Fate/Ethereal Order

Shielder Edward Dempsey, courtesy of the talented Estyy.

A couple sacrifices had to be made for the sake of making him actually drawable, mostly nerfing his chains to a more reasonable style, but I think they really captured both the idea of Ed as a magus and Shielder and Ed as someone who needs a solid decade's worth of sleep at this point.

Archer, commissioned from FumaFu, who is just phenomenal. I really can't tell you how blown away I was when I got this back, and I really cannot encourage you enough to check out their stuff.

I'm incredibly happy with this piece—it's a fantastic summation of exactly what Archer is, where she's coming from, and why she is the way she is now. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

It feels like looking through stained glass—everything smudged, blurry, distorted. A memory that doesn't belong to the knight, a story told second-hand and imagined with all the flaws of a copy's copy. Even so, that hair is familiar to you—not a perfect match, but familiar. The red eyes beneath, you've seen those before too, when the woman who called herself Briar Rose stood in the light of the flames.

The boy before you couldn't be more than thirteen, a lavish dinner of meat and vegetables drowning in some fragrant sauce set before him as the dining hall is filled with sound and heat and people, all muted until he can barely perceive them, roar and laugh as they may. Just across the table sat another boy, younger, perhaps seven or eight. The same meal sat in front of him, but where he ate it happily, the older boy merely picked and prodded at his dinner, the knife in his hand used more to poke at the meat than anything else.

He should start to cut the meat soon. Claudas was a kind jailor, but if the boy chose to act out, it wouldn't take much to change that. After all, he had destroyed their lives once before, when they had had parents, friends, an entire castle and a kingdom to go along with it. Even when they had been hidden, Claudas had wormed his way into their lives once again, tore them away from the gentle knight who had kept their secret as their mother's final request before she was forced into exile. In the face of such naked greed and ambition, a simple cruelty such as reminding the boy of his imprisonment would be as easy and effortless as breathing.

The boy hated. Hated Claudas, of course, the man who had plunged them into this nightmare, but such hatred wasn't content with but a single target. It bubbled and seethed inside the boy, latching on to each and every person he could find the slightest justification for. He hated Dorin, Claudas's cruel son, who was as free with his blade and his fist as he was with his foul mouth. He hated Pharien, who had let this injustice happen when he had allowed his wife to have the secret seduced from her. He hated himself for letting this farce continue with a smile, living as a dutiful ward to the man who destroyed his life, solely for the sake of his brother.

The knife in his hand stilled, and he dared a glance across the table.

He would not hate Bors. He refused to. But in the face of this torment, this imprisonment, being forced to look at the man who usurped his father's kingdom and brought about his death through sheer grief and then smile and nod and swear loyalty for when he would inherit Gannes—

All for the sake of a little boy who could not even remember his parents, who had never known what he had lost, what had been stolen from him before his fourth birthday.

The boy's grip tightens, and once more he pokes at his dinner with the knife.

He should start to cut the meat soon, lest Claudas ask if something is wrong.

Dorin is speaking—shouting, really. It's the same drivel as always, except tonight was the celebration of Claudas finally knighting him, and so it seemed his puffed-up chest held inexhaustible breath. Extolling his virtue and prowess, as if he did not spend his time killing men and beasts for pleasure. As if it hadn't taken so long for him to be knighted because Claudas worried he would simply revolt. As if he wasn't a wretch too in love with himself to even consider that he was a monster, just like his father, and that everyone he spoke to knew that.

He should cut the meat soon. Bring down the knife and slice.

Dorin is calling him—never his name, always his title. Prince. A cruel joke, even knowing Claudas intended for him to inherit Gannes once he came of age. The boy ignored him and his jeers, his hatred boiling beneath the skin, young Bors too absorbed in the delicious dinner to pay attention, too young to share the nightmare. The boy said nothing, did nothing, simply allowed the words to pass over and through them as they had done so many times before—

Dorin spoke of the boy's mother, and how she was likely spreading her legs for a room and food.

Dorin spoke of the boy's father, and how he was burning in hell for his cowardice and weakness.

The boy gripped his knife tighter.

Rising to his feet, he lunged forward, too fast for anyone to stop him, too fast for Dorin to do anything but open his eyes wide as he saw the glint of steel.

The boy cut the meat.

Hot, wet blood stained the boy's finery, splattered across his face, but he didn't blink. He watched Dorin's eyes bulge as his hands went to his throat, far too late to stop the blood that flowed like water, listened as he gurgled and choked as he sank to his knees, breathed deep as the scent of copper flooded the room a heartbeat before the screams did.

He looked at Claudas, at the man's shocked face, and he smiled.

The boy and his brother were whisked away after, the Knight of the Lake had said, transformed into greyhounds and spirited away to live with the faeries, with him. He and the boy had become sworn brothers there—they had already been cousins twice over, it was no grand leap. He told the story mournfully, regretfully, as though he might have done something to stop it despite being no less a child.

He simply could not hate the person that little prince had become, no matter what he did. Not him. Not—

Avenger whips her hand back like she'd been stung at the same time as you wrench yourself away, just barely keeping yourself from smashing your face in as you slam down to the ground hard and cough up what little air you'd managed to hold onto. You can feel Shielder's powers at the edge of your consciousness, enough so to show you that vision of Avenger's past, but it keeps slipping away at the last second—and even when they return, what can you do? Your lungs burn, your muscles ache, the bleeding has yet to stop from the wounds that cover your body and above all else, the burn from your circuits is intense enough to distract you from the bonfire's heat. You may be empowered, but you won't be healed. Even so, you need to move. Avenger and Caravaggio are close by, you're lucky they haven't struck already—all you need to do is find the strength to move, just a little, but the adrenaline is wearing off and your borrowed powers aren't returning fast enough.

The noise of clashing swords and roaring flames and surging spells echoes inside your skull, and you summon everything you have as you try to move. One push raises you off the ground, arm shaking like you're in the midst of an earthquake, and then another herculean effort rolls you up onto your back—and that's it. Your strength fails you again. You can't move.

"Master!"

"Archer, wait—!"

Archer's voice cuts through the chaos, cuts through Circe's voice, and a moment later your circuits flare once again, the roar of Archer's thunder drowning out your groan of pain. A heartbeat passes and she's at your side, and you barely catch a glimpse of her purple eyes wide with worry before your vision smears into a blur and your aching body rockets through the air in her arms. You land with her on top of the roof you saw Goemon and Niamh on as you fell, your sister immediately kneeling at your side as Archer sets you down, saying something but you don't, can't pay any attention to them, to her. You need to know what happened after your duel with Caravaggio, need to know how things are playing out beyond the half-blurred glances you snatched as you collapsed.

The swirling torrent of barely restrained hunger demands your attention first thing, and for just a moment it's all you can do to take it in. The creature's stomach alone dwarfs Marie, and even from this angle you can see the wild grin on its face as it devours the bonfire—not satisfied simply with inhaling the mana directly, but crystallizing the flames themselves into burning rubies that it gorges itself on. Even now, the sheer hunger tugs at your strength—if Jeanne hadn't used that Command Spell, you don't know how long you'd have lasted. Marie staggers under the weight, head bowed low, but she doesn't kneel, and she doesn't falter. Giving in to the Madame Déficit would be worse than death for her.

"Stop her!"

Buné's voice roars out in almost hysterical rage, and you watch as he plunges his hands into the bonfire. Tongues of flame wrap around his arms before sinking inside them and you realise he's trying to absorb what he can—but even from this distance, you can tell he's too slow. Faced with the embodiment of endless, senseless gluttony, not even a demon can compare.

It doesn't stop the others, though.

Melusine makes no movement at all, but it's a small mercy as you realise just why Circe called out to Archer. The two had been keeping Jeanne Alter at bay together, but when Archer left to rescue you, she left Circe to fend for herself. Spears of ice form and lunge at the corrupted saint as fast as Circe can speak, but as the bonfire dims it seems like Alter's flames grow more and more intense. They consume her sword, extending every swing and forcing Circe on the defensive as the whiplike blaze whirls around her, and from the sword they spread further and further, burning across the black chestplate of her armor and down her other arm until it too is consumed, transformed from a limb clad in armor to one clad in flames, her hand sheathed in, replaced by an enormous burning claw. Circe is powerful, versatile, skilled beyond measure—but she isn't meant for this, and Jeanne Alter knows it.

"Outta my way!"

You open your mouth to order Archer back into the fight—she hasn't left your side, hasn't let you go even after setting you down—but it's too late. The next volley of icicles Circe creates evaporates before she can launch them, and the flickering cyan shield she conjures up a heartbeat before Jeanne Alter slams the fiery claw straight into her stomach is all that saves her. You cry out her name as she goes flying, crashing through one, two, three buildings in a row before finally coming to rest, and all that stops you rushing to her side is the slow trickle of mana you feel flowing from your soul to hers—that, and the fact that Archer's grip grew tighter when you started moving.

The dark saint doesn't pay you any heed, whirling to face Marie and grinning a savage grin, her teeth growing sharper until it echoes Buné's shark-smile, drawing her sword back to her side and grabbing the blade with her claw, the flames bleeding red, then purple, then deep, all-consuming black. All that stands between her and Marie are Sanson and Gilles.

The knight and executioner clash again and again—Gilles taking the advantage with each and every flash of his blade. It's hard to tell whether it's down to Buné's empowerment or Sanson's loss of his arm, but it doesn't matter as long as the outcome is the same. Every clash pushes Sanson back an inch, every deflection and block coming slower from the last. Even so, he stands, teeth grit in a determined snarl as he sends Gilles's blade skyward with a grunt of effort, stepping forward and slamming his shoulder into the knight's chest. All it does is push him back a few steps and force him to let out a surprised grunt, but it's enough. Sanson gained back the ground he lost.

"Move or die Gilles!" Jeanne Alter snarls as the heat from her blade grows so intense you can feel it even from this distance, and with a roar the draconic knight slams his blade down against Sanson's once more, their swords held in trembling hands as each puts more and more force into the clash, locking them together without moving a single inch.

"You heard her." Gilles's voice is a quiet rasp, calm and collected despite the situation. He doesn't move an inch, and neither does Sanson.

"I stole her life once. Paying my own to keep her safe is a fair trade." Behind him, Marie flinches just a bit, turning as best she can to look at him in horror—but Sanson doesn't see. "I will not allow you—allow anyone to harm Maria while I draw breath!"

"I see." Silence, for just a moment. Then—

"Jeanne, do it."

There's no time between the words and the roar of flame, the blackened saint thrusting her blade forwards as the torrent of hellfire rushes forth, black as sin and hot enough to make your eyes water. You watch as the cobblestone beneath is consumed and sublimated in an instant, watch as the air itself catches ablaze before the lesser flame is devoured by the unholy conflagration. The bonfire has shrunk, dimmed, but not enough—if the fire reaches them, Gilles, Sanson, and Marie will be consumed utterly, but what can you do about it? None of your Servants besides Circe can defend against something like that, and without your powers you'd need a miracle to save them in time.

"Dumas!"

One moment, there was nothing between the firestorm and its victims—and then Jeanne appeared, armor shimmering brighter than ever, her standard set against the ground as the flag began to unfurl. At her side materializes Dumas, pen flicking rapidly across the heavy book he carries in his hand, a magnificent smile on his face as he looks up at the saint and gives her a nod. In the instant before the flames strike, he whispers something—something drowned out in Jeanne's roar.

"Luminosité Éthérée!"

Jeanne's flag unfurls with a blinding rush of pure, golden light, so bright and intense that you have to shield your eyes. It meets the oncoming darkness of her Alter's flames and splits the inferno clean in two, the black flames carving twin burning trenches to either side of the bonfire. It lasts only a moment until you see Jeanne's face again, but you recognise the way she trembles, the way sweat beads down her neck, the near-manic look in her eyes—she held out against a sea of destruction, just like you did in Fuyuki.

"Jeanne!"

Marie's voice pierces the stunned silence of the battle, and right before your eyes you watch as she plunges her hands deep into the bonfire, heedless of the heat and the pain and the sickening stench of burning flesh. It begins to crystallize faster, the gemstone veins spreading further and further, and though he howls and screams his rage, Buné cannot stop it. He tears away his hands just in time to escape them being consumed by the gemstones, left to watch as the bonfire crystallizes completely—only to shatter into a million tiny rubies, a scarlet rain refracting the morning sun into a billion fragments of scarlet light. For a split second, your world sparkles crimson, and then the Madame Déficit gives one last greedy gulp, inhaling what's left of the bonfire and licking its stomach-teeth with that gemstone tongue. Once its meal is done, it lets out a monstrous scream of triumph before it too begins to shatter, the caricature vanishing so the true queen may take her place once again—panting with exertion, the skin of her hands burnt away and leaving only skeletal ruby claws beneath, but standing tall nevertheless.

Where once laid a fire stoked with thousands of souls, there was nothing—only ashes in the wind and scorch marks on the stone to mark that Buné's trump card had ever existed.

There is a moment's peace before the dragon begins to roar.

Buné's skyward scream of rage swells in intensity and power until it feels less a sound and more a force, a physical thing pressing on you from all sides as if to crush you with the sheer force of his wrath itself. It's an ugly, brutal sound, a cry born of purest anger, enough to make you all flinch away—even the saint. When he drops his head once again, those black-and-scarlet eyes are wide with rage, flicking between each and every one of you, the draconic demon seemingly trying to figure out who to vent his anger on first.

"Buné?"

Gilles speaks, his voice quiet, and seals his fate.

"YOU! FAILURE!"

A sound fills the air—like glass breaking, but sharper, more painful. One moment, Gilles de Rais stands with his eyes wide, staring at Jeanne Alter, and the next he collapses to his knees. You see her watch dumbly as Gilles's head bursts into scarlet flames, his sword clattering to the ground as Jeanne and Dumas take a step back from the horrific sight. He doesn't scream, doesn't speak—there is no noise at all, save for the crackle of the flames. He slumps forward and hits the ground with a dull thud, and the flames grow more and more intense, consuming his skull until nothing remains—and then darting back towards Buné, coalescing in his outstretched hand. It isn't hard to understand what it was, not after seeing how Gilles survived Sanson's blow. Buné's blessing, his "head", torn away the instant Gilles had failed him.

"You—!" Jeanne Alter whirls, sword held at the ready as she lunges at Buné, but she can only manage a single step before she freezes in place, eyes bulging in her skull as her flame-clad arm wraps itself around her throat and tightens its grip. He rounds on her, footsteps scorching the ground beneath him as he thrusts his hand forward and shoves the poisonous scarlet fire into her stomach.

"You do not get to talk, you miserable little thing. I created you, I made you out of that idiot's delusions, and you belong to me. You will speak when I tell you to, do what I tell you to do, and nothing else!"

She fights it—you can tell. The power she'd already had mingles with the power Buné forces on her and she fights it with everything she has, but it's useless. The whites of her eyes slowly fade to pitch, and even from the distance you're at, you can see them shift from human to reptilian. She stills once again, seizing up and letting out a sharp hiss, before her stance relaxes and she turns to face you all—eyes empty, expression utterly blank, and even Jeanne takes a step back at the sight. What Buné had done went beyond a simple Command Spell—if he was telling the truth about what she was, if she really was a fake he had created, then he'd snuffed her out just as easily, made her an extension of himself, just for daring to snap back at him.

The thought makes you sick.

Sparks fly from behind his teeth as his chest heaves, his rage burning so hot he's practically panting from the sheer intensity. His demonic eyes flick back and forth, searching for a new target, and as soon as they land on you he freezes. With Archer's arms still wrapped tightly around you you can't move even as familiar strength starts to flow into your limbs, the exertions of your battle with Caravaggio feeling slightly more distant as Shielder's power returns—but you can't defeat Buné. Not like this, not as you are now. Escape is the only option.

The thought to kill you crosses his mind, you can practically feel it, see the way his clawed hands curl, see the tension in his muscles—but then he laughs, his razor-sharp teeth glinting in the morning light as he shakes his head and just laughs. The manic flash in his eyes is still there, you can practically feel the rage rolling off him like a heat-haze, but he's found something funny in the situation, something funny enough to not gut you right there and then.

"You…oh, you poor little fool, you thought you had me! You really, really thought you did it, didn't you? That you could just waltz up to my perfect plan and ruin it all—that I'd be helpless if you ruined my blaze, didn't you? Didn't you!?" One of the eyes set in his chest opens wider, writhing against its confines, but a moment later it seizes up and stops in place. "Let me tell you a little secret, Chaldea. Oh yes, I know who you are—Bael was very eager to broadcast his success!"

The name makes your breath catch in your throat, and from the savage grin Buné gives you you know he could hear it.

"You haven't beaten me—you can't beat me, you miserable human filth. You can't. All I have to do is start over…oh yes, the forest will make nice kindling, all the souls trapped there…all I have to do is burn it once again and this, this meaningless setback will be nothing but a bad memory." His breathing starts to return to normal, his fury residing as he raises a hand to clutch at his skull, massaging it with slow, gentle movements. "Each and every one of you is going to die, and then I'll just do it all again, make myself new toys, make sure they won't break this time, won't disobey. And—and you know what? You know what? Even if you did kill me it wouldn't matter."

He brings a hand to his chest, the eyes of his fellow demons glowing scarlet as he does.

"The Goetia are many but our power sings to that of our brethren—we can't be killed the same way you wretches can. Someone would find me, us, and they'd just take up our power. And if you tried to hide us away, we'd find your precious Chaldea and burn it to cinders. Do you understand, Chaldea? Do you? Do you?" The gleam in his eye turns spiteful, his reptilian visage twisting into a cruel approximation of a smirk. "Even if you "won", you'd still lose. You can't beat us. You can't beat me. Especially—"

He whips his head round to Jeanne, standing beside Dumas, and his lips curve up to reveal a few more teeth.

"Especially not with her. You've been a very poor excuse for a saint, Jeanne. You should know I wasn't fooled for an instant."

She doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't breathe. Buné is relishing this, relishing the confusion—everything is back in his control now. Everything resting in the palm of his hand, everyone dancing along to his tune. His tantrum is over—now it's all about punishment, about revenge. About putting his toys in their place.

Beside you, Niamh shudders softly.

"Your words will not sway me, demon. The Lord is with me." Jeanne lifts her standard towards Buné, the white-and-gold flag fluttering softly in the wind, her pale armor resplendent in the gentle morning light. Her voice is strong, but there's—something. She stays close to Dumas, who doesn't vanish into spiritual form despite the threat. Her breath comes quicker than usual, her gaze focused but—afraid?

"The Lord was with her. Not you. Never you. Oh, how she must loathe watching you blaspheme while bearing her name—do they know? The silly little playthings you'd have fight and die for the Maid of Orléans?"

The implications aren't lost on you—on anyone. Sanson and Marie glance towards her from the edge of the bonfire's ashen markings, confusion writ on their faces, and just the sight is enough to draw another spurt of cruel chuckling from Buné.

"This, this is why you couldn't ever win. Just one reason among thousands. Your precious little saint was lying to you the whole time—"

"Be silent." Jeanne's voice cuts through the air, but Buné continues.

"Lying! Such a disgusting thing to do, such a human failing! But we don't lie, Jeanne, not us, not the Goetia—we're better than you! Isn't that right, Jeanne? Isn't that right—"

"Shut up!"

"Faker!"

There's no flash of light, no roar as the deception unveils before you. One moment, you see Ruler, wreathed in gentle radiance and standing strong against a demon who had devoured its own kin for power—then you blink, and she is gone. Her armor is simple steel, grey and dull. Her standard bears an empty white flag, the golden symbol simply gone. Her golden hair, so like a halo, is just a simple, ordinary brown. She does not move, does not lower her standard, but you can see the despair in her eyes.

The spell is broken. You know who stands before you—and it is not the Maid of Orléans.


For a moment, the only sound in the city is Buné's mocking giggle. No one speaks, no one seems to even draw breath—Sanson and Marie's expressions are unreadable, and while Dumas squeezes Jeanne's shoulder, his face is set in a determined grimace. What can you say? What can you add to this? Your hope from the beginning had been that it was Jeanne d'Arc that fought beside you, a genuine saint to battle a demon. Now—now you know the truth. She's just an imitation, someone wielding power that doesn't belong to her.

Aren't you the same?

The thought makes you laugh despite yourself—a simple, single bark of bitter amusement, but Buné notices. Ugly rage darkens his gaze again, but he's committed to his facade of control even as he twists the knife as much as he can—instead of lashing out, he gives a regal wave.

"Avenger. You were close beforehand, you managed to trick this simple-minded, wannabe knight—the honor is yours. Kill him."

Your gut twists in on itself as Archer pulls you closer, your gaze flicking towards Avenger and bracing yourself for her to raise her blade and—

"No."

"...What did you say?"

"Are you so in love with your own voice that you've become incapable of hearing another's? I refuse." She looks at Buné, not you, but you can see the scorn in her eyes, hear the contempt in her voice. "You are an evil creature reveling in the suffering of the innocent. You have bound me to your will twice thus far, forced me to dishonor myself with lies and deception—rotten though I am, you disgust me."

"You…you—!" Buné's eyes bulge and his chest swells as his rage once again takes hold, brimstone and ash clogging your senses as his throat flickers with burning light—but instead he simply raises a clenched fist, the scarlet markings of his contract shining on his scales.

"By the power of my Command Spells, I order you—all of you but Avenger, return to the forest this instant."

Jeanne Alter, Matchstick, Melusine—they vanish in a flash of crimson light, Melusine's wordless cry of protest cut off after a heartbeat. All that's left is Avenger, standing resolute with her head held high before Buné—and Caravaggio, sneering over at the creature as he clutches the hole you put through his chest and chuckling to himself as he sways on his feet.

"H-Hahahah, you fucking fool. Forgot how to count to three with me, did you? Hah!"

You can practically hear the near-metallic screech from Buné grinding his teeth, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters now, really—all that matters is the escape. The flight. You need some way to make it happen, some way to fix it—

Marie.

It's a struggle to force yourself not to look at her, to avoid giving away your desperate idea, but you can't risk Buné figuring it out, not when he's throwing this tantrum, not when he's distracting himself. Your strength has returned enough that you can squirm out of Archer's grip, enough that you can fight just for a bit—if you time this right, you can do it. Below, Buné is still roaring.

"All of you—all of you are worthless. Meaningless. If you'd just done as I said, just obeyed me, then I wouldn't have to do this—this is all your fault. Your mess to clean up! Even if I have to force you."

You can feel the Command Spell coming this time, feel the condensed miracle practically screaming to be let loose—and you make a choice.

<"Archer, Goemon, get Circe, get everyone together, and get Marie. I'll buy some time—when she has her carriage ready, we'll escape.">

<"Master!">

<"You—">

You cut off the connections, summoning your shield and leaping forward—if you can distract him for a few moments, you can salvage this.

"Wait!" Niamh's voice follows you, and you can't cut it off like you can your Servants'. Fortunately, Goemon does it for you as he drags her away. "Ed—!"

As you land your body screams out in pain—your legs burn and ache, your throat is still raw, but you stand nevertheless. You stand, Avenger staring at you with an inscrutable expression, and you make sure that Buné is focused on you and you alone.

He sneers at you.

"Pathetic. What can you do like this, human? You're—you're a wretch. Not even worth dirtying my own hands."

You don't know if Goemon is doing as you ask—already, you can feel Archer lunging towards the battle instead of away. You don't know if this will even work—Marie might not have enough mana to use her other Noble Phantasm. You don't know if you'll even survive long enough to escape—you're facing down a demon who claimed the strength of three of his fellow Goetia.

You try to hit him anyway.

Buné shoves your shield away with contemptuous ease and you can't keep your balance enough to retaliate, stumbling back from him just in time to watch as a casual wave of his hand incinerates the winding thorns Avenger sent rocketing towards him. Archer leaps past you, her inch-long talons sparking with electricity, but Buné simply leans out of the way and grabs her arm as she passes, squeezing hard enough you hear bones crack before whirling on his foot and throwing her across the square. You don't have time to worry if she's okay, not with Buné right there, so you simply charge him again, aim the base of your shield right towards his head and—

You hit, you think. You feel resistance at least, but after a moment of surging hope, you see what's really happened. Even with the thick steel in his mouth, Buné can grin, his razor-teeth glinting as he scrapes them against your shield. Avenger lunges at him from behind and he simply dissolves into flames, reforming a few feet away from you, and you only barely raise your shield in time to block the kick he follows up with, strong enough to lift you off the ground and send you sailing backwards half the length of the square.

It hurts like hell—you can taste copper again, your throat raw and burning, but he's still focused on you.

"Want to die at my hand anyway, little Shielder? I don't blame you, really, I am the one who will win this war—but I thought I made myself clear. You don't deserve that honor." He raises his fist as he twists to look at Avenger, his voice dripping with malice."Enough distractions."

<"We're ready to go, Eddie!">

Goemon's voice flashes through your mind like a bolt of lightning, and immediately you relay the situation to Archer at the speed of thought, begging, pleading with her to retreat. You can sense her wavering for a moment, wanting nothing more than to stay by your side, but her obedience wins out over her need to protect you. The pull on your mana falters as she enters her spiritual form, and you prepare for the moment Buné is distracted enough that you can simply run. You can feel Marie's carriage weaving itself into form, you know that you're not far—this can work. This will work.

<"Master, I've returned to them—please hurry up!">

"With my final Command Spell, with the breaking of our contract, I order you, Avenger. Use your Noble Phantasm!"

Avenger gives a pained cry, and you falter just for a moment, just for an instant. You glance back at her, something raising in your chest at the sound, at the sight—and then Buné is in front of you, flames raging behind his twisted smirk.

"Now now. No running."

He wraps his claws around your arm and simply flings you aside, tossing you around like you're nothing. You land on your back hard enough to drive the air from your lungs, and for a moment you stare up at the sun above—then twisting, winding thorns raise up all around you, overlapping and choking their fellow vines until the light cannot penetrate it. You hear Archer cry out in your mind, but that too is cut off in an instant—in moments, as you stagger to your feet and raise your shield to try protect yourself, the only two people in the world are yourself and Avenger.

She is knelt on the ground, her hands clasped around the hilt of her sword as thorns erupt from it, piercing through her gauntlets and eagerly feeding on her blood, and when she raises her head to look at you with her beautiful violet eyes, you see for just an instant the barest whisper of regret.

"...So be it. This was not the outcome I desired, Sir Edward, but it was sure to happen all the same. The rotten tree tests the hero's resolve—perhaps Buné's idea of a joke." She shudders, crimson lightning arcing around her as Buné's final order, and the look in her eyes as she glares at you keeps you fixed in place—not that you could move much regardless, not with your injuries. That lousy excuse of a battle with Buné was the limit for you.

"I well and truly hate you, Edward Dempsey. I loathe it all—your kindness, your loneliness, your sickening heroism—I loathe everything about you, for they are the qualities that lead him to choose you." Despite her words, her lips curve into a small smile. "The purest of us all. The most peerless of us all. Fear not, Edward Dempsey. Have faith in the judgement of Sir Galahad."

The name rips through you like a bolt of lightning—the final remnants of your ignorance torn away in an instant, the connection inside you surging as she names the man who gave you your strength—revelation searing the pain from your body as you stare at her in shock, wordless and frozen still. The brambles that surround you shudder, whether from their growth or from something outside, but in your trance you can't think about a single thing besides her gentle voice and the words she speaks.

"Have faith. The painter is an irritating man, but he is perceptive. Sir Galahad has made a good choice. You are yourself a good person, Edward Dempsey. A hero, who must fell the villain to claim their rightful place as a champion of virtue." She closes her eyes, her smile growing wider, and you take a step forward before you can stop yourself. "So come now, O knight of Chaldea. Come do what is righteous—put an end to me, to the hatred that gouges my heart like a thousand thorns. Prove that you are worthy, or be slain by my hand."

"Wait—"

"Prove yourself as worthy as my brother." Avenger's eyes snap open, glowing a fierce scarlet. "I am Sir Lionel de Gannes, bestowed with the power of Briar Rose. I have slain the innocent and holy alike, solely that I may whet my blade with my brother's blood, that I may claim vengeance upon him for what he did to me! Come, hero, and slay this villain!"

She raises her head skyward, mana surging, and speaks—

"Briar Rose, Castle of Thorns!"

Thorns erupt from the ground, endless brambles surging forth, and as they pierce your skin you find yourself fading away—your eyelids heavy, your bones weary, your body too heavy to move. Before you, dark, diseased wood pierces through Avenger's torso and begins to drink of her blood, the foul tree growing moment by moment as her eyes drift closed once more—a rotten tree growing out of her sleeping body. Your own eyes drift shut involuntarily, and for a moment all you can feel is the writhing vines around you, your exhaustion so complete you can't even feel the pain of the thorns—

And then, nothing.

You wake to the sound of brush on a canvas.

Your eyes flicker open as you let out a groan—your aches and pains have returned with a vengeance now that you've awoken, and then you realise—you've awoken. You aren't dead. Your arms are covered in tiny punctures, your body still battered from your fight with Caravaggio, but you're alive.

"Get up, you lazy excuse for a muse. If I wasn't already nearly done, I might have decided to paint someone else!"

Caravaggio's voice makes you jump, pressing a hand to the ground to push yourself up—and immediately you feel a half-dozen thorns pierce your skin, a surge of drowsiness sluggishly flooding your body before it vanishes just as quickly. You recoil on reflex, trying to catch your bearings, and what you see barely helps. You're surrounded on all sides by Avenger's brambles and vines, wound tightly into a sealed "room", the thorns interwoven so flawlessly that light can't pass through them. It's only the flickering candle next to the painter's stool that illuminates it enough for you to see, and even then Caravaggio hogs the light for himself, his brush slashing and slicing across the canvas with the sort of speed and precision that only a true master could bring to bear. There's a single opening along the "wall", tall and wide enough for you to walk through, but it leads only to darkness.

"How are you—" You turn to Caravaggio, looking for an explanation, but he cuts you off.

"No time, Edward, no time! I must be quick—you made sure of that, oh you most certainly did! Hell of a fight, hell of a fight…"

He should be dead—you pierced his heart. But the man had not finished his work, and you almost smile at the absurdity of it all—if ever there was someone who would not die until the last brushstroke had set, it was him.

"Quickly now—I don't have much time, and neither do you. You have a job to do, after all.. Ask away, whatever it is you wish to know. I'll answer as I work."

You can't feel any of your connections, and though you woke this time, you can't be sure that you'll do it again should you fall asleep once more. Even so…

You can't ignore an offer as straightforward as that.

[ ] He'd known about Avenger, that much is clear enough—why didn't he tell you? Why didn't he explain who she was?

[ ] Buné was powerful, without question, but not infallible—Caravaggio has to know something about him, anything at all. Anything to help.

[ ] It's selfish, especially after the revelation you've just had, but—you have to know. Why you? Why did he see you, and not Galahad? Why did he want you to be his muse above any of the others?