Fate/Ethereal Order

The temple lies on a hilltop, surrounded on all sides by thick woodland. In the winter it makes you feel like you live in a graveyard, with nothing but snow and the corpses of trees to be found for a full day's walk—not that you have ever walked that far away from the temple.

You cannot leave the temple. Not until the time is right.

In the winter, you forget that the world is colourful. Not even the light of the fire at night can chase away the blank white and dark brown that is all you see—your whole world from dawn 'til dusk. You remember that your hair is colourful, a rich, deep purple, but your daily routine begins with shaving yourself bald. It does not bother you in the summer months, but when winter leaves you starved of colour, you wish you could ignore the monks, just for one day.

You don't, of course. You can't.

Soon, winter will be over, and soon, the forest will explode into colour, flowers blossoming along the ground as the trees go from barren and lifeless to such verdant green that you almost forget the bleakness at year's end. You will sink your fangs into ripe peaches, you will run through the forest's branches, and you will snatch fish from the river with nothing but your claws.

Soon, winter will be over. But for the moment, you forget that the world is colourful.

The wooden naginata in your hands whistles through the air as you repeat a simple kata, once, twice, three times, and then again and again. It has long since become second nature to you, who was given a weapon and told to learn from almost the moment you could stand. Be it bokken, naginata, or yumi, you wield each with the grace and fluidity of a master, for you have spent years learning from masters. Never have the monks asked why you devote yourself with such zeal—they are simply glad that you do.

You have never told them that you remember your first breath, what you saw the moment you came into the world.

A man with eyes colder than the coldest winter, dressed in a lord's finery and holding a knife.

The monks told you that you were to be raised in secret, trained in the art of war and presented to your father when the time was right. That you would be welcomed into his home as his heir, and so you must learn the arts of war so as not to disappoint him. That great power and status would be yours, once you had learned humility and discipline with them.

They have never told you why, but you already know. You remember far more than a child should, and you remember what had been said the night you were born.

Your birth was a mistake. You were born wrong. That you exist at all is only because your mother begged mercy.

You were born an oni, and your father tried to kill you for it.

Your grip on the naginata doesn't change as you recall it. The first few times, you snapped the wood clean through, but when the monks told you that if you continued to destroy things you would not be allowed to meet your family again, you stopped. The memory still plays through your mind—each time you pick up a practice weapon, each time you settle into a stance, each time you are praised for your skill.

You remember why you are doing this. You will never forget.

Strike, twist, slash, thrust.

When you return, the sin of your birth will be righted.

Strike, twist, slash, thrust.

When you return, you will show your father your skill.

Strike, twist, slash, thrust.

When you return, you will prove that you are not an oni.

You're so consumed by your thoughts you almost don't hear the yell from across the temple grounds.

Animals don't often come to this place, in the dead of winter only the bravest of them risk approach—but the most starved and desperate have no other choice. You hear the growl from your position in the training grounds, you know the sound of a hungry wolf. The cry came from a monk named Hiroshi, who had taught you how to read. A single breath told you he had been wounded, the coppery taste of blood sticking in your throat as you inhale.

You move without thinking, taking a single footstep as the temple grounds become a blur around you. Hiroshi had taught you how to read, and when you requested more poems, he had done his best to procure them for you. A second footstep brought the wolf in view, its teeth stained red from the wound on Hiroshi's leg, silver pelt flecked with droplets of blood. A third footstep brought you face to face with it, and behind the reflection of your snarling face in its eyes, you could see fear.

The end of your fourth footstep brought you to the temple gates, your arm slick with gore up to the shoulder. The wolf's blood stained your simple brown robes and its scent makes you breathe deep for a moment, but it's the colour that grabs your attention. Hot, wet redness, all that's left of the wolf scattered across the snow like the first stroke of paint on a blank page.

This deep in winter, you had almost forgotten the world is colourful.

You're intoxicated by it all for a few moments—long enough for some of the other monks to arrive, their footsteps bringing you back to reality. You turn and open your mouth to ask if Hiroshi is okay, but you stop when you see the way he looks at you. The same terror the wolf had, an instinctive, bone-deep reaction to danger. To a predator.

You look down at your hand, past the slowly dripping blood, and you realise that your claws have grown back. The monks had filed them down just yesterday.

It is not Hiroshi who comes to your small room that night to deliver the news, but Mitsusue, the man who taught you kyūdō. Your head is bowed low, but you recognise his voice. You can hear the bare tremor in his voice, and you know that it is because he has begun to fear you.

They had considered you almost ready, but the incident that afternoon convinced them you required more time. Their intent had been to send you onward on the day of your thirteenth birthday, but they have decided to wait another two years. You require stricter education to control yourself. As such, you will be confined to the temple grounds, not to take one step outside the gates.

When winter ends, you will not sink your fangs into ripe peaches. You will not run through the forest's branches. You will not snatch fish from the river with nothing but your claws. You will do nothing but learn how not to be an oni.

You do not cry, not even after Mitsusue leaves. It is your first step on your road to self-mastery, you tell yourself.

You were born an oni. You thought you had overcome that sin, but you have not. Now, you have two more years to change.

But deep down, you feel it.

You wish that you hadn't been born an oni.

You wish…

You wish you hadn't been born at all—



You wake with a start, heart thumping and chest heaving as you bolt upright, your eyes flicking back and forth until you realise that you were just dreaming—as much as seeing your Servant's history as you sleep is just dreaming. It occurs to you that your sudden rise might alert Archer and you can't even finish the thought before she manifests beside you, bow drawn and arrow settled between her fingers, pointed towards the door.

"I am here, Master. Are you alright? Were you attacked?"

"I'm fine, Archer, just—" You swallow for a moment, considering what to do. Talking to her about it would be helpful, but you don't think you can afford it right now. Not before what should hopefully be your final battle here. "Just a bad dream."

"I see. My apologies if I startled you, Master." She bows her head before vanishing once more, and you just sit there and stare at the empty space, the memories she'd unwittingly shared with you still flickering through your mind—one especially. One of the first things she'd ever seen in the world, her father getting ready to kill her.

Your fingers clench the sheets pooled around your waist hard enough that you'd tear if you moved an inch, bone-deep fury rising up inside you like an ocean of flames. You can't do anything about it, it happened what had to have been centuries ago, but even so it leaves you numb with rage. Born wrong. Born wrong. Hated, scorned, wanted dead for an accident that she had no part in. Something so heartless would leave you enraged all by itself—but that's not all, is it? You aren't angry just for her sake, oh no. That last thought she had, that aching, agonizingly sad wish…

Hadn't you whispered it before too?

When you were born, dull and wrong and pathetic compared to your shining faerie twin, had your parents held a knife? Had one begged for your life while the other sought to end it? Or had it simply been too much trouble, your life worth too much as a plus one just in case something happened to the Child of the Fae? Without Archer's unnatural memory, you can't be certain. With your parents burned away like the rest of the world and with your refusal to ever return even if they were alive, you'll never be able to ask them. Even so, you wonder, because it's all you can do. Whether for yourself or for Archer, you're powerless to change any of it.

It's funny, almost. Here you are, traveling through time to fix human history, but you can do nothing to fix your history, let alone Archer's.

If nothing else, at least you understand why you summoned her first.

The remains of last night's festivities litter the town as you emerge from your chosen home, tables piled high with unwashed bowls and mugs, a few discarded clothes, even people who'd simply fallen asleep where they were here and there. You feel a bit of satisfaction looking over it all—not too much, nothing too indulgent. But it's nice to see the proof of how vibrantly these people lived, knowing that if you'd been a few minutes later the day before they'd all be dead. Fou woke before you did and decided to eat like a king, nibbling away at the food left out on the tables, and you decide to follow his example and treat yourself. A relatively intact baguette and a block of cheese make for a quick breakfast, washed down with a tankard of what you can only assume was what passed for beer back in the day—it's disgusting, but it wets your throat and washes down the food, and you feel a little better for having it in your stomach.

Jeanne is exactly where you expected she would be, right in the centre of the city, knelt down with her head bowed and her hands clasped in prayer. You don't interrupt, coming to a stop a few steps behind her and waiting until she's done. Whether it was because she heard you or because she was nearly finished anyway, you're only waiting a minute or two before you hear a murmured 'Amen' and she rises to meet you.

"We're marching on Paris as soon as your sister is ready. Buné is likely to be there, along with the other Jeanne, Gilles de Rais, and most if not all of his Servants. My own Servants won't materialize until we're closer to the city to make sure we're all as fresh as possible, you should ensure the same." She doesn't skip a beat describing her Alter or her erstwhile friend, as stalwart and resolute as a battle-hardened saint should be. You give a sharp nod, relaying the message to your own Servants—emphasizing it for Goemon, just in case.

Last night, the city had been in full festival swing. The anticipation had simply vanished, all thoughts of the battle ahead completely cast aside—even though you yourself hadn't participated, you picked up on the carefree vibe. Now, all that whipcord tension is back with a vengeance, your every thought and motion carrying you one step closer to the inevitable conflict in Paris. Pre-mission jitters happened to everyone, no matter how much experience they had. Learning how to suppress and ignore them was something you just picked up over time, but it's harder now. Melusine had insane power, can you all keep up with it? The little girl, Matchstick, what's her part to play in all this? How powerful is the other Jeanne? Will Buné himself be there?

What will happen with Avenger?

It's lead in your stomach, your gut twisting in on itself with no reprieve. It was like this for your first year too, the anxiety and fear and uncertainty all devouring each other inside you until you could barely feel anything else at all. You tried smoking, you tried self-hypnosis, you tried meditation. Nothing ever worked. At the end of the day, there was only one thing that released the tension coiled like a spring inside your stomach.

That first rush of blood when the fighting started.

Minutes pass in a daze. Your sister arrives, quieter, more subdued than usual, but smiling all the same. Jeanne gives her instructions and her final speech to the people of the city, you exchange meaningless pleasantries with Niamh, and then you leave. It's hard to keep track of it, every heartbeat like a whetstone passing over your mind, sharpening your focus like it's a blade. You don't talk, you just run, wind whistling past you as you accelerate to speeds you could never have dreamed of as a human, the hills and fields and trees blurring and fading into one another until it's little more than a smear of green on a blue backdrop. Your sister keeps pace on her unicorn, Jeanne runs ahead of you both, and for an hour, there is nothing but the breath in your lungs and force in your legs.

When Paris comes into view, the first thing you see are flames.

At first glance, it seems like the city itself is ablaze, but looking closer you can tell that isn't the case. At the very centre of the city lies a bonfire that stretches what must be thirty feet into the sky, deep orange and red and yellow burning like a second sun, the light blasting the city and casting flickering shadows from the walls and buildings that pale next to its radiance. The three of you come to a stop a mile or two from the city, and even from here you can hear the roaring of the fire in the distance—even if you didn't know the gruesome fuel that pyre gorged itself on, you'd be able to tell just from laying eyes on it that it was an abomination. There's a wrongness to it, an unsettling feeling that clings to your mind and refuses to let go. Niamh's turned a shade paler just from seeing it, and when you look at Jeanne her expression is icier than you'd ever seen it before. You can't blame her. A few days ago, she'd burned to death in Rouen. Now, she was watching thousands of souls feed a demonic pyre, all at the behest of her other self.

"There's no one there." Her voice is a whisper so soft you barely think you heard it at all, eyes flicking to her lips to make sure she's really speaking. "There's no one left in the city. Not a soul."

You let out a breath.

Thousands. More. All of them, feeding that fire. All of them, burnt to nothingness twice over—history incinerated, and these fragments of maybe burned again as fuel. Thousands of souls, consumed for some grand ambition, a scheme hatched by someone who values life only for what it can give them. Some part of you knows that they're destined for nothingness anyway, people that have already lived, and will continue to have lived once history is restored. People who cannot die in any way that matters, in the long term.

You don't care. You didn't care in Orléans, you don't care now. You remember what it was that made you reach out in that burning, feverish dream between past and present, what made you take up the shield. Duty.

Never again.

"We're going." Your voice is even, calm. You'd known what was going to meet you here, you'd prepared for it. You're beyond rage, beyond wrath—it's just duty now. You've always protected by dealing death. This is your normal—nothing more than another arrogant monster who thinks they can get away with anything.

"I can't sense anything ahead of us. We don't give them any more time to prepare." She turns to your sister, and you catch a glimpse of the cold fury in her eyes. "Niamh, leave the Servants to us. Don't approach Melusine. Understand?"

To her credit, Niamh doesn't refuse. She sucks in a sharp breath like she's about to, but one glance at you and she deflates like a punctured tyre. You give her a short nod, and she smiles back at you, but after that you can't spare any more thought for her. Your heart is pumping in your ears, blood rushing through you quicker and quicker as your anticipation builds—every fibre of your being alight with nerves and energy, like you'd swallowed lightning and it was desperate to get out.

Jeanne vanishes in the blink of an eye, the speed of a Servant carrying her forward as Sanson and Marie flicker into being a few steps behind her, and you suck in a breath and start to sprint.

Before you moved fast, now you're moving like greased lightning, your Servants materializing at your side as you rocket off. Niamh can't keep up, not completely, but it doesn't matter. Seven Servants—six and a half, at least. Nothing standing between you and the city, you and the bonfire, you and the monsters that did all this. You can't even feel the heat of the burning pyre, can't hear the roar of the flames, can't taste the ash and smoke. Everything surrounding your assault is immaculate. Flawless.

Just right.

The words fire through your mind like a gunshot, dried-blood eyes widening as your silent Instinct suddenly starts to scream. Your shield is on your arm in an instant, only seconds before your view of Jeanne and her Servants is blocked by a titanic mass of dark brown fur, beady, furious eyes, and claws as sharp as swords.

Baby Bear's swipe launches you off your feet, but with your shield between you and it the worst it does is disorient you for a moment. Whatever spell it had cast on you was broken when you set eyes on it, and as the rush of heat and sound and stench trample through your mind and compete for your attention you focus on your sight—you can see the other two as well, Father Bear's claws wreathed in dark red flames, while Mother Bear's fur is frozen into icy armor. They're half again as big as they were back when you first fought them, and even after having broken through the third bear's illusion, all it takes is a growl and a surge of mana and the trio are already blurring again, like you're seeing them through a heat haze. They're not just bigger, their abilities are even more potent.

It's not hard to guess why. This close, you can practically feel the tethers between them and the bonfire.

Archer's first volley of arrows is burnt to cinders by Father Bear's breath, and you realise that if you don't take charge of this, you're going to lose any chance you have at cutting off the head of the snake. The bears might be glorified familiars, but they were operating with cunning—Jeanne and her Servants never even noticed them. They're in the city now, and by the time they realise that you've been separated, whatever lies behind those walls could keep them trapped inside. Seven Servants gave you a fighting chance. Three would leave you with nothing.

The mental calculus doesn't take long. More powerful doesn't mean more powerful than a Servant. One to take care of the bears and three moving forward without delay is better than abandoning Jeanne, even for a minute. With Niamh, all it'll take is one Servant.

[ ] Yourself. You can't risk it. If Melusine is inside the city, you're the only one here who can hope to defend against Arondight—and if you can keep her busy inside, you don't have to worry about her snatching Niamh.

[ ] Archer. Out of all the Servants on your side, Archer has the most raw power. Last time, you had to fight Melusine alone. This time, with Archer at your side, you have a fighting chance. You're not casting it—her—aside.

[ ] Circe. With her magic and the bright sun shining down on her, there's no question that she could keep the bears stalled—or maybe even kill them. It'll mean leaving your most versatile Servant outside the city while you fight at least two powerhouses, but you'll have to take that risk.

[ ] Goemon. He's less suited to direct combat, but he doesn't have to kill them, just keep them busy. It might be more prudent to get rid of them right here and now, but you don't have that kind of time—you'll just have to risk that it, and they, won't come back to bite you.