Okeanos | Chapter VII
Spencer
Existence had been pain, and existence was still pain. But it was now a manageable pain. Like a toothache, compared to kidney stones. The numbness for the most part was gone. The ever-present pins and needles sensation further up the limbs had similarly vanished. What existed in its place was a sort of full body ache, one that got worse when he moved, but was almost ignorable as long as he stayed reasonably still. Or, to put it more simply, 'it only hurts when I breathe.'
"I didn't even
drink anything!" Ko moaned, kneading her right shoulder with her fingertips. "Why do
I have a hangover?"
"Because transplanted circuits," Dory said bluntly from underneath the damp towel he'd draped over his face. He'd taken up a spot in the waning sunlight against one of the chests of loot, a cup of water in his hands. "Trust me, Ko, if you'd ever had a hangover, you'd know the difference."
They were near the camp, sitting under the shade of a convenient tree. Well, Spencer supposed it wasn't the shade of the tree anymore, considering the sun had set about ten minutes ago, but none of them had moved since they sat down. It was a bit of an ordeal, getting used to the general sensation of having an od supply that could fuel a servant, instead of just slowly dying as his life force was sucked away. While it was
less unpleasant, it still wasn't fun. He now understood why magi were so god damned dramatic all the time, 'walking with death' and all that.
"Oh, dear," Smith fretted, refreshing their willow bark tea from the kettle on the fire between them. "I'd thought young master McCool's magic would've seen off the worst of it by now. Are you sure you won't have a little opium? Your caution concerning it does you all credit, of course, but there's a reason it enjoys such popularity as a pain reliever."
"Really, professor, it's very kind of you to offer," Ko said wearily, "but I couldn't even if I wanted to; opioids make my veins itch like crazy."
"Geez," Spencer said, "maybe nature really
does hate you. You're, what, light sensitive, lactose intolerant, allergic to booze, to drugs…"
"Not ganja," she declared cheerfully. "I just hafta take a double hit unless I want my body to roll right over it like a speedbump. That's an Irish-First Nations metabolism for ya."
Ritsuka winced, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. "I don't think Mashu would be very happy about that…"
Mash did seem to be avoiding Ritsuka since the 'drinking contest.' Spencer knew Mash had hangups about underage drinking… actually, it seemed she had concerns about the law anytime a situation similar to this came up. Despite the fact that cops literally didn't exist in this reality, Mash probably would have objections to the Mary Janes as well, and would probably get even more mad at Ritsuka if he were to partake.
So really, Ritsuka's response here was completely reasonable. No reason to annoy your bodyguard-kouhai-potential romantic interest if you didn't need to. He was a very considerate guy like that.
"We can't buy weed anyway," Indy pointed out, "we're dealing with- what are these, doubloons?"
"Spanish maravedi and pesos," Smith said.
"God I miss the Euro."
Smith's huge eyes went bright. "Oh, now that
is interesting...."
Spencer felt his own eyes unfocus as Indy and Smith began the latest round of their ongoing combination conversation/lecture. The sounds of their voices became mere background noise as he focused on the ocean beyond the small fire pit they'd built in front of their claimed tree-adjacent territory.
"Alright!" Mash clapped her hands together, fingers lacing and unlacing in a nervous bit of fidgeting. "It's dinner time. And I think we all deserve a treat!"
Dory made a noise that could've passed for something from Scooby Doo in interest, lifted the towel from his face look at the Shielder.
The others, at least, had their faces fall when Mash pulled yet another, all-too-familiar set of cardboard packages from behind her shield.
Really, Spencer did not understand what had been so bad about the MREs they'd been eating.
An uncomfortable grunt, almost a pained noise, escaped Dory who had yet to open his eyes, "Oh boy. That's a crapshoot."
Mash frowned before proffering the packages once again, this time more vigorously. "These are
French," she emphasized defensively. "Dr. Roman always would sneak me one of these after I had an exam."
Ritsuka tentatively put a hand on her shoulder, and even if it tensed at his touch, she didn't move away from it.
Spencer's package was labeled
Cassoulet (Sausages, Duck Confit, and Beans), which was good, because he'd never heard of 'Cassoulet' before.
"They're really good," Ritsuka nodded. "And they taste better when you have a proper fire."
Crouching down at the small bundle of kindling at his feet, Ritsuka absently danced a short rod across his knuckles before flipping it around. In a single smooth motion, to strike it with a knife he'd somehow produced with his other hand. Sparks flew outwards, and almost immediately, there was fire.
Spencer tried not to shiver in the Caribbean twilight.
"Nero-san taught me during Septem," the younger Master explained, misunderstanding the looks at least two of them were sending his way. "Something to do after making camp."
Looking up, he glanced at his Servant's face, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
"I, uh," he scratched his head. "Should see how Cu-san and Tell-san are doing." Ritsuka stood up and, with a quick look at Mash before he went, walked off to check on the other two Servants in his roster.
"This child is dangerous," Ko muttered, when the
goddamn teenager was safely out of earshot, and Indy and Dory were distracted with their slowly roasting MRE cans.
"Right?!" Spencer whispered frantically. "What the fuck! His voice did
not sound like that in the Babylonia anime!"
"I believe you!" She made as if to throw up her hands dramatically, but settled for jabbing a finger in Ritsuka's direction. "That is not an eighteen-year-old's voice unless the eighteen-year-old in question is a larval-stage Christopher Lee!"
She lowered her own voice further and leaned in, looking sheepish. "Also, is it just me, or was that whole slap-and-rant routine back on the beach kinda...?"
"It absolutely was," Spencer confirmed, "and we are
both going to the special hell."
"Apparently!"
"Well," came a voice from above. "Of course he's dangerous-"
"Jesus H-" Spencer hissed, having not noticed that Smith was standing
right goddamn behind them. "-Crackers."
The man's overly large eyes blinked down at him. "He
was the only Master of Chaldea until recently. He ought to be competent at fisticuffs. Metaphorically speaking."
Spencer's thought of Ritsuka in a bareknuckle boxing match was very quickly dashed, when, thankfully, the two foodies of the group started passing out the reheated dishes. He could have kissed Dory for his timing.
"Thank you," he mouthed, carefully holding the oval can by the little metal rod that kept the hot metal from burning him. He fumbled around in the rest of the box for the utensils - the spork they'd given him was delightfully tiny.
He smiled as he ate the first spoonful of duck. In high school, an army recruiter had brought in MREs for the students to taste. This was not that. Those were… edible. Perfectly serviceable. They were
fine. The one's they'd been eating up til now were roughly the same, maybe a little better.
This one was
implausibly delicious. It wasn't the best food he'd ever eaten, by a long shot. But it was more satisfying than anything he'd ever personally made himself. Which was disheartening on a personal skill front but absolutely delightful from a 'I can very easily get more of this' point of view.
Across from him, Indy's eyes had widened considerably. "This…" the other man said at last. "Isn't half bad. It's like… airline food, but in first class." He took another bite, nodding. "Though I can't imagine United serving risotto, even in first class. Hmm. Maybe like a French El Al…."
"Tis the good kind of MRE, yes." Dory agreed easily in the firelight.
"You know what this could use?" Indy noted with a speculative squint. "A nice white. I'm thinking a Riesling? I think we can Adam Smith up a Riesling-"
"...Excuse me, please," Mash stated quietly, abruptly leaving before anyone could respond.
"... maybe don't have another drink after drinking all day, dear," Ko chided gently, patting him on the shoulder.
"Yeah," Indy admitted. "She did say it was a treat, and we've got a hangover cure dispensary with us...."
Spencer was considering whether or not to eat the included chocolate bar now (70 percent cacao! These were some fancy army men!) or save it for later when his own Servant approached.
"You mentioned a game of making nine, before," she stated. "One that could be explained in five minutes. I would appreciate you teaching us to play it, little brother, as the shield maiden seems to lack the aptitude for Mahjong."
"Oh yeah?" Spencer asked, "Uh, sure, I can do that. Just so you know, I know the domino one and the card one, but I know the card version of the game better, since that's what was played at the casino I used to work at."
"Then that is what we shall play," Ching Shih stated.
Mash seemed to be in something of a sulk as the Master and Servant approached the crate she was seated next to, her shield planted in the sand next to her. Spencer was mildly surprised when she turned her glare upon him. His eyes flickered to the shield, and he knew fear.
"What did I do?" he asked quietly.
The Shielder crossed her arms, but thankfully didn't make any moves towards her weapon of mass destruction. "You let Senpai drink."
"As if I have any control over him! I saw him lay Toby out in one punch!" Spencer pleaded, arms up in surrender. "I am an innocent and pure maiden who has never done anything wrong. Ever."
"Correct," Ching Shih nodded, and handed him a deck of cards. "Set the table,
sai mui."
Spencer stifled a laugh, as the translation talisman delivered the gist of the foreign phrase. 'Little sister'; nice of her to lean into the joke.
"... alright," he said, "I was told to come over here to teach you guys Pai Gow. Which I now realize is probably a distraction from the current bad feelings. Which I now realize I should not have said out loud. I am a bad distraction."
Mash's glare subsided only slightly. "You're supposed to be a senpai to Senpai! But you are all loud, irresponsible, and… and crass! Why can't you all just… I thought adults were supposed to be adult!"
"... I'm, uh, real sorry to be the one to tell you this…" Spencer began with a nervous chuckle, "but we're not. There is no secret adult line you cross and just become…" Spencer flailed his hands. "Like. I'm scared. Okay? We're all terrified, and this is the only way we know to be so we don't just completely
lose it."
"But you've all done… more," she looked away, guilt a sharp red against her cheek. "Seen more."
"Magic was…! Imaginary last week," Spencer started to say loudly, before petering out, startled to see Mash, smiter of pirates and destroyer of Enemy Servants, flinch.
"Like I said,'' he tried again. "I am…
so sorry that we're the example of adulthood you have to work with. Oh, god," he added, alarmed, "I just realized, you two are the ones
we're looking up to - thaaat's concerning. Look, can I teach you guys how to play a card game? I feel like we'll get along better after playing a card game."
"So you can continue to be a bad example through gambling?" Mash asked flatly.
Spencer smiled, for it was an opportunity to steal a joke. No one knows you're stealing jokes in Okeanos.
"We can play by senate rules," he said. "No stakes. We spend all our time trying to beat each other, nobody wins, nobody loses, and nothing gets done."
The Shielder just looked confused, even as Ching Shih snorted. "Be that as it may," she said delicately. "We are here to make nine, yes?"
The pirate queen flourished her wrist and in her hand was a deck of playing cards; fanning them out and back again with casual ease, Spencer was surprised to see that the only difference from a modern set was the lack of numbers or letters, and the relatively plain diagonal backing.
"Right, yes." Spencer said. "So the card game version is a lot simpler, and there are a few different versions of this but the one I like goes like this..."
Pai Gow was a simple game. The version he was familiar with involved the dealer giving each player four cards. The players then created two hands of two. A high hand and a low hand. If both hands beat the dealer, they won. If both hands were lower, they lost. Only beating one of the hands was a push - in which they keep their bet and fold it into the next hand. There was a more common version with hands of seven cards, but in Spencer's opinion it wasn't as fun. And this one was closer to the domino version.
As the only one familiar with the game, it was only natural that he start as the dealer. Looking at his own hand - a five of hearts, the two of clubs, and both the jack and queen of spades. There wasn't really a way to make two good hands with this. He could split the face cards and make a good low hand and a mediocre high hand, or make a terrible low hand and an excellent high hand. The first option was only slightly less likely to end in a push.
The first round, of course, ended in a push. Like him, Mash had played conservatively. Ching Shih had chosen to play aggressively. As a result Mash's low hand beat his, but her high hand didn't. Ching Shih had achieved the opposite result.
"No winners, beginners. So no chicken dinners," Spencer commented.
His Rider raised an eyebrow. "Your patter needs more work," she stated. "But it is good that you understand the basics."
Her fingers flicked out, and a small silver coin appeared in the center of the box that served as their card table.
Mash gave Ching Shih a flat, annoyed look. "What happened to 'senate rules?'" she asked.
"To play without stakes is to be robbed of the fullness of the game."
"Counterpoint," Spencer began, "I have no money. Unless I can get an allowance..."
"There is silver in your pocket, little brother," she sighed. "Stop trying to dissemble."
"Additional counterpoint: I also do not want Mash to be mad at me."
Ching Shih gave him a look. Mash scooted away an infinitesimal amount.
"Mash, I hope you understand, I choose life," He said as he reached into his pocket and put a coin on the box.
The Shielder sighed, but placed a coin of her own. "You better not corrupt Sempai even more," she muttered.
"If he is so easily corrupted," the other woman countered. "Then perhaps he is not worthy of your affections?"
Spencer hadn't known that someone could be pale as a ghost
and luminescent red at the same time. His eyes were the size of dinner plates as they moved between the two; he desperately prayed that this wasn't about to erupt in violence.
"My youngest, for example," Ching Shih continued, pulling out an old-timey photo wallet from an inside pocket of her jacket, "has no stomach for the family business. He's a gentle boy, very skilled at calligraphy…"
As the Rider continued to push one of her kids on her, Mash's expression steadily moved from "ambiguously homicidal" to "anime sweatdrop," and Spencer exhaled the breath he'd been holding for what felt like 84 years.
"...Hand!" the pinkette suddenly cried out. "I have a 20 and a 13!"
"Beats me," Spencer said.
Ching Shih frowned slightly, before smiling. "Me as well." She moved to push the winnings towards Mash, but the Shielder shook her head.
"I don't like gambling."
Thankfully, his Servant seemed to take her refusal in good humor. "It's a bad habit to turn down free money," she commented.
"Then how about a question instead?" Mash countered, and, at Ching Shih's nod, continued. "Why doesn't your flagship have a name?"
"The Red Flag Fleet has no flagship," Ching Shih answered. "Whatever ship I happen to be on, that is our base of operations. Having a flagship as a pirate just means you've hung out a sign on the open ocean that says 'destroy this ship and you've won.'"
"I am a fan of not dying. Dying is my least favorite thing to be," Spencer said softly.
"Worse still, it can foster resentment," the captain went on. "Appears as though the shares haven't been distributed evenly throughout the fleet."
She paused, and tilted her head in Spencer's direction. "Incidentally, I am in need of a captain for my latest acquisition. You shall do, unless you prove unworthy."
"... at what point during the short period of time you have known me have I shown any inclination, talent, or affinity for boatsmanship?" Spencer asked.
The pirate queen raised an eyebrow. "You summoned me."
"... arguing this point is choosing death, isn't it," the new captain of the
Trinidad responded flatly. "Fine. But I will require a hat. A nice one. With a feather in it."
At Ching Shih's nod of agreement, he couldn't help but pump a fist in triumph.
"Macaroni, mother-." He looked at Mash, then Ching Shih, then back at Mash again, "
trucker," he said very quietly.
The Shielder let out a long-suffering sigh, her hand cradling her forehead.
Furiko
"---You'll be honest, brave and free! The soul of decency! You'll be loyal and fair and on the square and most importantly~!"
"When you're a professional pirate~!" Drake's crew bellowed.
As Ko brought the song to a close, bobbing a tiny curtsy as she did, Drake snorted, and dropped onto the chest Dory was still propped up on.
"There's such a thing as taking 'professional' too far as a pirate," she grumbled, clearly longing for a bit of hair of the dog. "It's about the freedom, not just the money."
"Given the economic drivers being one of the main things pushing people to hoist the flag in spite of the risks, the argument could be made it's
mostly the money." Dory's tone was decidedly teasing from his place at Drake's feet.
Behind him and some distance away, her fiancé's Caster had conjured a pair of dueling blackboards, and the two of them were alternating between furious scribbling and emphatic pointing, with William Tell observing from a polite distance away. Ko smiled. It was always nice to see her lovely in his element.
"Oh," Drake's tone cooled considerably. "So you agree with that frigid, soulless,
passionless excuse for a pirate?"
Dory chuckled, reaching out to pinch the captain's calf. "No, I read and had to sign the contract for her crew."
"Still can't believe you were part of that spinster's crew," she muttered, squeezing a lime into her mug of (probably?) water.
"Cranky that you didn't retire on top of a pile of money with a devoted younger man, aren't ya," Ko murmured, tuning the guitar Ching Shih had been kind enough to retrieve for her.
The pink-haired woman whirled, pointing a finger at her. "I'll do her better-! If I retire, it'll be with mountains of money, fabulous outfits, and gorgeous, scantily-clad attendants waiting on me hand and foot!"
I guess that's Dory's cue to amp up his fitness regimen. Hey, would it be too mean if I pulled a Sparta and just said 'if'? Yeah, better hold off.
"While admirable, shouting it probably won't help." Dory hooked fingers in Drake's boot, tugging lightly against the leather. There was a soft grunt as he stood, letting the wet towel drop from his face into a hand. "Betcha Indy and Smith
can help tho. Money and shit's their game."
"The Stutter twins? Please. Neither of them seem the type."
"C'mon, you've shown every indication of being good with money, but Studderbutt One and Studderbutt Two over there study it almost exclusively. You're gonna turn down the chance to pick an expert's brain on that?" Her disbelieving look got a sigh from the bearded man. "They're in full professor mode, easy marks. I'll show ya'."
He started walking towards the aforementioned pair, still working at their blackboard just inside the firelight. The captain followed after with an eyeroll, cradling an elbow with one hand and her drink in the other.
Furiko wished their retreating backs luck - she'd heard some of her fiancé's lectures over Zoom, and given that he and Professor Smith had resorted to dueling chalkboards, she doubted they'd be anywhere near the neighborhood of reality.
No, the cool night breeze and sea air were more than enough, as she lowered herself down to lie flat against the sands, the guitar a comfortable weight against her chest. And as she did, her eyes turned involuntarily skyward -
The stars overhead were beautiful, though the hole in the stars was an uncomfortable thing. A radiant ring of light around an absolute void in the black-blue backdrop, motes of bright white-gold dancing around it and rays of light interrupting the otherwise pristine night sky… none of them liked to look at it for too long.
"-no, no you can't use the labour theory of value, you sound like a Marxist-"
Just to her left, golden motes of light formed into the armored shape of Saber, glinting off the metal before fully reformed.
"Why're you adjusting it?" he asked (they asked? she asked? She'd read too many angry internet rants about Mordred's gender identity, presumably when she got a non-awkward second to ask the kid she could get the answer from the source), face still hidden behind his helm. "It sounded fine."
"I didn't get a chance to switch it back to standard tuning before everyone demanded a singalong," Ko explained, turning the pegs and testing the resulting tones.
"Harps and the people who play them ain't worth shit," Mordred said, sounding exactly like the petulant teenager he was. "But at least they don't need to adjust after every song."
"It's not that I
have to adjust it, it's that I
can adjust it. To any key I want, whenever I want - if people don't talk while I'm trying to listen for where I'm going." Carefully - catgut was less forgiving of quick changes than the steel strings she'd learned on - she finally hummed her way home to E on the top string, and gave it a final test run with the baseline to Another One Bites The Dust.
Soft metal clanking accompanied the literally magical removal of Mordred's helmet, revealing the blond beneath.
"That tune," he ventured. "It's... not bad." The knight shifted to sit on one of the smaller crates nearby in the haphazard and somewhat ramshackle camp.
"Now wait just a moment!" an adorably aggravated Scottish voice sounded off in the distance. "You mean to tell me that-"
"Yeah? I figured it'd play pretty well here," Ko said with a grin. "No matter the time period, it's a rare human with no appreciation for Queen."
"... the queen of what?" Mordred asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Rock," Ko responded without missing a beat, nodding reverently. "There ain't none higher. Sucker MCs should call him 'sire.'"
"Him who? What the fuck are you babbling about?" the knight demanded, annoyed.
All right, damn, dude, unclench.
"Freddie Mercury," Ko said. "Queen was the name of his band - and believe you me, that was not an empty boast. Now," she added reasonably, "Vinylhead hipsters will try to tell you Brian Eno's the bigger deal of the group, because he's such a great guitarist, but lots of top bands had virtuoso guitarists back then - it was a golden age for dudes who couldn't dance still managing to get laid. But
no other band had Freddie."
Mordred's irritation had gradually morphed into a perplexed curiosity. "Yeah? So? What made him so special?"
"He was the voice of mankind," Ko replied. "One of those people who could lift the beating, broken heart of the world up to heaven and tell the gods 'Look at that, you son of a bitch!'"
A sharp little grin crossed Mordred's face. "I'll believe it when I hear it."
"Oh, challenge accepted. When we get back to Chaldea I'll show you Live Aid," Ko said. "He gets the entire crowd in on it, vocalizing all together, like he reached in and pulled the song right out of them. Oh, fuck," she suddenly exclaimed, "I wonder if the internet here has footage of that one time someone shouted 'faggot' at him from the audience."
"That's something worth seeing?" Mordred asked with a skeptical snort. "Your time must be way lighter on drunken idiots than mine."
"Oh, no, it was
beautiful." Getting to her feet and setting her guitar gently across the stump, Ko straightened her posture, grabbed an imaginary mic stand, and strutted over to where the Saber was sitting. If it transpired there wasn't video footage of the event, she wanted to be sure Mordred still got at least a shadow of the full Freddie Mercury experience.
"So he hears it, right? He stalks across the stage, and everyone's quieted down just a little bit, and he finds this guy, in a crowd of hundreds of people, holds out the mic to him, and says..." She thrust her phantom prop into the seated Servant's face, and grinned down at him in fierce, untouchable triumph. "'Say it again, darling.'"
Something shifted behind Mordred's eyes, but Ko didn't have long to see it; she only managed to keep in character for a moment or two before dissolving into a high-pitched squee and spinning away.
"Gods, he was the fucking
king," she said, hugging herself around the waist. "I'd love to summon him as a Rider."
"Ehhh? Singing isn't really a
kingly thing." The befuddled expression on his face was something to see, even as he waved somewhat dismissively, "Having fans and shit isn't the same as rallying the peasants or leading an army."
"It's literally the exact same thing," Ko said, giggling and picking the guitar back up as she retook her seat. "Case in point,
I'm a peasant - I strike you as someone willing to wade through mud and guts for just any schmoe? Shit no. But you bet your fuckin' ass if Freddie Mercury rose from the dead and needed a favour from me, I'd be front and centre, johnny on the spot."
"Eh," Mordred grunted, eyes flicking back towards the guitar. "Still not a good idea. You can see how weak Smith is, right? Your guy - if he's even on the Throne -"
"He is," Ko said, at least in part because the kid's negativity was starting to piss her off.
Mordred pointed aggressively at the Master, "
If he's on the Throne, he's even younger."
Ko shrugged. "Strength isn't everything. Chaldea can support multiple servants for each Master, it's entirely possible to have various ones specc'd for different combat and support needs - Toby used to rant about it all the time back home. Plus, this isn't a Grail War; we're a team. We support one another - you're stronger than Smith, but Smith is the reason we even lived long enough for you to actually wreck face."
"You got lucky," Mordred grunted. "Strength isn't just how hard you can hit, it's also the shit you can pull off. With magic or otherwise. Smith had what you needed - but Fionn had something pretty close, as an
afterthought to all the asskicking he can also give ya. There's more than a good day's ride worth of difference between them-" Cutting himself off, Mordred shook his head, waving a hand. "Look, you don't have to take my word for it. You guys've all got circuits now, right? See for yourself. "
"... oh yeah," Ko realized aloud, feeling a little silly. "The stat screen. How did I forget that's a thing Masters can do?"
From the look Mordred was giving her, the response the Saber was holding back wasn't exactly complimentary.
"...Knights aren't supposed to insult ladies," he said, eventually.
They also aren't supposed to chase their queen into the Tower of London and try to blackmail her into marrying them, but I guess that's neither here nor there. Ko confined herself to a small smile, regulated her breathing, and looked Mordred over, concentrating.
Servants hadn't looked normal even before she got her circuits. The light bent around them; they didn't glow, or anything, they were just… very easy to see. Crisp, even at a distance - which, to someone who hadn't been back to the optometrist in a decade, was a pretty significant and alarming thing for anyone or anything to be.
With circuits, she now realized, they didn't just look crisp - they felt it, too.
Details that a more methodical mind might've rendered numerically and given letter ranks were processed by Ko's dyscalculic, synaesthetic lump of fuck as pure immersion - as if the Servant were a body of water she were swimming in.
She could feel Mordred's name in her mouth, and just above it in her mind, his class, and what she thought might be her own pre-existing knowledge of Secret of Pedigree. There was a hard little tickle in her heart that she assumed was a dragon reactor, but there was no information attached to it, just the hunch. Under her right hand was a torrent of hot steam that coated her arm up to the shoulder, making her lean ever-so-slightly to one side with the weight of it. This, she knew immediately, had to be Clarent, though the weight itself did not supply a name. The system was more than generous with the naming of parameters, however; Mordred's Agility and Endurance danced along the outsides of her legs, his Luck fluttered in her ears like the wind, his Strength and Mana sat across her shoulders to envelop the rest of her body like a cloak.
It was like she'd just changed her clothes and the new ones were still too cold. It was like feeling someone else's sweat on her skin and hair. It was like suddenly being in the middle of a lake with no boat in sight. None of this power she could sense gave her comfort, because nothing about it was hers.
Shuddering, she looked to her fiancé, less out of curiosity and more out of a need to ground herself again.
Drake and Dory had apparently made themselves scarce when she wasn't looking, because Indy and Smith were back to elucidating models at one another. The periwigged old gentleman had at some point discarded both his coat and the collar of his shirt on the grass, leaving him to gesticulate at his young colleague in nothing but his shirtsleeves. Neither piece of clothing had lost their high definition, making it seem almost as though Smith had shed his skin, like some peculiar breed of magic snake.
If Mordred was a lake, Smith was a soaker tub. Everything about him was so ready-to-hand and warm that she almost might've been fooled into thinking he was
her Servant. His power was like wearing properly-fitting gloves, good boots and a helmet. There wasn't much of it, granted, but all of it seemed to be tied to at least one thing that was definitely worth having. A place for every stat, and every stat in its place.
"... huh," she said aloud.
Now there
is a system of power-allocation so tidy and efficient that my own mother would be proud of it. Was this supposed to change my mind about statlines not being as important as having the right tool for the job when you have the means to support more than one Servant? 'Cause I'm not gonna lie, Mordred, I have some thoughts on that lopsided Noble Phantasm ya got that you might not want to hear…
Almost casually, she turned her attention to her own Servant, in conversation up the hill with Cu Chulainn, wondering if she'd perceive him as having struck a happy medium between-
Ko froze.
It wasn't that she was surprised by what her senses were telling her. He was, after all, Fionn mac Cumhaill; even without access to most of his magic, he was still obviously one of the greatest heroes Ireland ever produced. And it wasn't that she was overwhelmed by his power - by pure muscles and mana oomph, it was safe to say he was technically weaker than Mordred.
Even so… it was one thing to think he was who he said he was, to believe it. To
know it was something else entirely.
Because in knowing it, she was no longer able to shove the thoughts she'd been having aside.
She didn't spare a parting word for Mordred, or even a backward glance. She just stomped up the trail to the woods, straight past her Servant and Cu both.
"You and me, we gotta talk," she said, beckoning him to follow her without even breaking stride.
"... of course," Fionn replied, sounding a little surprised, but falling into step behind her without further comment. Cu might've said something to him as they left, but the blood pounding in her ears didn't let her hear it.
As they walked, she realized she wasn't even sure what it was she was going to say. She just knew, as the tears started to well up in her eyes, that if she didn't say it, nothing would ever be right between them.
When they rounded a curve in the path, he said, "Master…?" and somehow the word by itself was enough to tip her over the edge.
It wasn't the first time she'd tried to concentrate all her energy up through her body and out through her fist, but it
was the first time she'd felt the hand not delivering the blow contribute so much of what went into it. There was a flash of ruby-red as the leftmost of her Command Seals flared on her right hand, the power rocketing up through her shoulders and down through her left arm, as in a burst of speed her own eyes didn't follow, her knuckles hammered into his face.
He didn't quite rock on his heels, but he clearly hadn't expected the hit to do anything to him, and he'd taken the whole thing on the chin. So when he looked back to face her, it was with shock, and a split lip.
"Where were you?" she demanded, her whole body vibrating in fury, every scrap of self-control she had warring with the instincts telling her to feed him a followup punch while he was still off-kilter.
He blinked down at her in utter bewilderment, and distantly, she noted that this really hadn't been a useful or communicative opening for this discussion. The rest of her mind didn't fully care; she was crying so hard now it was difficult to breathe and her left arm ached like she'd been doing one-handed pushups, he was lucky he'd gotten a proper sentence out of her at all. Her first few efforts at a followup died almost as soon as they'd begun - even trying to organize the thoughts that would lead to an explanation made her muscles clench and unclench in anguish.
"... I forgot to thank you," she said eventually, her throat tightening even as she said it. "You're the only reason we got this far. You are…" She swallowed, wiped her eyes, sniffed hard, and tried again. "... everything I could've asked for in a Servant. Everything I
did ask for. Thank you. I don't know what we would have done without you."
"But?" he asked, very quietly.
"But I
do know what everyone else did," she replied, and it was only the building ache in her throat that kept her from shouting it. "They fucking
died, Fionn. They died, or they left, or they stayed and - James Connolly was tied to a chair when they shot him because he couldn't fucking
stand and they thought they were being
merciful by killing him and the others and leaving everyone else alive, like they were
cleaning out the cage and laying down fresh straw- fuck, forget Easter Week," she snarled, logic and restraint abandoned, "are you fuckin' tellin' me that 1847 wasn't Ireland's hour of greatest need? Why don't you ask your thumb what the Gaeltacht is? Or who the soupers were?
Fuck! What the fuck
else does your island have to go through before you go home? 'Óró sé do bheatha abhaile'…" she singsonged viciously, to a tune every one of her friends would've said was from a song about a drunken sailor. "You think it's a fuckin' coincidence I know those words, do ya? That
that's what I have left, out of an entire language?
You made a promise, Fionn!"
Some part of her, very near the surface, was still surprised that she was surprised. She'd summoned a famous mercenary and trickster, and here she was talking about promises. Next she'd be telling him he hadn't been
fair.
Fionn himself had long since gone quiet, and very, very still.
"... it's true," he said finally, nodding reluctantly. "Among my Noble Phantasms, there is one that would be available to me in any class. The Dord Fiann," and there it was, in his hands, a gleaming bronze carnyx with a snarling wolf's head for a bell, "if blown three times, will summon the entire band of the Fianna from the Throne, as hale and whole as ever they were, to save Éirinn in its darkest hour. We had many such horns, when I was alive. This is the last." As quickly as it had appeared, the carnyx was gone again, and after a moment, Fionn let his hands fall to his sides. "And it will only call them once."
"... well, congratulations," Ko said numbly. "Now there isn't an Ireland at all. Or an anywhere else, for that matter. Did you enjoy your nap, at least?"
"I am a dead man, Master!"
It was the first time she'd heard him raise his voice, and she flinched involuntarily. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, but no softer, and his glare was as hard as any she'd ever seen.
"... and the dead walk the lands of the living only where they are bidden."
She'd thought anger had given
her words speed and fire and tearing claws, but Fionn's speech now was as swift and merciless as a spring flood.
"Do you believe that even
perfect wisdom can tell a man, with any certainty, what'll happen centuries after his death?" he demanded. "Yes, I promised to return in our hour of greatest need, but when I
said that, there wasn't a man woman or child on the island who wouldn't know one of my horns on sight! There was a bard and a druid in every village with a holdfast worthy of the name, and hundreds more out in the wild places! I…"
He stopped, shaking his head with a little scoff. Her heart and stomach went tight at the sight, and in that moment, she knew she would've given anything she had to take back the punch and put the smile back on his face. For the first time since she'd met him, he looked older than her.
He brushed a thumb at his bleeding lip, and stared at it for a moment, clearly trying to regain his composure.
"This is the third time I've been summoned as a Heroic Spirit," he said, finally looking back at her with glistening eyes. "And the
first time a Master has not had to invoke a command seal to prevent me from staying in or immediately returning to Éirinn
. Do
not confuse the heartlessness of magi with indifference on my part, Furiko."
Her cheeks burned. She'd given him her screenname over the one on her birth certificate without a second thought; none of her friends had called her anything but Ko in years. But the flippancy of it all caught up to her now, and in the absence of the ocean being kind enough to swallow her and all of her mortification along with her, she had to content herself with drowning in a fresh flood of tears.
"You're right," she croaked, swallowing and nodding at the ground as she tried and failed to dry her eyes on her sleeve. "I don't know why I'm so upset. I haven't the right. I haven't the right, twice over."
<< This isn't my world, and even if it were, I've never even set foot in Ireland, not once, none of us have for two hundred years, I'm not Irish, I'm a selfish idiot, no one wants to hear some white girl wailing from the Diaspora like any of this shit actually happened to me, not after the twentieth century we've had.>>
She took a deep breath, and almost managed a sigh before it broke down into a hysterical giggle.
"It did."
She looked up at him in surprise, sniffling. "... what?"
"You've mastered an invader's tongue," he said, his voice eerily gentle, "and their songs, and their histories, because they tore yours from your throat before your grandparents were born, and drove your ancestors off their lands and across the sea. So yes, Master. It did happen to you." His mouth was a hard line. << Among other things.>>
She felt as though she were falling off a cliff, the wind roaring in her ears and buffeting at her coat.
"... the dream cycle goes both ways," she remembered, too late.
Looking back on it later, she'd have been hard-pressed to say which of them hugged the other first. Either way, the end result was the same.
"I'm so sorry," she blubbered into his cloak as his arms tightened around her.
"So am I," he said, more hoarse than he'd sounded a moment ago.
"... I didn't actually hurt you, did I?" she asked when the tears let up at last, tilting her head back to try to get a better look at the wound.
"Sure why would you even ask such a question?" he said loftily past a swollen lip. "You might've hurt
yourself, if you hadn't wasted most of the energy you expended; reinforcement of the human body is an intricate skill that takes years to perfect, it's not like pouring mana into a sword to make it sharper. Promise me you won't do that again until after you've had some lessons."
"I promise," she said. "I didn't even think about it while I was doing it, I just threw everything I had into the punch and apparently…" She shook her head, wincing. "Sorry again, that was out of line."
"Tell the truth, it was worth it to finally find out what's been on your mind," Fionn confessed with a sheepish grin, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. "You've been so distant the last few days, I'd almost started to think you didn't care for me at all."
… Ko bit her lip, and wiped her eyes.
"Fionn, honey?" she asked, trying not to laugh. "Exactly how many physical traits do you have in common with my fiancé?"
"Thankfully none," he said with oblivious confidence. "If you need help letting him down easily, Master, I'm more than happy to-"
"I am not sexually attracted to blonds, as a general rule," she said, as plainly as she could, placing one hand on his chest and gently pushing him backward. "Or blue-eyed people. Or men who completely disrespect my right to decide who I marry."
Or tenors, she didn't add. It seemed kind of mean, especially after loudly fangirling about Freddie Mercury earlier.
The smile fell off his face slowly, but by the time she'd reached the end of her recitation it hadn't just disappeared, it'd pulled his jaw open on its way out.
"There are exceptions," she added hastily, in the interests of fairness and accuracy. "And it's not like I think you aren't handsome - solid seven out of ten, easily."
Fionn's mouth snapped shut, and closing his eyes, he nodded gravely, laying his hands on her shoulders. "I understand completely. Fear not, Master - it'll be a hard-fought campaign, but I give you my word, the Hound of Culann's heart will be yours."
Oh this poor dumb bastard. If he'd said that to me a decade ago I'd've fallen for him instantly.
"... no, Fionn," she sighed, smiling despite herself. "I'm going to marry the man I've loved for the past five years, and I'm at the very least going to
try to be faithful to him." No sense tempting fate, in a world where the Pendragons and Galahad were real-life historical figures.
The blond's eyes popped open, and he stared down at her in undisguised shock.
"... you can't be serious," he said hollowly. "You'd rather have that-?"
"Of course I would," she replied, nipping whatever insults he'd stored up in the bud. "Have you seen him? He's like if Chow Yun Fat were a squishy snugglemonster academic with gorgeous eyes who keeps the thermostat just where I like it in the winter and makes tiny happy sounds when he sees me dancing."
"Every man makes happy sounds when he sees the woman he loves dancing!" Fionn exclaimed in utter exasperation, one hand on his hip, the other facepalming. "Master, please, think about this - he isn't a bad man, that's plain enough, but he's no warrior, and you came to this world with nothing. You didn't even have magic circuits until today! What kind of life do you expect to make with no lands or wealth, and a husband who cannot protect you?"
She shrugged, projecting as much defiance as she could out of sheer stubbornness. She wasn't quite enough of a bastard to point out just how blatantly he was projecting right now (meeting and losing Sadbh had been the roughest dream in the cycle thus far), but she'd be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of knowing he'd just voiced a concern that had been in the back of her mind ever since they'd arrived. If anything, Fionn had understated the problem; the Clocktower and the Church were both almost certainly going to be all over Chaldea like flies on roadkill the second they came back into existence, and she had absolutely no plans for how to deal with them.
"My life, apparently," she said. "Do you think it's a coincidence that he summoned Professor Smith and I summoned you? I think it's pretty clear which one of us is meant to be the protector in this relationship."
"Furikoooo," Fionn whined, all the gravitas of five minutes ago completely abandoned.
"Oh, don't pout," she told him with fond indulgence, taking his hand in both of hers and patting it. "I'm gonna be okay. Modern life is really low on emergency situations in our part of the world - you only really need to be a hero for like thirty seconds at a time, if at all."
He chuckled bleakly. "The trick, Master, is telling the wrong moments from the right. The kind of trouble you're like to run into before this is through, you're mad if you think I'll let you do that alone."
"Sweetheart," she said, stroking his arm in comfort, "did you ever consider your bad luck with women might come down to you having no taste? Not bad taste," she added at his startled look, "just… going off the evidence of my eyes in the dream cycle, you seem to like
all of us, if we're even remotely attractive."
"Did you ever consider that that might be why I thought we'd be well-suited?" he retorted.
Her eyes bugged, and she laughed before she realized what she was doing, slapping him on the back. "Well fuck, dude! Let it never be said that Fionn mac Cumhaill did not draw blood on this day, goddamn." She grinned at him. "All right. Like Master like Servant it is, then. I'll tell ya this for free, you're gonna love Chaldea - the dress code is pants-optional."
He stared at her in complete silence for a moment, his expression unreadable, until he broke into a weary laugh, and shook his head.
"You really are-"
What she really was would have to wait, because in that moment, a loud crack split the night, followed by two smaller pops. Both their heads snapped in the direction of the sound, and found fireworks flaring in the sky over the beach, red and green tinting the blue of the sky-ring. A moment later, Cu materialized on the path beside them, blue robes flapping about him, as if he'd been running.
"The Argo's here!"
