to say. Any time spent talking is better than time spent fighting, but if you say the wrong thing she might decide to go after Niamh first, and that means her going after the others as well. If you can figure out how to—

Something's coming.

You hear the rapid hammering of hooves on cobblestone an instant before you realise what it is, remember the only one of your party that would have a galloping horse—or something like it. You glance back just in time to watch Niamh's unicorn make a heroic leap over your wall, clearing it without the slightest difficulty and landing with unnatural grace, burning off the momentum by driving past you and turning so that it's cutting you off from the two Servants before you.

"Edward, you're alright!"

Niamh turns and gives you a beatific smile, rays of sunlight catching her scarlet hair and making it shimmer, and you want nothing more than to grab her and scream.

<"Your sister left as soon as Goemon spoke—the battle's almost over but with her gone I needed to step in!"> Circe's voice is usually welcome but right now hearing anything at all about the situation feels like someone pressing your head into a vice. <"Avenger wants Sanson and Marie to escort the people to her glade, but we need a little more time—">

<"I'm coming, Master!"> You should have expected it from Archer, but the sudden panic catches you off guard and you have to scramble to respond.

<"Archer, keep helping the others. I can handle myself here, just make sure the rest get out safely!"> For one agonizing moment, you think she might refuse, but you feel your connection pulse again for just a few words.

<"I understand, Master.">

"Edward?" Niamh's voice pulls you out of your thoughts, and before she can say another word you rush forward, eyes on Melusine as you anticipate whatever attack the lake faerie is planning—

Every trace of boredom has vanished, and Melusine is staring at Niamh with her mouth open in wonder, violet, snakelike eyes opened wide and flicking back and forth to take in every detail—until she lets out a soft, almost imperceptible noise of understanding, and her lips curve into a beautiful smile.

"Ah. You're not human." She moves forward, you'd call it a few steps if it wasn't for the fact that she's gliding along the stone with her sinuous lower half. "And you're not a faerie either. Not completely. You're the one who fought me earlier, weren't you?"

You see the white-haired girl scowl and fold her arms, but that's all she does. You might as well not exist in Melusine's eyes at this point, and a quick glance at Niamh shows that she's just as entranced as your foe is.

"I...how could you tell?" You'd never imagine your sister saying something dumbly, but that's the only word you can think of for the clumsy way the words drop from her lips.

"I used to be like you, child. Torn between two worlds. I know how it feels—and I knew that there was something special about you the moment I felt your presence." She keeps moving forward until there's only a few dozen steps between you, and you can't stop yourself from moving in turn, planting yourself between the two women. It's not magecraft, you'd have felt it. Niamh doesn't need any spell to keep her focused on a beautiful faerie telling her she's special.

"Edward…?" Being reminded that you're there seems to have snapped her out of it for the moment, at least, and she hastily slides down from her mount a half-second later, the beast dissipating into sparks of mana as soon as she's on her feet. "What's going on? Why—"

"Get out of here." You glance back, your voice a low, vicious hiss, enough that she flinches just a bit when she hears it. "I told you all to retreat, not follow me here!"

"Oh, do be quiet."

Four words is all the warning you get before your body moves—can't summon your shield in time, not with Melusine lunging forward and sending her tail whipping through the air right at your side. You manage to bring your arms up to blunt the blow just in time, but the force of the impact feels like being run over by a truck. You're lifted up and off your feet, sent rocketing to the side with your arms burning—you only stop when you smash into one of the nearby buildings, the impact forcing the air from your lungs as you collapse forward onto your hands and knees, retching as you try suck in a breath. You—you didn't hit anyone on the way, that's good, get your bearings, start moving.

When you glance back up, eyes darting wildly in preparation for a follow-up, you see Melusine bearing down on Niamh, her tail giving her an extra foot of height on your sister, but her expression is warm, almost tender. She presses a finger to her lips to stop her from making a sound as she looks towards you in horror, before that same hand cups her cheek and tilts her head to meet Melusine's eyes.

"Come with me, child. You aren't meant to be with them."

You don't exist anymore. Niamh is focused solely on Melusine, lips parted as she breathes out a soft breath, hand clasped to her chest. She's always wanted to be more special. Always wanted to be more like the fae. Any moment now, you know she's going to say yes.

One heartbeat, then another, and there's just silence. You can see Niamh's throat bob as she swallows, eyes flicking towards you, and the way Melusine frowns you know she saw it too.

"Your answer, child. Please." The undines step closer as one as you rise to your feet—most of them, at least. Some just stay right where they are, surrounding the people sequestered off to the side of the square, claws ready to rip them apart the instant Melusine thinks about it. You're fast, blindingly fast when it comes to someone else, but if you're not fast enough, people die.

You can't accept that, not when they're right in front of you.

"This is meaningless." Matchstick's voice cuts through the tension, eyes fixed on you once again. "Kill them both while we have the chance."

"You—!" Niamh finally finds her voice, glaring at Matchstick over Melusine's shoulder. When she looks back to Melusine, her expression is set into something resolute and proud. "A game. A game, Melusine."

"Oh?" The faerie raises an eyebrow, her free hand idly moving to take one of Niamh's. "A game, child? Whatever could you mean?"

"A contest. My faeries and your undines. I'll come with you if you win, and you'll leave me with my brother if you lose."

"Without the people." They both turn to look at you as you start to march forward, your stomach coiling itself into a knot as you speak. Deals with the fae were treacherous enough without them trying to kill you.

"A-Ah, yes, and without the people." It just adds another little drop of contempt in your heart for her that she didn't even think about them, but if nothing else, she's at least leveraged things as best you could hope for. Melusine wanting Niamh alive and Niamh wanting you alive actually might work out long enough for you to stop her massacring the people.

"Oh, child, you are interesting…" Melusine lets Niamh go, gliding back as she taps a claw to her chin thoughtfully. She's smiling now, genuinely, affectionately, you'd even say indulgently. Like Niamh was a toddler who'd just learned how to speak, and Melusine was encouraging her despite your sister babbling mostly nonsense. Finally, she claps her hands together, nodding sharply.

"I accept your terms. A contest between us—I'll even allow your brother to participate. Defeat me, or defeat my undines, and I shall take Matchstick and leave this place without harming a single soul. If I defeat both of you, then I shall take you with me, child of the fae, and I will help you be what you were always meant to be."

She spreads her scaled hands wide as tiny orbs of glowing mana form at the tip of every claw, streams of water pouring forth and rapidly coalescing into those same, vaguely feminine figures as before. Ten of them, connected directly to Melusine by tiny strings of pure, clear liquid, almost like they're puppets dancing at her fingertips.

"You may call on as many of your faeries as you like, and I shall not replenish my undines if you destroy them. Are these rules acceptable to you, child?"

Your heart is in your throat as you watch Niamh consider it, before she takes her notebook from her hip and allows it to fall open, hovering below her hand as she gives Melusine a sharp nod.

"They are."

"Excellent. Matchstick, do not interfere. This will be over shortly." The child shoots her a look you'd call foul if it wasn't so empty, before giving a short, simple shrug.

"... As if I could even stop you, Alter Ego"

"My thanks, Matchstick." She flicks the tip of her tail from side to side, smiling indulgently as she stares at your sister. "You may begin whenever you wish."

The instant permission is given, Niamh's magecraft takes shape. Five knights snap into being in front of her, three lunging forward with bone-tipped spears, the ivory points coated in chilling rime, the other two hanging back to protect herself with shields as tall as they are and broadswords made of the same strange, glassy material their armor is. Melusine's smile grows a little wider at the sight, a flick of her fingers sending three of her undines to meet them, the water spirits immediately beginning to dance around the knights with fluid grace. They don't even strike, simply darting, ducking, and weaving in and around the trio, flowing from one step to the next and vanishing out of reach and under their guard with ease.

With a grimace, Niamh flicks to another page of her notebook with just a thought, the spears vanishing as twin shortswords take their place in the span of a heartbeat, and when they strike this time the trio of undines can't dodge—that close, the knights have the advantage in reach without the unwieldy spears throwing them off. Sparks fly as faeglass meets claw, and though the swords still shimmer with hoarfrost the solid claws seem resistant to it. It's a stalemate for a moment before Niamh snaps her fingers, the two knights by her side discarding their shields and drawing shortbows made of ice and snowy string and starting to let fly. Frozen arrows rocket straight towards the knights clashing with the undines, simply striking through their torsos without resistance. For a single moment, you think Niamh might actually have gotten rid of one, but Melusine's smile just gets wider. An idle flick of her wrist and the undines' bodies split open, a tiny hole opening just wide enough to allow the arrows to fly off and crash into a building on the other side of the square and then they're moving again, the frozen knights Niamh left completely incapable of defending her.

You make your move as the undines extend, three threads of water connecting them to Melusine's right hand. It's the obvious play—the moment an undine overextends, you swoop in and cut the tether. Best case scenario it dissipates immediately, worst case Melusine can't control it quite as well and you get an opening.

Of course, that only matters if you actually manage it.

Three undines moving in, but the other seven are spread out, hanging back to counter what Niamh does next. It'd be just as easy for them to defend their brethren's tethers even with your chains stopping their semi-solid trick. All they'd have to do is stall you while Melusine watched on. But if they had to fall back to defend Melusine herself...

You charge forward with all the speed you've got, heavy shield manifesting on your arm just in time for you to lunge for Melusine's throat. Fighting her one on one is an insane choice with the power she's so casually swung around, but you don't have to kill her. As long as the undines are destroyed, you win, and she leaves. Fae don't break bargains.

Her tail whips up and slams against your shield hard enough that the shockwave sends ripples through the watery bodies of the undines, the force of the collision making your arms burn. You hear roaring flames and the hiss of water superheated to steam by Niamh but you can't take your eyes off the lake spirit as she makes her counterattack, not if her casual hits feel like that. Melusine doesn't bother looking at you, her tail moving as though it had a will of its own and scything through the air quick enough that you have to jump back, pirouetting and using the momentum to swing your shield again only for it to be deflected in exactly the same way. A kernel of fury ignites in your chest as you try break through, try to dodge past her tail and find a way to strike home, and you realise she isn't even bothering to use the others to defend herself—her focus is on Niamh in every way that matters.

The next time you clash with her tail, you don't try to dodge or weave out of the way, setting your stance and gritting your teeth to take the downward swipe head on. It's like a falling boulder, your shoulders and knees screaming in protest as they absorb all the force of the blow and the ground cracks beneath your feet, but with a roar of effort you manage to push back, swinging your shield up and throwing her tail skyward. Your shield disappears as your chains uncoil, but she's still faster—the biting cold-iron rockets towards her throat but her tail will get there in time.

A pulse of mana through your Mystic Code and its path changes, the blade slicing at a right-angle to its original path, a silver crescent lashing through the strands of water on her right hand.

Finally, Melusine turns to look at you with a glimmer of anger in her eyes, but you're already throwing yourself backward and summoning your shield again, ready for retaliation. Tendrils of water snake from her fingertips—meant to reconnect the stumbling undines to her control, no doubt, but Niamh is faster. Whatever fiery magecraft she used to defend herself bought her enough room to be more forceful, and the instant she sees her opportunity she pounces on it. A wordless cry reverberating through the air with power is all the incantation she needs, five lances of white-hot flames bursting forth from her outstretched hand and piercing through the constructs. The water superheats and explodes into steam, but Melusine is denied even the small advantage of a disrupted view as Niamh summons an enormous fae hound, the cu sídhe howling loudly enough that the rush of air brushes away the cloud of vapor.

In the span of a few seconds, you've halved Melusine's forces and managed to get your bearings, and damn it but that barely-there look of frustration on her face makes you feel good. Niamh throws you a grin and despite yourself you grin as well, even if you don't meet her eyes. Your sister can believe whatever she likes about the expression, you know that it's just the kind of savage joy you get from throwing sand in the eyes of someone who thinks they're better than you.

"You are a bit of a bother, aren't you?" Melusine's voice is still as serene as a calm lake, but even she can't hide the way she looks at you, violet eyes flickering with disdain. "If you insist on interrupting us…"

She doesn't finish, but she doesn't have to. She holds out her hand and a single drop of water falls to the ground, expanding into a deep blue puddle the instant it meets the earth. Her tail plunges into it, deeper than should be possible, and when she withdraws it she brings with it something else. The tip of her tail is coiled around the hilt of a dark purple sword, a spiked pommel leading down to the slender grip and curved guard with two black-iron chains wrapped around the dark metal in a cross pattern, just below the light grey fuller etched with black faerie writing. The blade itself is the same dark purple as the hilt, wide at the base and narrowing until it reaches the tip, flaring out into a wide, notched tip sharp enough that you can practically feel it from sight alone. It's easily large enough that you would need both hands to maneuver it properly, but Melusine wields it deftly with nothing but her tail. It's a beautiful, powerful weapon, but that isn't why your breath is catching in your throat, why your mouth has suddenly gone dry. It's something else.

You recognize that blade.

The name escapes you, but you've seen it before, you know you have. A Grail War you were assigned to, a report you read after, an idle description spoken on the way to a mission. Recognition sparks through your mind like wildfire even as recollection slips away like sand through your fingers, but you know deep in your heart that you know that sword.

<"Master!"> Archer's cry echoes in your mind, and panic sets in immediately. The others are there, your Servants, Jeanne's Servants, Avenger—and Archer, readying her bow. You need to stop her.

<"Don't interfere or she'll kill the hostages—!"> Your instincts scream at you and you cut off the thought mid-sentence, heart thumping in your chest as the lake spirit begins her assault.

Melusine darts forward—she's faster than she was just a moment ago, gone one second and there the next, and it's all you can do to bring your shield between you and the razor-edge of her sword. If her tail itself made your muscles ache then blocking the blade feels like it's cracking your bones with every strike, the impact sending vibrations all the way to your teeth as you grit them in pain. Striking back isn't an option—a direct hit would shatter your chains like glass, and with her newfound speed and strength she's beyond what you can handle. You just need to hold out, to wait until Niamh can destroy the undines—you just need to trust her.

You catch bare glimpses of what's happening beyond Melusine's serpentine body—Niamh summoning knights and redcaps and hounds as fast as they're gutted and split apart by the water spirits, her brow knit with concentration and a scowl twisting her mouth as she spits ancient Gaeilge to shape her will. Tiny sprites overflowing with magical energy fly forth and zip past an undine, only to turn mid-flight and strike home from behind, living bombs splattering the sixth summoned creature, but there's still four left and Melusine has turned to face Niamh again and they're only getting faster.

It feels almost like an inevitability when Niamh slips up, a hair too slow to conjure a guardian after her last was cut down. Two undines dart towards her and even Reinforced it's all she can do to create a barrier of flash-frozen air around her, a dome of glassy ice that can do nothing but forestall her defeat. You think, for a moment, that she's out of options, that all you can do is watch as your shield blurs to protect you from Melusine's dark sword.

The next, you feel a pulse of mana so intense that you almost forget to block Melusine's next strike.

Kneeling within her barrier, your sister clasps her hands together with her eyes closed, a single wing made of burning blue light erupting from her back, from the Crest you know was implanted there. Circuits swirling like roots and vines give shape to the light, a butterfly's wing born of sunset and moonlight, and when she chants her next words it feels as though the world itself stills to listen.

"What angel wakes me…"

Melusine has turned completely, but taking a step is beyond you. You're frozen in place as you stare, as Melusine's eyes widen, as her grin grows almost hungry.

"Yes, child. You're almost there…!"

If Niamh hears, she gives no indication, continuing her chant as her eyes snap open, two sparks of flat, pure scarlet in place of her human gaze.

"Out of this wood, do not desire to go, thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no—these are the forgeries of jealousy…!"

You know what this is, know what she's doing. The most secret treasures of your family, the most powerful, beautiful mysteries that have been passed down from generation to generation, fit only for a Child of the Fae to wield.

"Supreme fantasy...Crown…Crown…!"

She glances at you, staring wide eyed at her as she prepares to unleash the pinnacle of magecraft, and she falters. The built-up magical energy explodes out like a bomb, her bluefire wing erupting outwards as she collapses to the ground, her barrier shattering into a million shards of melting ice.

Through it all, you hear Melusine's "tsk" of disapproval, and realise her attention has turned to you once again.

Melusine's tail flicks up and you prepare for the downward slash, and even though your instinct starts to flare the instant you move, you're not fast enough, not after the sluggishness Niamh's failed invocation left in you. She lets go of the sword at the apex of her swing, tossing it up into the air and allowing her to lunge in close, a backhanded fist crashing into your side and sending you bouncing along the ground, blood spurting from your mouth as you cough in agony. You hear Niamh cry out in concern as you roll to your feet, adrenaline burning the worst of the pain away for the moment as Melusine absentmindedly catches the sword in her free hand, staring at Niamh with a curious look on her face.

"Ah. It's him, isn't it?" She glances back at you, her voice low and thoughtful. "He's what's keeping you tied to your humanity. You care for him."

Her sword begins to glow with a dark light, blackened mana outlined in blue coalescing along the blade, and before you can think you're flaring your circuits as strongly as you can, summoning up mana like you've only done once before as Melusine swings, a rushing tide of destruction roaring to meet the shield you slam to the ground just in time.

"Tiarna de Slabhraí Cruach!"

"Arondight."

The dull scarlet barrier bursts into existence, broken, fragmented shield held together by golden chains rising to meet the black crescent carved by that sword. The moment they meet you almost choke on what little air is left in your lungs, your pathetic mimicry of a true Noble Phantasm wavering under the strength of the real thing, but you still stand. You survived Arturia Pendragon's blade with this shield—you will not buckle to its lesser. Legs set, teeth grit, arms burning, you stand and you stand tall, feeding your shield with your fury. You rage at her interest in your sister and your sister alone, spitting on everything you and your companions have done. You rage at her disregard for the lives of the people she holds hostage, seeing innocent lives as nothing but fuel. And more than that, more than anything else you rage that she would use that blade against you.

Clarity rips through your mind like a bolt of lightning, and all at once there is no rushing blade of dark light, no scarlet shield fueled by spite—there is you, and there is your opponent.

She holds her blade in her hand now, eyes wide with recognition as you—

Charge forward, shield at your side, pain forgotten. You're faster than you were last time, sidestepping the gouged earth from that last strike and lunging with your shield set against your shoulder, a strike designed to disorientate and throw off balance. You hit home, shoving your opponent back and moving to follow up, but as fast as you are—

She's fast too, severing the connection to her undines and reaching to grasp the hilt with both hands, shifting into—

A stance you've seen a hundred times, zero openings, sword held in front of the body, ready to ward off attack from any angle. You know it, and you know that it's pointless to try and finesse your way around it so instead you simply attack right from the front. Your shield is larger, easier to defend with, and when your strength is equal it gives you the advantage in a close quarters fight now that you've spent so long learning how to fight with it, dashing in and catching the sword on the cross so you can—

Swing it upwards, the bottom prong striking towards her stomach and forcing her to dodge backwards as she unleashes a quick flurry, fighting like a knight instead of a faerie—

Just like you remember, flawless technique that you want to surpass, need to surpass. Giving any time to recover is a mistake, you need to keep him off balance. He's not used to such relentless assaults from you, especially—

When you've been injured after the release of the blade, you can barely feel the pain, hell, you barely feel anything at all except this sudden manic energy letting you dodge and swing and parry and dance with the knight who wields the Light of the Lake, golden blade signing through the air and it's the terror of every melee he steps into but you're still pushing her off guard, wearing her out as your fury gives you strength, as you feed it with the indignation of using that blackened blade against you after you've seen what it really is even if her form is perfect even if it's exactly like fighting him even if you know you can win even if you're about to win even if your next strike will cave in her throat and she looks at you with violet eyes that aren't her eyes and she

says

your

name—

"Enough!"

The killing blow is intercepted by a scarlet sword with a roselike guard, and you stare into Avenger's eyes as she stands between you and—Melusine.

It's a forever condensed into an instant before the force of the blow sends her crashing backwards into Melusine, the two flying backwards until a wall of thorny brambles bursts from between the cobblestones and catches them. You try to step forward but whatever bizarre strength you tapped into has vanished, taking with it whatever energy you had left with it. The only thing that stops you from collapsing as your leg buckles from under you is the fact that Archer rushes to catch you, and the sudden bone-deep exhaustion hits so hard you can't stop yourself leaning against her as you suck in deep, desperate breaths.

Still, you stare at Avenger. You stare as she rises to her feet, stare as she winces in pain while sheathing her sword, stare as she finally meets your eyes, wordlessly begging an explanation, her beautiful features set in an expression of disdain and her delicate, musical voice slipping past her soft lips as she confirms the obvious.

"I am, as ever...a rotten tree. A villain fit only to oppose a hero. Be that as it may… undeserving of it though I am, I would ask your understanding all the same, Sir Edward. To deceive you was not something I desired—even rot has its limits. I had no wish to become a liar."

Your chest twists in agony as Avenger speaks, throat so tight you can't say a word, a day old bond torn from you with all the pain of something far, far deeper. Just like always, with you. You and your stupid soul, your foul Origin. Jeanne stands before you with her Servants, Circe comes to your side to help support you, and you can barely acknowledge any of it.

You didn't trust her, you knew you couldn't trust her, and it still hurts.

"Avenger…" Melusine's voice is as soft as ever, a surprised lilt to it as she stares at her savior. If the brambles bother her, she doesn't show it. "You saved me."

"Our Master was quite clear how vital you are." Avenger's voice is curt and sharp as a blade, even as she thrusts her hand at the other Servant. "I was not to allow your death under any circumstance."

"Ah...I see." She takes Avenger's hand and squeezes it softly as she pulls herself up, giving her a small smile. "Thank you, dear knight."

Avenger says nothing more, simply turning and beginning to walk away. The girl named Matchstick begins to follow, and you finally manage to spit out a word.

"Wait—!" Your voice is ragged and your throat hurts, rubbed raw by the haggard breaths you've been taking, and when Avenger turns to look at you her expression doesn't change at all.

"We are out of time, Sir Edward." Her voice is soft, softer than it usually is. It just twists the knife in more. "When next we meet, please kill me thoroughly, as a hero should. A rotten tree is something that can only be cut down."

"Oh, don't say that. Being pessimistic will get you nowhere. Isn't that right, Gilles?"

"As you say, Jeanne."

The new voices catch your attention just in time to watch two new figures fall to the ground from a nearby rooftop. You'd recognize them both, even without the names.

The man is tall and powerfully built, clad in silver armor with a white half-cape and a stylized cross emblazoned onto the front. His skin is pale and pallid, his eyes are a dull black, and the frown on his face only emphasizes his pronounced nose and thin lips. His hair is black as well, parted in the middle and falling to his shoulders neatly, and even despite all this he can't disguise the gleam of madness in his eyes.

The last time you saw Gilles de Rais, he was a Caster dressed in ostentatious purple robes, a fish-eyed freak who threatened the secrecy of magecraft itself with his insane daylight ranting and summoning. This man must be the living Gilles, the former knight on his path to ruin, but even so he looks no worse for wear jumping from a rooftop, all his attention focused on the white-clad Jeanne standing between you and the others.

"Hah! That was a pretty pathetic sight—and I don't just mean you, Melusine. All the others standing by, especially the pretty little saint, don't you feel a little ashamed?"

Before him stands Jeanne d'Arc, a perfect match for the woman in front of you at first glance—it takes you a moment to notice the imperfections, the toxic yellow eyes, the hair so grey it's almost white, the sickly pale skin. Her armor is an exact match for your Jeanne's as well, save for the fact that it's black as night, and the standard she carries is emblazoned with nothing but stylized flames. She grins as her venom makes Archer's grip on you tighten, but Jeanne stands resolute, her flag held before her and levelled directly at the new pair.

"Leave this place at once, pretender. You are a foul creature summoned by black magic, and you will not harm a single person here." The other Jeanne sneers as she holds up a hand, black flames dancing along her fingers.

"That so? Sure I couldn't just...set fire to the whole damn place?" Jeanne stiffens and the other Jeanne's grin grows wider, before she waves her hand and the flames disappear. "Nah, fuck it. Melusine made a deal, yeah? So I'll be nice. Unlike everyone else in this godforsaken country, I'll have a little mercy. You win! Have a party, break out the wine, enjoy yourselves! You're all gonna die anyway, so get nice and drunk. Booze'll make you burn even brighter."

Her heels click as she turns, but Gilles stays focused on Jeanne, staring with enough intensity that you'd almost think he's trying to simply will the words to her before he finally starts to speak.

"Come with us, Jeanne. We can show you the truth—we can help you punish those who murdered you."

"You disgust me." Jeanne's voice is cold as ice, cracking like a whip. "Get out of my sight, Gilles."

He closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh, giving one last sorrowful glance at the holy maiden before turning and walking away. You could try to strike them now—order Archer and Circe to bombard them as they walk away, but you don't. You're out of commission, the others are tired from their own fights. You don't know that you could win, and if you could it'd certainly be at the expense of the people you'd just fought so hard to save.

You can do nothing more than watch as the demon's servants both mortal and magical simply walk away.



What comes next is a blur. You say the right words to make people stop worrying about your injuries and allow Circe to tend to the worst of them—apparently you broke some ribs when Melusine backhanded you, and the manic assault on the faerie just after did you no favors. Jeanne and her Servants take the lead in calming down the people, and as soon as they realise the disaster was averted by a risen saint they clamour and cheer like it's a festival day, like they hadn't come within a hair's breadth of being sacrificed at a demonic pyre.

The city stands on a leyline, you're helpfully informed by Circe, and so once you get the chance to slip away you finally make the connection inside a vacant building. If Olga is angry that it took you so long she doesn't show it, and she and Da Vinci listen to your mechanical report without interruption. Archer refuses to leave your side, but at least Niamh was taken by Jeanne to help spread the word that the Maid of Orléans had returned to fight the witch who stole her face.

You're ordered to wait for further instructions—and, more importantly, to rest. Da Vinci stresses the importance of it, and you nod and tell her that you understand and that you will, and the connection finally terminates and you just.

Sit there.

It shouldn't hurt so much, a simple betrayal after a single day knowing someone. It wouldn't hurt so much for anyone else, if you hadn't been so stupid. If you hadn't broken your own psyche so badly by meddling with your Origin in an insane drive to stand apart from your family.

All you can do is sit there and feel the ache in your chest as someone you knew you couldn't and shouldn't trust proved you completely right, all because she saved a handful of people and you let that make you think she might be alright.

Idiot.

"Fou!"

You blink and glance down—it's evening now, judging by the warm orange you see outside the abandoned building—and you lock eyes with the strange familiar you'd half-forgotten followed you to Orléans as he lifts a paw and presses it against your knee.

"...Hah." You shake your head a bit, before reaching out to softly stroke Fou's back, the little beast leaping up into your lap and claiming it as his personal seat as you pamper him. It's such a stupid, tiny thing to feel any sort of joy in, but you're not so cold inside you can't feel at least a little better petting a cute animal.

With a soft sigh, you consider your options. You have a single night of rest before what comes next—the assault on Paris, you'd assume.

[ ] Speak with Archer. She's right next to you—hasn't left your side since Avenger left, actually. You're sure she's worried.

[ ] Speak with Jeanne. It wouldn't be too hard to find her, and she must be affected pretty badly by seeing her other self, her Alter.

[ ] Speak with Niamh. Having Melusine so obsessed with her is dangerous, especially when she refused to say no outright. You need to make sure she won't do anything stupid.

[ ] Speak with Jeanne's Servants. The group had taken off as a trio to enjoy the impromptu feast that had been arranged by the grateful people of Orléans, and maybe just letting yourself go and enjoying yourself would help for the night.

[ ] Contact Chaldea again and talk with Matthew. It feels like so long since you've spoke with the other man, and even though you've been reminded of what a poor idea it is for you to connect with someone, you can't help but want to hear his voice again.