Hereafter [Worm x Fate/Grand Order]
- Thread starter James D. Fawkes
- Start date
- Crossover
James D. Fawkes
Court Scribe
- Location
- Avalon (Isle of Mists)
It's not an easy question to answer. If we're talking a regular Grail War, it would depend an awful lot on what slots were still open, but in a setting like FGO and Hereafter in particular... Probably Weaver. There's some incongruence, but the same mindset of "preparing for the end of the world" would match better than she would with most of the other versions of herself.
Interlude QB: Morituri te Salutant
James D. Fawkes
Court Scribe
- Location
- Avalon (Isle of Mists)
Interlude QB: Morituri te Salutant
Queen Boudica was a worrier by nature.
If asked, she would say that she had always been that way, but it seemed that motherhood had sharpened that trait in her to a keener edge. Being queen had only extended that care and devotion out from her family to her people, to all those who thought her worth referring to with such reverence.
She liked that part of herself. There was something incredibly fulfilling about wielding a knife to carve up the latest catch for dinner instead of a sword to stab an enemy on the battlefield. The act of caring for other people warmed her heart, and the simple pleasure of offering a smile and a pat on the head for a job well done had easily carried her off to sleep at the end of a long day many a time before.
Boudica's heart was full of love, and that love belonged to all of her subjects, from the lowest to the highest born. Even if she wasn't really a queen in the same way as those exalted rulers of great nations spanning from sea to sea, that was okay, because it just left more room in her heart for the people she did rule over.
It was wrong to say that they were like her own children. No matter what, she would never know even a fraction of her people as well as she did her daughters, and as much as it pained her to admit, naturally, she could never love them on the same scale as the two beautiful girls she had brought into the world.
Even so, she loved them and she wanted the best for them. Their tribe, so tiny compared to the sprawling kingdoms of later years and the empire whose yoke they had tried so unsuccessfully to throw off, may not have been as her children, but they were her family.
Many of those people were now gone. Some had fought beside her and perished when their rebellion was crushed. Those who had escaped that fate had instead been put to the sword when Rome swept in to stamp out even the tiniest embers her crusade had sparked. Were she to impossibly return to life, those that remained might expect her to gather them all together and rise up again — a temptation that Boudica knew, in her bones, that she mustn't fall to.
And so, when she was given this miraculous second life, she closed herself from Britain so that her heart could survive.
But who she was at her core remained, and as she found herself on the side of Rome against this United Empire that slaughtered for pleasure and strategy and whatever whims struck their fancy, more people began to worm their way in, occupying space in her heart with all those she'd loved before.
Boudica the woman had lost everything and died. Boudica the Servant was slowly finding new people to love and worry over, because she was suddenly in command of a cohort of Roman soldiers, many of them young and untested, all of them looking to her for leadership, and every single one utterly ignorant of exactly how outclassed they were against the enemies they would inevitably face.
How could she not come to care for these men, after spending weeks trying to keep them all alive? Could anyone listen to them tell stories of the families waiting for them at home and be so cold-hearted as to think of them as expendable?
Boudica was a worrier by nature. Caring for others brought her joy and fulfillment.
And then, Queen Aífe sent her son, Connla, to call her to the Joyous Guard, and there, Boudica met a trio of children saddled with the burden of stopping the United Empire so that everything could go back to the way it was supposed to be.
Boudica wouldn't have been Boudica if her heart didn't stutter at the mere thought of those children marching towards danger, no matter how well-protected they were in fact.
"The rebellion is strong, but the oppressors are legion," said Spartacus from next to her. "The only failure is death. Even so, the rebellion continues on in the hearts of all those who fight the oppressors!"
Boudica smiled and shook her head. "You're right, Spartacus. Yes, I'm worried about the others, but all I can do now is look forward and trust that they can handle themselves."
Spartacus just kept grinning, never once turning to look at her. His eyes remained firmly fixed on the road ahead.
If only it was as easy as saying it. The mind might know that they were as safe as they could reasonably be, doing what they were and heading to fight who they were, but the heart could not be swayed by things like logic and reasoning.
The mother in her begged her to turn around and go to them, to abandon her mission and rush to their aid. Aífe was every bit her superior, both as a queen and as a warrior, and if there was something that the greatest woman warrior the British Isles had ever produced couldn't handle, then another mediocre Servant wasn't going to make a difference — but surely, that part of her argued, surely, something terrible would happen if Boudica herself wasn't there to make sure that no one got hurt. Surely, she would be the difference between life and death for one of those children.
Her fingers tightened on her chariot's reins.
She couldn't do it. What was needed now wasn't Boudica the mother or Boudica the queen. What was needed now was Boudica the warrior. Not the warm, cheerful woman who had smiled at her daughters and her husband and her people, but the fierce, vicious woman who had ripped apart Britain on her quest to avenge her family. She needed to embody that. Not a harmless housecat, graceful and affectionate, but a ferocious lioness, claws at the ready and teeth bared.
(She hated that side of herself. Not for what she'd done or the pain she'd inflicted, but for the way it made her think, for the way it made her act, and for the hollow chill it left in her chest afterwards. She didn't like where it led her.)
So she couldn't turn around and go back to them. They were counting on her to see this through, and Boudica the warrior would bring them the victory she never had in life.
"I'm sorry, everyone," she told the wind. "Even when I know better, I just can't help wanting to coddle you."
The howling wind that whipped her hair offered no answer and no solace. The people who deserved her words were too far away to hear them.
The journey was long and continued on, stretching out before her chariot. Her horses couldn't tire in the way mortal horses could, and neither could Boudica herself, but with all that time, she was left alone with her thoughts and her worries, and nothing she told herself could really, truly soothe them.
But that was nothing new. Doubts had plagued Boudica in everything she did from the moment her husband died, but a kind of terrible inertia carried her on as it had then. She was going, and so she kept going. She was fighting, and so she would keep fighting.
Now, she was on a mission to intercept the attack force moving on Lugdunum, and so she would see it through, because she must.
That, more than anything, allowed her to steel her heart and keep moving forward. Not the thought of duty, but the thought of all those still living there who would suffer under the attackers' cruelty. They had already been deemed expendable when last the United Empire had been forced out, and Boudica held no illusions that the Empire's attack dogs would think them any less so when they took the town again.
As much as she worried about the others, Boudica could not stomach the thought of what might happen to those innocent townsfolk, just barely recovered from their losses last time. The image alone made her nearly sick, of bodies strewn about the streets, lying in pools of red blood, of men, women, and children slaughtered indiscriminately, of the blackened burns left on those unlucky enough to have been caught up in the Empire's attempts to burn the city down behind them.
She would not let it happen again.
The pounding of her horses' hoofbeats became like war drums in her ears. Her thundering pulse quickened to match the tempo. Liquid fire pooled in her belly, waiting for the moment it would surge and spread through her limbs. The howling wind became as her people's cries for blood in the aftermath of her worst day, egging her on.
This was how Boudica prepared for battle. If she had been summoned as an Avenger, this would have been her every waking moment.
"Spartacus," she said in a voice like cold iron. "This should go without saying, but there is no surrender, this time. If they're willing to use innocent people as bait, then we offer them no quarter."
"The oppressors shall know our boundless fury," Spartacus agreed. "The shackles of oppression shall melt in the fires of our rage to become our swords and strike at the bleeding heart of tyranny."
"Good."
They fell back into silence after that for the rest of the journey. The distance they had to cover was over twice that of their comrades, and Boudica's horses were simply not the equals of Aífe's divine horses, so they couldn't travel as quickly, even if they weren't limited to having to use the roads and stay on the ground.
Eventually, however, inevitably, there came the tingle of her sixth sense, to let her know that there was a Servant nearby in that general direction. A powerful one, or perhaps simply a single ordinary Servant and several who were much weaker.
Boudica pulled on the reins of her chariot and steered her horses towards that presence — or rather, in the direction she felt it moving.
They were distressingly close to the mountain pass that would take them through to Lugdunum. Boudica angled it and arranged for that pass through the mountains to be at her back, so that she only had to fight in one direction instead of watching for a sneak attack.
Once her chariot had come to a stop, she and Spartacus dismounted, and as she drew her sword and checked the fastenings on her targe, Spartacus' own sword materialized in his hand as though it had never left it, fading instantly into existence. His ever-present grin grew even broader, so wide that she could see the dark pink of his gums.
"The oppressors draw near!" he announced excitedly. "The time of rebellion approaches! My love grows hotter with every second!"
"Yes," Boudica answered, "let's get a better look at who or what we're dealing with."
It didn't take long. Bare minutes after Boudica's chariot had stopped, a column of red shields came down the road at a clipped, careful trot, slower than a man sprinting all out, but so consistent that it was undoubtedly faster in the long term. Twenty men in Roman armor, each of them carrying a spear in one hand and a sword at the hip.
Leading them was a grizzled officer. He, too, was dressed in Roman armor, but it looked like an older model than his subordinates, with more decorations and a more ornate design, befitting a revered Heroic Spirit who had distinguished himself from his legion. A helmet covered most of his head and his clean-shaven face, but one blue eye stared out at them. The other, on his left side, was a milky white. Useless. A jagged scar that ran from his brow, over it, and halfway down his cheek told the tale of some terrible trauma that must have inflicted the wound.
To remain and linger even after death, immortalized into him as a Heroic Spirit, it must have been a defining attribute of his legend.
The officer — the Servant, almost certainly, since his presence was stronger than the others — commanded his squad to stop in perfect Latin, and they all stomped to a halt about twenty feet away from Boudica and Spartacus. Then, he shouted another order in Latin, and forty feet thumped as twenty shields clattered into formation, spears jutting out at the ready.
He did not, on the other hand, give the order to attack. Yet.
"Queen Boudica," he greeted her in a voice as smooth as wine and deep as the ocean. "So. You've come, truly."
"Yes," she said coldly. "To prevent you from reaching Lugdunum."
"We need not pretend otherwise," he began diplomatically. "You know as well as I that my orders were never to sack the city itself, only to draw your attention away from the others. No violence need be visited upon Lugdunum or its people."
"Again, you mean?" she asked with frosty heat.
"Not so long as it comes under the United Empire's control," the Servant went on smoothly. "If you prefer, we could even arrange it so that you were its…provincial governor, shall we say? I'm certain neither side would have any reason to provoke a response so long as a Servant of your caliber was in control of it."
And suddenly, she understood his game.
"You're offering me to join you."
It was quite clever, actually. Not particularly like the standard Roman response to their enemies and second or third class citizens, either. A threat and a promise both: "Come to our side and give us this territory you already control, and there will be no need to risk the safety of the people living there." The easiest way to defeat your enemy was to make them your ally, after all. It was how her people had originally secured their own safety, before her husband's death had seen Rome try to steal it away.
The Rome she knew wouldn't have even bothered with the pretense of negotiation. Not if they felt they could just take whatever it was they wanted.
"You have no reason not to," the Servant pointed out. "You and I both know: you have no love for Emperor Nero or for Rome. You owe them no allegiance. In fact, you have more reason even than I to see the whole edifice torn down and the earth upon which it stands salted. You, who suffered and died at the cruelties of this decrepit Rome, would you not help us destroy it and rebuild a new, more glorious empire?"
It was a tempting thought. Boudica would have been a liar if she dared to claim that no part of her wanted to agree with him, because even as a Rider, the ache of the injustices she and her family had been forced to suffer still burned. After all, the woman who had died cursing Rome had, because of when and how she died, never gotten the chance to let those passions cool. Queen Boudica's legend ended with the sting of her defeat, the cruelties inflicted upon her unpunished and the crimes committed against her unrepaid.
But…
Spartacus chuckled. "Hahahaha! The oppressors change their faces, but they cannot hide the stench of their tyranny! A change of clothes cannot sway the cause of justice! My love cannot be smothered by a pleasant sight!"
"Spartacus is right," Boudica said levelly. "The atrocities committed by Rome can never be forgiven. I can't forgive them, not for what they did to me and my daughters, and not for what they did to my people. Even so… If the new empire you and your masters are trying to build is built on the corpses of innocent civilians, then it will be no better than the Rome you're trying to topple now."
Even if she hated Rome and she hated Nero and the pain of her suffering and her daughters' suffering still burned in her gut, what would be gained by tearing down Rome just so these Roman defectors could build a new Rome, just as terrible and just as unjust as the original? She couldn't be so selfish that she would seek her own personal satisfaction, not when there were people in need of protection and a greater purpose in seeing Rome returned to its proper place.
And besides, there was a future where Rome's own decadence would one day bring it down, if only this era could be put back on track. She would not be around to see it, but she could take solace in the fact that the Empire's own corruption would be its downfall.
The Servant's face drew tight.
"No empire has ever been built on peaceful thoughts and happy dreams," he told her. "The future cannot be bought with kind words and empty promises. It must be taken, its foundations cemented with the blood of those sacrificed to see it come into existence."
"An easy thing to say, when the blood being used isn't yours," she countered. "When the village being ransacked means nothing to you and the people dying are nothing but strangers. How convenient it is when it's always other people making the sacrifices."
"You think I haven't sacrificed?" the Servant growled. He thumbed at his ruined eye. "I've sacrificed plenty, and if my Caesar demanded I throw my body upon the altar so that my bones could be used as brick and my blood as mortar, the only thing I would ask is where I would best serve!"
"And yet, you're already dead," Boudica replied coldly. "The same as Spartacus and I. What value would your sacrifice have coming from someone who isn't actually alive in the first place?"
"The colosseum thrives on death," Spartacus added for good measure. "However, only the living may die. The restless dead can only howl and moan."
The Servant's lips curled into a sneer.
"Pah!" he spat. "It seems there's no reasoning with you. I don't know why I expected anything else from a barbarian whore!"
He shouted an order in Latin, and as he drew his sword, a standard Roman spatha, the twenty men behind him stomped the ground and let out an answering battlecry.
"This barbarian whore won't let you get any closer to Lugdunum!" She pointed with her sword. "Spartacus!"
"Hahaha!"
Spartacus leapt forward towards the formation, and the Servant shouted another order as he hefted his own shield. Spartacus crashed into it like a meteor, hacking away with his sword without any kind of grace or technique, just raw brutality. The nameless Roman Servant grunted but weathered the assault, keeping his large shield positioned between himself and Spartacus' sword.
Spartacus didn't seem to care. He kept laughing and hacking as though he was determined to wear the Servant down through sheer attrition.
Being fair to Spartacus, that wasn't exactly the worst plan of attack for him, considering how his Noble Phantasm worked.
The unknown Servant must have figured something like that out, too, because he shouted another order in Latin, and in between swings, he bashed his shield into Spartacus' face. Spartacus stumbled a few feet back, but he righted himself almost instantly, still laughing, even as blood streamed down his face from his nostrils.
He moved to reengage immediately, but the Roman Servant retreated after his blow and the line of his soldiers opened up only long enough to admit him, and then they closed around him. He became just another part of the formation, with his allies arrayed along either side like wings.
"Alae Scaeva!" the Servant shouted, addressing his men. "Promoveo!"
Twenty-one pairs of feet stomped as they answered him with another roar, their shields forming a wall of red. Each of them, Boudica could see now, depicted a sword with wings sprouting from the guard, gold patterned on a crimson background.
Spartacus crashed into them like a wrecking ball.
The line of shields bent slightly under the weight of his bulk and the strength of his blow, but they pushed him back just as quickly, and those not directly in the line of his attack jabbed at him with their spears through the small gaps in the formation. They bit into his unprotected flesh, scoring wounds along his muscular arms, his thighs, even his torso.
Spartacus just kept laughing.
"More!" he cried. "More! Yes, let me show you my love even more! This pain is the pain of my love! This ecstasy is the ecstasy of my love! Let my love overflow!"
Red blood splattered all over, staining his chest and limbs as more and more injuries accumulated, gouging out more and more flesh. Even as he was wounded, however, his wounds healed, sealing up, scabbing over, filling in, and something grotesque glowed and moved under his skin as his Noble Phantasm converted the damage into power.
It was hard to watch. Boudica wasn't the type of woman to stand back and sit on the sidelines as a battle unfolded before her, especially not when it was her allies and her friends who were doing the fighting. She ached to join in.
But Spartacus was in his element. Even more than that, he was getting stronger with every attack as his muscles bulged and his arm swung. His blood splattered all about the ground, and the thunderous force behind each blow shook the Earth, but he wasn't tiring and he wasn't slowing. Quite the opposite, because he got faster and more energetic with each passing second.
The soldiers had been aiming at first for his limbs, his joints, for disabling blows that would make Spartacus vulnerable for a follow up attack by one of the others in the formation — but Spartacus ignored them entirely, like he didn't even feel the pain, and kept battering at the Servant's shield as his wounds healed almost instantly.
When they realized that Spartacus was unaffected by the attacks meant to cripple him, they moved instead for more immediately dangerous attacks, aiming their spears for his head and his vital organs. They jabbed at his torso, trying to hit his kidneys, his liver, his stomach, his heart and lungs. They jabbed at his muscular thighs, perhaps trying to puncture one of the critical blood vessels therein, though Boudica herself didn't think that actually could kill a Servant.
Even when they found their marks, however, Spartacus was undaunted. Covered in his own blood, drenched red from his wounds, he only got faster and stronger, and the air howled with each pass of his blade. The strike of each landing blow was like the crack of thunder, shaking the world with their might such that even the trees quivered. Somehow, the Roman Servant kept his shield up and blocked them, although Boudica couldn't imagine how. Her arm ached just imagining being on the receiving end of those attacks, and her bones rattled even from here.
And still, she worried, because even seeing that their own attacks were only making Spartacus stronger, the Roman soldiers didn't change their strategy at all. They kept jabbing with their spears as Spartacus hammered away at their leader with single-minded intensity.
This couldn't be it, she found herself thinking. Their theory had been that this Servant's Noble Phantasm let him split himself into twenty separate warriors, and the coordination between him and his men seemed to bear that out, but if their enemy was clever enough to have sent a distraction force to divide them up and make them easier to beat, would they then send a Servant who couldn't do anything but mindlessly stab with their weapons at an opponent like Spartacus?
If this really was Julius Caesar's plan, where was the cunning? Where was the strategic genius? This just seemed…far too basic.
"Alae Scaeva!" the Servant suddenly shouted, and he gave another order to his twenty men. They bellowed a wordless answer, and then they fanned out, forming an arrow around Spartacus, with the leader at the tip.
Spartacus ignored them and swung his sword — except it was caught, this time, not by the enemy's shield, but by a gleaming, silver sword.
"Ah?" Spartacus stopped, confused.
"Your strength is formidable," the Roman told him. "My bones ache to match blades with you. However…I have suffered wounds far more grievous than a few aching joints, and I will not be defeated by a mere howling beast!"
And he pushed Spartacus' sword away, sending Spartacus stumbling back a step. Spartacus just grinned again and charged back towards him, but the Roman met him head on, and their swords clashing echoed with an unholy screech that set Boudica's teeth on edge as Spartacus was forced back a step again.
Something was happening, she realized. Something had changed, but what?
The Roman stomped forward before Spartacus could reengage, and now he was the one pushing Spartacus back, meeting him blow for blow and responding with punishing force. Boudica almost couldn't believe what she was seeing, even as Spartacus was driven back into the center of the soldiers' formation.
"Pin him down!"
The formation collapsed on Spartacus, and spears flew as they were thrown at him. Spartacus whirled about, trying for the first time to block them, but the Roman was already there, locking swords with him as several of the soldiers stabbed their spears through his legs and his feet and into the ground.
It wouldn't hold him long, but Boudica had a nasty suspicion it didn't need to.
"Spartacus!"
She kicked off the ground, racing towards the fray. A few of the soldiers turned to her as she approached, but she batted one aside with the face of her shield and parried the other's sword, sliding her blade across his throat with a smooth motion that she couldn't help thinking Aífe herself would have praised.
Spartacus swung wildly up ahead, smashing one soldier's head with his free arm, but with his legs skewered by almost half the squad's spears, he couldn't move very far or very well, and the rest of the legionnaires avoided his wrath by ducking out of the way once they had done their job. The Roman himself occupied his other arm, keeping his sword from swiping at any of the soldiers who got close.
Boudica was prepared to barrel through them, but they all gave the Roman and Spartacus a wide berth, retreating a safe distance. She didn't take time to think about why — the only reason the Roman would take care to immobilize Spartacus in the first place was to use a finishing move, a Noble Phantasm.
Alone with the Roman, Spartacus wound back for another swing, but the Roman stepped in and took it on his shield with a grunt, leaving his sword entirely free to do with as he pleased. He lifted it high above his head like an executioner's blade, and then he spoke.
"Ferrea Voluntate Scaeva."
"No!"
Boudica threw herself onto Spartacus' back, desperately swinging her shield up above his head to intercept the blow.
With an echoing CRACK, it split, and white hot pain surged up her arm. Someone screamed, high pitched and shrill — it was her, she realized.
The world spun. The sound of splintering wood popped in her ears, and the world moved around her, carrying her along for the ride.
When she opened her eyes again, the Roman was several meters away, scowling at her, and she was cradled in Spartacus's arms as he knelt protectively over her.
"Spartacus?"
"No rebellion can be without pain," he told her with what might be called regret, "but by overcoming pain, one can find the strength to do battle. This pain…is not the pain born of such strength."
She looked down —
"Oh."
And her left arm ended abruptly below the elbow, red blood still flowing from the wound.
How strange it was to be a Servant, she thought. A wound like this would likely have been a death sentence while she was alive, one way or another, and yet, here, as a Servant…
"It's fine," she said, and she slowly climbed to her feet. "I can still fight."
Spartacus hovered over her cautiously as she stood, his eyes still locked on the Roman Servant. The blood from his own wounds still ran over his body sluggishly as the shattered splinters of those spears were forced out of his flesh.
The remaining soldiers had moved back into formation, leaving their dead where they lay — actual bodies instead of vanishing spirits, and if there was time later, she would think about it then — and Boudica turned to face them with determination, her mouth set into a firm line and her back straight, like her arm wasn't missing at all. The wound hurt, but not nearly as much as she thought it should have, and although she was losing magical energy almost as quickly as blood, she was still stable enough, she thought, that she could at least last through this fight.
"It seems I underestimated you, Queen Boudica," the Roman said grudgingly. "Very well. Then as a sign of my respect, I shall tell you my name before you die again."
"The only one who's dying here today is you," she retorted confidently.
His lips pulled into a smirk on one side, a brief expression of mirth that was gone just as quickly.
"I am Marcus Cassius Scaeva," he said, "loyal servant of Gaius Julius Caesar, his most trusted subordinate."
He hefted his shield and brandished his sword. The soldiers behind him mimicked him as one.
"My Alae Scaeva and I will kill you in his name, so as to pave the way for the glory of his United Empire."
Next — Chapter XLVI: A Flesh Wound
Queen Boudica was a worrier by nature.
If asked, she would say that she had always been that way, but it seemed that motherhood had sharpened that trait in her to a keener edge. Being queen had only extended that care and devotion out from her family to her people, to all those who thought her worth referring to with such reverence.
She liked that part of herself. There was something incredibly fulfilling about wielding a knife to carve up the latest catch for dinner instead of a sword to stab an enemy on the battlefield. The act of caring for other people warmed her heart, and the simple pleasure of offering a smile and a pat on the head for a job well done had easily carried her off to sleep at the end of a long day many a time before.
Boudica's heart was full of love, and that love belonged to all of her subjects, from the lowest to the highest born. Even if she wasn't really a queen in the same way as those exalted rulers of great nations spanning from sea to sea, that was okay, because it just left more room in her heart for the people she did rule over.
It was wrong to say that they were like her own children. No matter what, she would never know even a fraction of her people as well as she did her daughters, and as much as it pained her to admit, naturally, she could never love them on the same scale as the two beautiful girls she had brought into the world.
Even so, she loved them and she wanted the best for them. Their tribe, so tiny compared to the sprawling kingdoms of later years and the empire whose yoke they had tried so unsuccessfully to throw off, may not have been as her children, but they were her family.
Many of those people were now gone. Some had fought beside her and perished when their rebellion was crushed. Those who had escaped that fate had instead been put to the sword when Rome swept in to stamp out even the tiniest embers her crusade had sparked. Were she to impossibly return to life, those that remained might expect her to gather them all together and rise up again — a temptation that Boudica knew, in her bones, that she mustn't fall to.
And so, when she was given this miraculous second life, she closed herself from Britain so that her heart could survive.
But who she was at her core remained, and as she found herself on the side of Rome against this United Empire that slaughtered for pleasure and strategy and whatever whims struck their fancy, more people began to worm their way in, occupying space in her heart with all those she'd loved before.
Boudica the woman had lost everything and died. Boudica the Servant was slowly finding new people to love and worry over, because she was suddenly in command of a cohort of Roman soldiers, many of them young and untested, all of them looking to her for leadership, and every single one utterly ignorant of exactly how outclassed they were against the enemies they would inevitably face.
How could she not come to care for these men, after spending weeks trying to keep them all alive? Could anyone listen to them tell stories of the families waiting for them at home and be so cold-hearted as to think of them as expendable?
Boudica was a worrier by nature. Caring for others brought her joy and fulfillment.
And then, Queen Aífe sent her son, Connla, to call her to the Joyous Guard, and there, Boudica met a trio of children saddled with the burden of stopping the United Empire so that everything could go back to the way it was supposed to be.
Boudica wouldn't have been Boudica if her heart didn't stutter at the mere thought of those children marching towards danger, no matter how well-protected they were in fact.
"The rebellion is strong, but the oppressors are legion," said Spartacus from next to her. "The only failure is death. Even so, the rebellion continues on in the hearts of all those who fight the oppressors!"
Boudica smiled and shook her head. "You're right, Spartacus. Yes, I'm worried about the others, but all I can do now is look forward and trust that they can handle themselves."
Spartacus just kept grinning, never once turning to look at her. His eyes remained firmly fixed on the road ahead.
If only it was as easy as saying it. The mind might know that they were as safe as they could reasonably be, doing what they were and heading to fight who they were, but the heart could not be swayed by things like logic and reasoning.
The mother in her begged her to turn around and go to them, to abandon her mission and rush to their aid. Aífe was every bit her superior, both as a queen and as a warrior, and if there was something that the greatest woman warrior the British Isles had ever produced couldn't handle, then another mediocre Servant wasn't going to make a difference — but surely, that part of her argued, surely, something terrible would happen if Boudica herself wasn't there to make sure that no one got hurt. Surely, she would be the difference between life and death for one of those children.
Her fingers tightened on her chariot's reins.
She couldn't do it. What was needed now wasn't Boudica the mother or Boudica the queen. What was needed now was Boudica the warrior. Not the warm, cheerful woman who had smiled at her daughters and her husband and her people, but the fierce, vicious woman who had ripped apart Britain on her quest to avenge her family. She needed to embody that. Not a harmless housecat, graceful and affectionate, but a ferocious lioness, claws at the ready and teeth bared.
(She hated that side of herself. Not for what she'd done or the pain she'd inflicted, but for the way it made her think, for the way it made her act, and for the hollow chill it left in her chest afterwards. She didn't like where it led her.)
So she couldn't turn around and go back to them. They were counting on her to see this through, and Boudica the warrior would bring them the victory she never had in life.
"I'm sorry, everyone," she told the wind. "Even when I know better, I just can't help wanting to coddle you."
The howling wind that whipped her hair offered no answer and no solace. The people who deserved her words were too far away to hear them.
The journey was long and continued on, stretching out before her chariot. Her horses couldn't tire in the way mortal horses could, and neither could Boudica herself, but with all that time, she was left alone with her thoughts and her worries, and nothing she told herself could really, truly soothe them.
But that was nothing new. Doubts had plagued Boudica in everything she did from the moment her husband died, but a kind of terrible inertia carried her on as it had then. She was going, and so she kept going. She was fighting, and so she would keep fighting.
Now, she was on a mission to intercept the attack force moving on Lugdunum, and so she would see it through, because she must.
That, more than anything, allowed her to steel her heart and keep moving forward. Not the thought of duty, but the thought of all those still living there who would suffer under the attackers' cruelty. They had already been deemed expendable when last the United Empire had been forced out, and Boudica held no illusions that the Empire's attack dogs would think them any less so when they took the town again.
As much as she worried about the others, Boudica could not stomach the thought of what might happen to those innocent townsfolk, just barely recovered from their losses last time. The image alone made her nearly sick, of bodies strewn about the streets, lying in pools of red blood, of men, women, and children slaughtered indiscriminately, of the blackened burns left on those unlucky enough to have been caught up in the Empire's attempts to burn the city down behind them.
She would not let it happen again.
The pounding of her horses' hoofbeats became like war drums in her ears. Her thundering pulse quickened to match the tempo. Liquid fire pooled in her belly, waiting for the moment it would surge and spread through her limbs. The howling wind became as her people's cries for blood in the aftermath of her worst day, egging her on.
This was how Boudica prepared for battle. If she had been summoned as an Avenger, this would have been her every waking moment.
"Spartacus," she said in a voice like cold iron. "This should go without saying, but there is no surrender, this time. If they're willing to use innocent people as bait, then we offer them no quarter."
"The oppressors shall know our boundless fury," Spartacus agreed. "The shackles of oppression shall melt in the fires of our rage to become our swords and strike at the bleeding heart of tyranny."
"Good."
They fell back into silence after that for the rest of the journey. The distance they had to cover was over twice that of their comrades, and Boudica's horses were simply not the equals of Aífe's divine horses, so they couldn't travel as quickly, even if they weren't limited to having to use the roads and stay on the ground.
Eventually, however, inevitably, there came the tingle of her sixth sense, to let her know that there was a Servant nearby in that general direction. A powerful one, or perhaps simply a single ordinary Servant and several who were much weaker.
Boudica pulled on the reins of her chariot and steered her horses towards that presence — or rather, in the direction she felt it moving.
They were distressingly close to the mountain pass that would take them through to Lugdunum. Boudica angled it and arranged for that pass through the mountains to be at her back, so that she only had to fight in one direction instead of watching for a sneak attack.
Once her chariot had come to a stop, she and Spartacus dismounted, and as she drew her sword and checked the fastenings on her targe, Spartacus' own sword materialized in his hand as though it had never left it, fading instantly into existence. His ever-present grin grew even broader, so wide that she could see the dark pink of his gums.
"The oppressors draw near!" he announced excitedly. "The time of rebellion approaches! My love grows hotter with every second!"
"Yes," Boudica answered, "let's get a better look at who or what we're dealing with."
It didn't take long. Bare minutes after Boudica's chariot had stopped, a column of red shields came down the road at a clipped, careful trot, slower than a man sprinting all out, but so consistent that it was undoubtedly faster in the long term. Twenty men in Roman armor, each of them carrying a spear in one hand and a sword at the hip.
Leading them was a grizzled officer. He, too, was dressed in Roman armor, but it looked like an older model than his subordinates, with more decorations and a more ornate design, befitting a revered Heroic Spirit who had distinguished himself from his legion. A helmet covered most of his head and his clean-shaven face, but one blue eye stared out at them. The other, on his left side, was a milky white. Useless. A jagged scar that ran from his brow, over it, and halfway down his cheek told the tale of some terrible trauma that must have inflicted the wound.
To remain and linger even after death, immortalized into him as a Heroic Spirit, it must have been a defining attribute of his legend.
The officer — the Servant, almost certainly, since his presence was stronger than the others — commanded his squad to stop in perfect Latin, and they all stomped to a halt about twenty feet away from Boudica and Spartacus. Then, he shouted another order in Latin, and forty feet thumped as twenty shields clattered into formation, spears jutting out at the ready.
He did not, on the other hand, give the order to attack. Yet.
"Queen Boudica," he greeted her in a voice as smooth as wine and deep as the ocean. "So. You've come, truly."
"Yes," she said coldly. "To prevent you from reaching Lugdunum."
"We need not pretend otherwise," he began diplomatically. "You know as well as I that my orders were never to sack the city itself, only to draw your attention away from the others. No violence need be visited upon Lugdunum or its people."
"Again, you mean?" she asked with frosty heat.
"Not so long as it comes under the United Empire's control," the Servant went on smoothly. "If you prefer, we could even arrange it so that you were its…provincial governor, shall we say? I'm certain neither side would have any reason to provoke a response so long as a Servant of your caliber was in control of it."
And suddenly, she understood his game.
"You're offering me to join you."
It was quite clever, actually. Not particularly like the standard Roman response to their enemies and second or third class citizens, either. A threat and a promise both: "Come to our side and give us this territory you already control, and there will be no need to risk the safety of the people living there." The easiest way to defeat your enemy was to make them your ally, after all. It was how her people had originally secured their own safety, before her husband's death had seen Rome try to steal it away.
The Rome she knew wouldn't have even bothered with the pretense of negotiation. Not if they felt they could just take whatever it was they wanted.
"You have no reason not to," the Servant pointed out. "You and I both know: you have no love for Emperor Nero or for Rome. You owe them no allegiance. In fact, you have more reason even than I to see the whole edifice torn down and the earth upon which it stands salted. You, who suffered and died at the cruelties of this decrepit Rome, would you not help us destroy it and rebuild a new, more glorious empire?"
It was a tempting thought. Boudica would have been a liar if she dared to claim that no part of her wanted to agree with him, because even as a Rider, the ache of the injustices she and her family had been forced to suffer still burned. After all, the woman who had died cursing Rome had, because of when and how she died, never gotten the chance to let those passions cool. Queen Boudica's legend ended with the sting of her defeat, the cruelties inflicted upon her unpunished and the crimes committed against her unrepaid.
But…
Spartacus chuckled. "Hahahaha! The oppressors change their faces, but they cannot hide the stench of their tyranny! A change of clothes cannot sway the cause of justice! My love cannot be smothered by a pleasant sight!"
"Spartacus is right," Boudica said levelly. "The atrocities committed by Rome can never be forgiven. I can't forgive them, not for what they did to me and my daughters, and not for what they did to my people. Even so… If the new empire you and your masters are trying to build is built on the corpses of innocent civilians, then it will be no better than the Rome you're trying to topple now."
Even if she hated Rome and she hated Nero and the pain of her suffering and her daughters' suffering still burned in her gut, what would be gained by tearing down Rome just so these Roman defectors could build a new Rome, just as terrible and just as unjust as the original? She couldn't be so selfish that she would seek her own personal satisfaction, not when there were people in need of protection and a greater purpose in seeing Rome returned to its proper place.
And besides, there was a future where Rome's own decadence would one day bring it down, if only this era could be put back on track. She would not be around to see it, but she could take solace in the fact that the Empire's own corruption would be its downfall.
The Servant's face drew tight.
"No empire has ever been built on peaceful thoughts and happy dreams," he told her. "The future cannot be bought with kind words and empty promises. It must be taken, its foundations cemented with the blood of those sacrificed to see it come into existence."
"An easy thing to say, when the blood being used isn't yours," she countered. "When the village being ransacked means nothing to you and the people dying are nothing but strangers. How convenient it is when it's always other people making the sacrifices."
"You think I haven't sacrificed?" the Servant growled. He thumbed at his ruined eye. "I've sacrificed plenty, and if my Caesar demanded I throw my body upon the altar so that my bones could be used as brick and my blood as mortar, the only thing I would ask is where I would best serve!"
"And yet, you're already dead," Boudica replied coldly. "The same as Spartacus and I. What value would your sacrifice have coming from someone who isn't actually alive in the first place?"
"The colosseum thrives on death," Spartacus added for good measure. "However, only the living may die. The restless dead can only howl and moan."
The Servant's lips curled into a sneer.
"Pah!" he spat. "It seems there's no reasoning with you. I don't know why I expected anything else from a barbarian whore!"
He shouted an order in Latin, and as he drew his sword, a standard Roman spatha, the twenty men behind him stomped the ground and let out an answering battlecry.
"This barbarian whore won't let you get any closer to Lugdunum!" She pointed with her sword. "Spartacus!"
"Hahaha!"
Spartacus leapt forward towards the formation, and the Servant shouted another order as he hefted his own shield. Spartacus crashed into it like a meteor, hacking away with his sword without any kind of grace or technique, just raw brutality. The nameless Roman Servant grunted but weathered the assault, keeping his large shield positioned between himself and Spartacus' sword.
Spartacus didn't seem to care. He kept laughing and hacking as though he was determined to wear the Servant down through sheer attrition.
Being fair to Spartacus, that wasn't exactly the worst plan of attack for him, considering how his Noble Phantasm worked.
The unknown Servant must have figured something like that out, too, because he shouted another order in Latin, and in between swings, he bashed his shield into Spartacus' face. Spartacus stumbled a few feet back, but he righted himself almost instantly, still laughing, even as blood streamed down his face from his nostrils.
He moved to reengage immediately, but the Roman Servant retreated after his blow and the line of his soldiers opened up only long enough to admit him, and then they closed around him. He became just another part of the formation, with his allies arrayed along either side like wings.
"Alae Scaeva!" the Servant shouted, addressing his men. "Promoveo!"
Twenty-one pairs of feet stomped as they answered him with another roar, their shields forming a wall of red. Each of them, Boudica could see now, depicted a sword with wings sprouting from the guard, gold patterned on a crimson background.
Spartacus crashed into them like a wrecking ball.
The line of shields bent slightly under the weight of his bulk and the strength of his blow, but they pushed him back just as quickly, and those not directly in the line of his attack jabbed at him with their spears through the small gaps in the formation. They bit into his unprotected flesh, scoring wounds along his muscular arms, his thighs, even his torso.
Spartacus just kept laughing.
"More!" he cried. "More! Yes, let me show you my love even more! This pain is the pain of my love! This ecstasy is the ecstasy of my love! Let my love overflow!"
Red blood splattered all over, staining his chest and limbs as more and more injuries accumulated, gouging out more and more flesh. Even as he was wounded, however, his wounds healed, sealing up, scabbing over, filling in, and something grotesque glowed and moved under his skin as his Noble Phantasm converted the damage into power.
It was hard to watch. Boudica wasn't the type of woman to stand back and sit on the sidelines as a battle unfolded before her, especially not when it was her allies and her friends who were doing the fighting. She ached to join in.
But Spartacus was in his element. Even more than that, he was getting stronger with every attack as his muscles bulged and his arm swung. His blood splattered all about the ground, and the thunderous force behind each blow shook the Earth, but he wasn't tiring and he wasn't slowing. Quite the opposite, because he got faster and more energetic with each passing second.
The soldiers had been aiming at first for his limbs, his joints, for disabling blows that would make Spartacus vulnerable for a follow up attack by one of the others in the formation — but Spartacus ignored them entirely, like he didn't even feel the pain, and kept battering at the Servant's shield as his wounds healed almost instantly.
When they realized that Spartacus was unaffected by the attacks meant to cripple him, they moved instead for more immediately dangerous attacks, aiming their spears for his head and his vital organs. They jabbed at his torso, trying to hit his kidneys, his liver, his stomach, his heart and lungs. They jabbed at his muscular thighs, perhaps trying to puncture one of the critical blood vessels therein, though Boudica herself didn't think that actually could kill a Servant.
Even when they found their marks, however, Spartacus was undaunted. Covered in his own blood, drenched red from his wounds, he only got faster and stronger, and the air howled with each pass of his blade. The strike of each landing blow was like the crack of thunder, shaking the world with their might such that even the trees quivered. Somehow, the Roman Servant kept his shield up and blocked them, although Boudica couldn't imagine how. Her arm ached just imagining being on the receiving end of those attacks, and her bones rattled even from here.
And still, she worried, because even seeing that their own attacks were only making Spartacus stronger, the Roman soldiers didn't change their strategy at all. They kept jabbing with their spears as Spartacus hammered away at their leader with single-minded intensity.
This couldn't be it, she found herself thinking. Their theory had been that this Servant's Noble Phantasm let him split himself into twenty separate warriors, and the coordination between him and his men seemed to bear that out, but if their enemy was clever enough to have sent a distraction force to divide them up and make them easier to beat, would they then send a Servant who couldn't do anything but mindlessly stab with their weapons at an opponent like Spartacus?
If this really was Julius Caesar's plan, where was the cunning? Where was the strategic genius? This just seemed…far too basic.
"Alae Scaeva!" the Servant suddenly shouted, and he gave another order to his twenty men. They bellowed a wordless answer, and then they fanned out, forming an arrow around Spartacus, with the leader at the tip.
Spartacus ignored them and swung his sword — except it was caught, this time, not by the enemy's shield, but by a gleaming, silver sword.
"Ah?" Spartacus stopped, confused.
"Your strength is formidable," the Roman told him. "My bones ache to match blades with you. However…I have suffered wounds far more grievous than a few aching joints, and I will not be defeated by a mere howling beast!"
And he pushed Spartacus' sword away, sending Spartacus stumbling back a step. Spartacus just grinned again and charged back towards him, but the Roman met him head on, and their swords clashing echoed with an unholy screech that set Boudica's teeth on edge as Spartacus was forced back a step again.
Something was happening, she realized. Something had changed, but what?
The Roman stomped forward before Spartacus could reengage, and now he was the one pushing Spartacus back, meeting him blow for blow and responding with punishing force. Boudica almost couldn't believe what she was seeing, even as Spartacus was driven back into the center of the soldiers' formation.
"Pin him down!"
The formation collapsed on Spartacus, and spears flew as they were thrown at him. Spartacus whirled about, trying for the first time to block them, but the Roman was already there, locking swords with him as several of the soldiers stabbed their spears through his legs and his feet and into the ground.
It wouldn't hold him long, but Boudica had a nasty suspicion it didn't need to.
"Spartacus!"
She kicked off the ground, racing towards the fray. A few of the soldiers turned to her as she approached, but she batted one aside with the face of her shield and parried the other's sword, sliding her blade across his throat with a smooth motion that she couldn't help thinking Aífe herself would have praised.
Spartacus swung wildly up ahead, smashing one soldier's head with his free arm, but with his legs skewered by almost half the squad's spears, he couldn't move very far or very well, and the rest of the legionnaires avoided his wrath by ducking out of the way once they had done their job. The Roman himself occupied his other arm, keeping his sword from swiping at any of the soldiers who got close.
Boudica was prepared to barrel through them, but they all gave the Roman and Spartacus a wide berth, retreating a safe distance. She didn't take time to think about why — the only reason the Roman would take care to immobilize Spartacus in the first place was to use a finishing move, a Noble Phantasm.
Alone with the Roman, Spartacus wound back for another swing, but the Roman stepped in and took it on his shield with a grunt, leaving his sword entirely free to do with as he pleased. He lifted it high above his head like an executioner's blade, and then he spoke.
"No!"
Boudica threw herself onto Spartacus' back, desperately swinging her shield up above his head to intercept the blow.
With an echoing CRACK, it split, and white hot pain surged up her arm. Someone screamed, high pitched and shrill — it was her, she realized.
The world spun. The sound of splintering wood popped in her ears, and the world moved around her, carrying her along for the ride.
When she opened her eyes again, the Roman was several meters away, scowling at her, and she was cradled in Spartacus's arms as he knelt protectively over her.
"Spartacus?"
"No rebellion can be without pain," he told her with what might be called regret, "but by overcoming pain, one can find the strength to do battle. This pain…is not the pain born of such strength."
She looked down —
"Oh."
And her left arm ended abruptly below the elbow, red blood still flowing from the wound.
How strange it was to be a Servant, she thought. A wound like this would likely have been a death sentence while she was alive, one way or another, and yet, here, as a Servant…
"It's fine," she said, and she slowly climbed to her feet. "I can still fight."
Spartacus hovered over her cautiously as she stood, his eyes still locked on the Roman Servant. The blood from his own wounds still ran over his body sluggishly as the shattered splinters of those spears were forced out of his flesh.
The remaining soldiers had moved back into formation, leaving their dead where they lay — actual bodies instead of vanishing spirits, and if there was time later, she would think about it then — and Boudica turned to face them with determination, her mouth set into a firm line and her back straight, like her arm wasn't missing at all. The wound hurt, but not nearly as much as she thought it should have, and although she was losing magical energy almost as quickly as blood, she was still stable enough, she thought, that she could at least last through this fight.
"It seems I underestimated you, Queen Boudica," the Roman said grudgingly. "Very well. Then as a sign of my respect, I shall tell you my name before you die again."
"The only one who's dying here today is you," she retorted confidently.
His lips pulled into a smirk on one side, a brief expression of mirth that was gone just as quickly.
"I am Marcus Cassius Scaeva," he said, "loyal servant of Gaius Julius Caesar, his most trusted subordinate."
He hefted his shield and brandished his sword. The soldiers behind him mimicked him as one.
"My Alae Scaeva and I will kill you in his name, so as to pave the way for the glory of his United Empire."
— o.0.O.O.0.o —
This and next chapter, I think, are the weakest Septem chapters, at least in my opinion. I tried to capture Boudica well here, but the fight was where things went a little wonky, because I have a bit of a hard time keeping track of what everyone's supposed to be doing when two teams are fighting each other.
That's why Boudica stands around for most of it. I just...had too much trouble finding a way to insert her into the action in any meaningful way.
Re: Scaeva, this guy was actually suggested to me. One of the guys on the editing team knows a couple of guys who are better acquainted with Roman history, and when the question was posed to them, "Hey, do you know any stories about especially distinguished Roman soldiers?" they returned with this guy, who is, if you'll recall storytime from a few chapters back, that absolute nutjob who yanked an arrow out of his eye and kept on fighting.
Yeah. That guy.
Special thanks to everyone who has helped me out, and especially to all my Patrons who have stayed with me this far, through all the rocky moments and dry stretches. You guys are the best, and your continued support is invaluable.
If you like what you're reading and want to support me as a writer so I can pay the bills, I have a Patreon. If Patreon is too long term, I have a Ko-fi page, too. If you want to commission something from me, check out either my Deviantart post or my artist registry page for my rates. Links in my sig. Every little bit helps keep me afloat, even if you can only afford a couple dollars.
That's why Boudica stands around for most of it. I just...had too much trouble finding a way to insert her into the action in any meaningful way.
Re: Scaeva, this guy was actually suggested to me. One of the guys on the editing team knows a couple of guys who are better acquainted with Roman history, and when the question was posed to them, "Hey, do you know any stories about especially distinguished Roman soldiers?" they returned with this guy, who is, if you'll recall storytime from a few chapters back, that absolute nutjob who yanked an arrow out of his eye and kept on fighting.
Yeah. That guy.
Special thanks to everyone who has helped me out, and especially to all my Patrons who have stayed with me this far, through all the rocky moments and dry stretches. You guys are the best, and your continued support is invaluable.
If you like what you're reading and want to support me as a writer so I can pay the bills, I have a Patreon. If Patreon is too long term, I have a Ko-fi page, too. If you want to commission something from me, check out either my Deviantart post or my artist registry page for my rates. Links in my sig. Every little bit helps keep me afloat, even if you can only afford a couple dollars.
Last edited:
Isiri Pudireach
Predictive text can go duck itself
She doesn't even mention Taylor lol. Guess we know who she'd pick for her master.
Hereafter Material: Marcus Cassius Scaeva [Heroic Spirit]
James D. Fawkes
Court Scribe
- Location
- Avalon (Isle of Mists)
Marcus Cassius Scaeva [Heroic Spirit]
The Left Hand of Caesar
The most trusted subordinate of Gaius Julius Caesar.
A soldier who served under him during early campaigns into Britain, Scaeva distinguished himself in battle against the Celtic tribes, but was forced to retreat in shame. Instead of condemnation, however, Caesar rewarded him, and from there began their relationship, forming the beginnings of a bond of loyalty.
Scaeva served under Caesar for many years, culminating in the civil war with Caesar's rival, Pompey. Left with only his squad, Scaeva was tasked with defending a critical point, and he and his cohort held out for several hours against the enemy's advance. Scaeva was wounded several times, including the shot that famously struck his left eye, and even he began to tire. The enemy was prepared to accept his surrender.
However, as the enemy commanders approached to demand he give up, Scaeva ripped his sword, dulled from constant combat, from its sheath, split one man open and slit the other's neck, then continued to fight until the battle was over. He and his fellow legionnaires held that critical point to the end. As a result, Caesar eventually defeated Pompey and put an end to the civil war.
For his bravery and loyalty, Scaeva was elevated to Primus Pilus, and he continued to serve with distinction throughout the rest of his career.
Truly, he was a fearsome warrior.
The Left Hand of Caesar
The most trusted subordinate of Gaius Julius Caesar.
A soldier who served under him during early campaigns into Britain, Scaeva distinguished himself in battle against the Celtic tribes, but was forced to retreat in shame. Instead of condemnation, however, Caesar rewarded him, and from there began their relationship, forming the beginnings of a bond of loyalty.
Scaeva served under Caesar for many years, culminating in the civil war with Caesar's rival, Pompey. Left with only his squad, Scaeva was tasked with defending a critical point, and he and his cohort held out for several hours against the enemy's advance. Scaeva was wounded several times, including the shot that famously struck his left eye, and even he began to tire. The enemy was prepared to accept his surrender.
However, as the enemy commanders approached to demand he give up, Scaeva ripped his sword, dulled from constant combat, from its sheath, split one man open and slit the other's neck, then continued to fight until the battle was over. He and his fellow legionnaires held that critical point to the end. As a result, Caesar eventually defeated Pompey and put an end to the civil war.
For his bravery and loyalty, Scaeva was elevated to Primus Pilus, and he continued to serve with distinction throughout the rest of his career.
Truly, he was a fearsome warrior.
Hereafter Material: Alae Scaeva [Noble Phantasm]
James D. Fawkes
Court Scribe
- Location
- Avalon (Isle of Mists)
Alae Scaeva [Noble Phantasm]
Honored Soldiers of the First Cohort
Scaeva's Wings. Marcus Cassius Scaeva's primary Noble Phantasm.
Named for his personal squad that served under him for much of his early career in the Roman legion, this Noble Phantasm embodies that aspect of his legend and bestows increased strength, agility, and defensive power upon those under his command, allowing him to share his power with his subordinates.
Those designated as members of the Alae Scaeva receive increased abilities, putting them on the level of Servants, albeit weaker ones. Ordinarily, this might mean they aren't a threat to a proper Servant; however, because their defensive power is boosted most significantly and they receive a further boost to defensive formations, it becomes possible for them to hold out against a vastly superior enemy using the tactics that made the Roman legions so famous.
In life, the Alae Scaeva were likely a much larger group consisting of over a thousand men. However, as a Noble Phantasm, the number of soldiers which may be conscripted is limited to a meager two-hundred, and as the efficacy of this Noble Phantasm decreases as the number of targets increases, strictly speaking, the ideal number of soldiers to make part of Scaeva's Wings is limited to about thirty.
Honored Soldiers of the First Cohort
Scaeva's Wings. Marcus Cassius Scaeva's primary Noble Phantasm.
Named for his personal squad that served under him for much of his early career in the Roman legion, this Noble Phantasm embodies that aspect of his legend and bestows increased strength, agility, and defensive power upon those under his command, allowing him to share his power with his subordinates.
Those designated as members of the Alae Scaeva receive increased abilities, putting them on the level of Servants, albeit weaker ones. Ordinarily, this might mean they aren't a threat to a proper Servant; however, because their defensive power is boosted most significantly and they receive a further boost to defensive formations, it becomes possible for them to hold out against a vastly superior enemy using the tactics that made the Roman legions so famous.
In life, the Alae Scaeva were likely a much larger group consisting of over a thousand men. However, as a Noble Phantasm, the number of soldiers which may be conscripted is limited to a meager two-hundred, and as the efficacy of this Noble Phantasm decreases as the number of targets increases, strictly speaking, the ideal number of soldiers to make part of Scaeva's Wings is limited to about thirty.
Hereafter Material: Ferrea Voluntate Scaeva [Noble Phantasm]
James D. Fawkes
Court Scribe
- Location
- Avalon (Isle of Mists)
Ferrea Voluntate Scaeva [Noble Phantasm]
My Sword is Sharpest When Dull
A cumulative Noble Phantasm. A combined strike that gathers power over time and unleashes it in a single, devastating blow.
Derived from the legend of his holding action during Gaius Julius Caesar's war with Pompey, this is a Noble Phantasm that grows more powerful the longer it is kept in reserve. The longer Scaeva can hold out in a battle, the more powerful this Noble Phantasm becomes.
The key attribute of this Noble Phantasm is time. The counter begins at the start of battle and continues to accumulate strength and magical energy as long as the battle continues, and then, when this Noble Phantasm's true name is invoked, the gathered power is unleashed all at once, delivering a fatal blow to the enemy with his sword.
Naturally, there is a limit. Scaeva cannot continue to stockpile power indefinitely, and if it is not used before the conclusion of the battle, then it will dissipate at the battle's conclusion and go to waste. However, conversely, it is also possible to stretch out the activation over the course of several swings rather than just one, at the cost of reducing the strength behind each in proportion with how many swings are used.
When combined with his Alae Scaeva Noble Phantasm, this attrition-based Noble Phantasm can become truly terrifying indeed.
My Sword is Sharpest When Dull
A cumulative Noble Phantasm. A combined strike that gathers power over time and unleashes it in a single, devastating blow.
Derived from the legend of his holding action during Gaius Julius Caesar's war with Pompey, this is a Noble Phantasm that grows more powerful the longer it is kept in reserve. The longer Scaeva can hold out in a battle, the more powerful this Noble Phantasm becomes.
The key attribute of this Noble Phantasm is time. The counter begins at the start of battle and continues to accumulate strength and magical energy as long as the battle continues, and then, when this Noble Phantasm's true name is invoked, the gathered power is unleashed all at once, delivering a fatal blow to the enemy with his sword.
Naturally, there is a limit. Scaeva cannot continue to stockpile power indefinitely, and if it is not used before the conclusion of the battle, then it will dissipate at the battle's conclusion and go to waste. However, conversely, it is also possible to stretch out the activation over the course of several swings rather than just one, at the cost of reducing the strength behind each in proportion with how many swings are used.
When combined with his Alae Scaeva Noble Phantasm, this attrition-based Noble Phantasm can become truly terrifying indeed.
- Location
- Phoenix
Still better than canon septem!
Finagle007
[Verified Great Old One]
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
Yup. A Servant who specializes in putting down rebellions against Rome, vs. two Servants who rebelled against Rome only to fail and die, can only end one way. Not only that, but Scaeva specializes in attrition battles, just like Spartacus does, meaning he knows exactly how best to fight Spartacus. In short, Scaeva is the worst possible opponent for both Spartacus and Boudica. The only reason they're still alive right now is because Scaeva is currently opposing Rome; if he was actually fighting for Rome, he'd have crushed them.
Windborne
Devourer of Stories
- Location
- Oregon
Not a great chapter but you already knew that @James D. Fawkes, it wasn't terrible but it was through a character that we kind of already knew via the game. It didnt flesh out Boudica too much more, though if someone was unfamiliar with Grand Order they might appreciate it so it's not extraneous rather it's just dull. It'd have been better if it was a tad more focused on her reactions to Chaldea I think.
As for what occurred beyond the flashbacks it's not bad, though with the support Boudica has available her wound isn't exactly meaningful past this battle so it's not exactly super tense which is neither good nor bad. Her Spirit Origin isn't critically damaged so as long as she survives she can regain her arm pretty easily, especially with Aife's help via Primordial Runes. But even without that she can get it back as long as one of the Masters provides Prana, given the travel times here in the Singularity it's not nearly as concerning.
As for what occurred beyond the flashbacks it's not bad, though with the support Boudica has available her wound isn't exactly meaningful past this battle so it's not exactly super tense which is neither good nor bad. Her Spirit Origin isn't critically damaged so as long as she survives she can regain her arm pretty easily, especially with Aife's help via Primordial Runes. But even without that she can get it back as long as one of the Masters provides Prana, given the travel times here in the Singularity it's not nearly as concerning.
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- Location
- Leeds
Gosh, they haven't heard about Skitter and asymmetric warfare yet.
surprised Boudicca didn't use the protection NP she has, where she uses her chariot to block attacks. or her swords projectile ability for that matter. it's almost made for this type of combat, it sends out projectiles of light that while not enough to kill a servant in one hit can be sent out as a barrage, against swarms of enemies less powerful than a servant, it's practically what its made for.
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Actually, I don't think that part is as important. Bear in mind the crossing of the Rubicon was technically a rebellion against the roman republic at the time. The whole civil war between Caesar and Pompey was a political mess in both build up and conclusion.
Rajvik_wolfboy
Wolf amongst the stars.
- Location
- Florida
honestly i enjoyed the chapter, i enjoyed that you brought Cassius out to play rather than someone like Crassus or Sculla
SolipsistSerpent
Endlessly Devouring
Oh was it Taylor she didn't mention? I half-wondered if it was Mash (since she's a demi-servant).
Finagle007
[Verified Great Old One]
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
Oi, @James D. Fawkes. New Roman Servant over on JP.
Class: Rider
True Name: Constantine XI Palaiologos, Last Emperor of the Byzantine Empire
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_yqghaAhCq0
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-2ukbnjqR0Y
Skills:
True Name: Constantine XI Palaiologos, Last Emperor of the Byzantine Empire
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_yqghaAhCq0
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-2ukbnjqR0Y
Skills:
- Prayer of Hagia Sophia C-. 30-50% Self NP Gain Up for 1 turn, self taunt for 1 turn, gain 10-20 critical stars.
- Falling Empire EX. 10-20% Party Attack Up and Buster Up for 3 turns, 20-30% Roman Party Crit Damage up for 3 turns.
- Cessation Privilege C. 20-30% Self NP Charge, 20-30% Self Crit Damage Up and 5-10 Star Gain for 3 turns, On-Death Activate buff for 3 turns. (When killed, last ally gains 20-30% NP Charge, 20-30% Crit Damage Up and 50-10 Star Gain for 3 turns.)
- Passive Skills: Riding B+, Magic Resistance B+, Independent Action C++, Anti-Archer Attack Damage Aptitude.
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James D. Fawkes
Court Scribe
- Location
- Avalon (Isle of Mists)
This gets addressed over the course of the next few chapters. The editors and I discussed it for a while, and I waffled back and forth, but at the end of the day, the only examples we really have of Servants losing limbs and not getting immediately destroyed are Emiya in Heaven's Feel and Spartacus in Apocrypha. Since Servants' bodies only act like real, biological humans when the narrative needs them to (inb4 the obligatory "do Servants poop?" question) and are otherwise just clumps of magical energy shaped to look like humans (mostly), the conclusion that was reached was that Boudica getting her arm back really is just a matter of time and magical energy.
I will say that I don't like spamming Primordial Runes for everything. I'm not afraid to use them when it feels appropriate, but they won't be a catch-all solution to every vaguely troubling problem.
I'm waiting for him to properly drop and get his profile translated. I have a tentative place I could use him in the Septem narrative, but I want details about how his skills function outside of FGO's gameplay before I commit to having him do more than die off screen.
- Location
- Devouring a mass of thermonuclear gas
Well he looks like he synergises well with Romulus.
xbox432
Lover of Editing
Already done, all of his stuff has been translated already. Even his Bond stuff, or at least on fategrandorder.fandom.com it has been translated. Looks to be pretty interesting both in lore and in abilities.
Windborne
Devourer of Stories
- Location
- Oregon
That's fine and I'm glad you aren't cheating with the Runes, but even without them it's not really a problem as we both said.
The sort of stuff he's talking about is in the Materials books usually and those come months or years later. The Bond lines help, but frankly they don't explain a lot. What is the "Prayer of Hagia Sophia" what does it do? It says it offers the protection of the cathedral, but that's incredibly vague.
xbox432
Lover of Editing
I didn't even know FGO HAD Materials books... Or books at all really outside of the "Learning with Manga" stuff.
Windborne
Devourer of Stories
- Location
- Oregon
Oh yeah they help decipher all the bullshit gameplay effects into real in universe lore. Like how Tamamo's Noble Phantasm activation creates a localized Bounded Field centered around her filled with free Prana for allies and herself to use, which is where her ability to spam spells for a turn in Extra, or how she recharges the NP Gauge, lower Skill Cool-downs, and healing occur for the front line in Grand Order, happen in universe.
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- Location
- Brazil
Huh, that really explains well how she casts curses for free with her NP.
- Location
- America
She, uh, doesn't? The only 'curse' in her kit is a charge down, her first skill.