Chapter Forty: Infinite Labyrinth

(*)

Shirou opened his mouth, knowing full well he would have to fight Ilya tooth and nail on going back into the mountain to help in any way he could, but also knowing full well it was the only thing to do.

"You're going to have to go back into the mountain," she said softly.

"Ilya, I'm going to… wait, what?"

"This is worse than I thought. I thought it would be some kind of great Servant that only another Heroic Spirit could fight, but… but I don't even know what's happening in there anymore. I don't know what's been summoned into this world. I thought I knew everything, but…" she trailed off. "I don't want you to go. I'm scared. But your wounds are healing fast, and we… we need everything we can get. If you can fight, you should be in there. I'll stay here and watch over Sakura. I can keep providing you with as much mana as you need, so fight as hard as you can."

He paused for a moment. He blinked a few times.

Then, without a word, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, and took off at as close to a sprint as he could manage with his muscles still knitting together.

She blushed, and a wistful smile found her lips despite herself. "Dummy. You'd better save the world, or I'll be so annoyed."

(*)

The black and gold blades clashed with power to shatter mountains, and Saber had not felt so fulfilled in most of her life. Any of her lives.

Lancelot was stronger than her and just as fast. He had been called in the same shell of a Berserker that she had faced so long ago, and yet his skill at arms and combat instincts shone through it to let him fight as a swordsman despite his insanity. And Arondight, Light of the Lake, still struck with power and grace matching the best of Excalibur despite the blackness clinging to it. It took every iota of her legendary skill and instinct, every trick of magic she could muster, just to fight evenly with him.

She grinned as she slid backwards from a parried blow, meeting his next charge and slamming his sword down into the formless ground, the sheer joy of the match overflowing from her. "Well played, sir! Another exchange, and another after that! You were called forth to break me with sorrow and regret, but the Arturia who felt those things no longer lives in this world! We clash as knights, my friend! I will give you the end you deserved, a final duel worthy of being immortalized in songs!"

"Arthuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuur!"

Her grin widened. "Still not much for banter, eh?"

His blade slipped free, slashing up for her neck with impossible speed. She did not see it nor react to it; rather, her instincts told her it would come and she had already started to dodge before it even began moving. Arondight slashed so close to her ear she could feel a few strands of hair sliced through, but it did not touch flesh; Excalibur slashed out in reply, aiming for the seams of Lancelot's blackened armor, to pierce him from the side and slash across to gut him. He snapped his elbow down on the flat of the weapon, lowering the strike to collide with solid metal instead of the weak point she had been aiming for, piercing only a bare inch, never touching his body… and trapping the weapon, however briefly, while Arondight descended again.

Her own armor could not block a strike from that blade, she knew. She was stronger than her old self, but Lancelot was stronger still, his physical skills driven up to absurd heights by the magic of the sword in his hand. So she did something that no knight would ever expect her to willingly do: she released her grip on her sword, leaping back.

Arondight slashed down through the space she had vacated, striking up a gale that sent the ribbon in her hair flying from the sheer force of it, and she smiled. "Overextended!" she cheered, with a burst of mana into her legs, charging up the length of her enemy's own blade as though it were a bridge, to leap up and slam her armored, mana-infused knee into his nose.

She was light, and small, and had never fought in such a manner during her mortal life. So even the maddest version of Lancelot was caught off his guard when he was essentially struck in the face by a speeding truck, the combination of her natural strength and her Mana Burst lending the blow the same kind of force that had so very recently caused dragon heads to splatter like overripe fruit. He was sent tumbling backwards, his armor clanging with each impact as he skipped along the formless ground like a hurled stone. She reached down to lift the fallen Excalibur back into her grip, even as her enemy slid to his feet, armored boots striking up sparks against nothingness.

"Arthuuuuur…" he snarled, blood dripping from his nose and painting his sharpened teeth a sickly reddish black as it flowed into his mouth. Somehow, he sounded angrier than before, which logically should have been impossible.

Saber grinned innocently. "I never said they'd be good songs, old friend."

(*)

As a child, she had been a fool.

Cursed by the Olympians to bear the hatred of mortals, she had fled to a lonely, empty island with only her sisters. And yet she had still been happy, for in her mind they were all she needed. They were childish and snide, taunting her for her imperfections: she grew older, while they were eternally young. She was hideous, while they were perfectly beautiful. She would one day die, while they were immortal. And yet, they were the only existence 'similar to herself' that she knew of, and so she defended them. Whenever mortals found their island, driven by their hatred to slay the Medusa and 'free' the goddesses she had trapped in her realm, then she would cut them down without mercy, for they had sought to steal from her the only things she truly loved. The legendary polearm Harpe became Death's sickle in her hands as she hunted and slaughtered without remorse, becoming a monster that cut down every human she saw. All that mattered to her was the life she had with her sisters. So long as that could continue, any sin was acceptable.

It was a false dream. Day by day, drop of blood by drop of blood, her mind and soul were eroded into a twisted, man-eating monster. In the end, she became so cruel and vile that she killed even the sisters she loved so much, and in the end was cut down by a hero of the Olympians, wielding the same weapon she herself had once used to slay her victims. Every step of her journey had been a waste. Every second of her life had been pointless. All her life had been persecution and failure, ending in a death she could barely comprehend because her mind had become nothing but blood and hate. Rebirth as a Servant had let her truly understand this much: she hated the Olympians who cursed her, she hated the mortals who hounded her… but more than anything, she hated herself…

… And frankly, right this moment, Rider had to think she probably had it coming, the little bitch.

The girl was fast… exactly as fast as her, in fact. And exactly as strong. Her physical equal in every way. So why was it that she was being forced back? Why was she on the defensive, unable to turn aside any of the blows from that terrible scythe, unable to do anything but dodge every stroke? Knowing, knowing, that any blow would pierce her guard? Any attempt at defense would have that fantastic blade strike through her weapon as though it was a glass carving? Her movements were a dance, impossible speed and grace that would have put a striking viper to shame; so why did she feel clumsy and slow, just bare millimeters ahead of spear slashes that seemed to her a perfect artwork each?

She knew the answer, though verbalizing it would have been enough to kill her, either though pure shame or just because slowing for even an instant would mean Lancer would take her head from her shoulders with a single stroke. The difference between them, the unassailable gap in power that made the girl shine like an evening star even while wrapped in darkness, while Rider herself blended into the shadows as if she didn't even truly exist.

The divine soul, the power that marks the unbridgeable gap between mortal and goddess. Such power long ago faded from me, but she is in our prime. A counter may exist, but actually using it is…

The girl twisted her weapon, a cut that seemed to sever the shadows around it into formless ribbons, as if light and space themselves were destroyed by the simple passing of the weapon. Harpe's cutting edge was unnatural, the sharpened blade only on the inside of the sickle, as it was a headsman's tool made for executing trespassers, so on a thrust only the blunt edge could strike the target.

Rider mistepped, distracted by her own thoughts perhaps, or perhaps simply no longer able to stay strong under the unwavering, impossible pressure of the perfect being she faced. Her dodge was an instant too slow. The blunt outer blade of the scythe brushed against her.

Agony blossomed down the side of abdomen, as what should have been a blunt metal edge slashed through flesh and muscle, scraping against her ribs before it stopped.

She cursed internally, slipping off the blade and lashing out her chain spike at the other Servant's legs, forcing her to retreat even a scant few meters while she clamped a hand on the wound. She'd been afraid of that; Harpe itself was a Noble Phantasm, after all, and more importantly, one that had killed her in her own life, being wielded by Perseus against her many years after she'd abandoned it. If there could be said to be a weapon 'perfectly formed' for killing Medusa, it would be that scythe. More, as a Servant, it would have been a deadly blade to her regardless of origin: no wound inflicted by Harpe would heal by any means other than time and nature. She could feel the curse of the weapon in her flesh even now, stopping the flow of her mana from knitting muscle and skin back together as it always had in the past.

Lancer slid to a halt, her weapon held before her. "You're nothing special. Just another intruder. I've killed hundreds like you, and I'll kill hundreds more. The Formless Isle is for the goddesses only, and I am their sword."

Rider narrowed her eyes. "You're going to die, alone and unloved, a monster that consumed everyone you ever cared about. You're a Servant, no matter what you look like; you know what happens to us. You know what we'll become, because you've already become it. The form you take doesn't change anything."

"You misunderstand. The power of Avenger, the curses of All the World's Evil, can alter time, space, and matter. Even Servants can be reborn as living things. That is the 'prize' of the Holy Grail, remember?" Lancer said. "I will be reborn, alive again, on a world without humanity to corrupt me. I will change my future. I will live forever in peace and solitude, and never become you. With that, it will be as if you never existed... you'll fade away, an unpleasant dream."

Rider considered this. "First, your corruption was not the doing of man. It was your own fault. Your own darkness. You will eventually fall into madness, because you already have. Past, present, and future are one. Our history is written, our life ended. The only peace any Servant will ever find is accepting this."

"You seem to have confused 'peace' with 'surrender.' Besides, we won't know for sure until I try. You should be grateful, it might grant you some true peace to simply fade away, wretched thing."

"Second," Rider said, ignoring her words, "in the midst of blaming me for your problems, you didn't consider… that I hate you far more than you could ever hate me, you petulant, self-centered brat. Our worst mistakes. Our greatest failures. Our start down the path to madness. All of it happened thanks to you. Killing you will not change one single thing about what we've done or who we are.

"But it will be very cathartic."

With one hand, she slashed open the cut on her side further, dragging her nails along it and shedding her blood into the blackness… which began to gleam scarlet, a hazy glowing mist that floated up and over them both, tinting the blackness red.

A single, blood-red eye opened in the void above them, staring down in judgment… and hunger.

Rider stood tall despite the pain in her side, feeling the pressure of the girl's holy aura diminishing as the battlefield was re-written, the home-field advantage transferred. Lancer narrowed her glittering eyes and said, "You have been setting up a bounded field. That's why your counterattacks have been so light up to now. You knew I would crush you in a direct battle and focused on defense while you prepared a countermeasure to weaken me. But do you really think that simply wrapping us in your mana will help enough?"

"We won't know for sure," Rider said, her tone dripping irony, "until we try."

(*)

Gilgamesh had never truly felt desperate before. But this…

His world. His garden. The kingdom of the eternal cosmos that was his playground until the end of time. If there was one duty of the King, it was to protect the universe that he ruled over. Even his older self, who was as despicable as any bandit, had understood that. The King may do whatever he pleases, and may pursue any pleasure that calls to his soul, no matter how vile it may be. But in return, he must ward his garden against all others. The King may kill a billion of his subjects and still be the King, but any other slaying even a single one is intolerable. The King must defend the Kingdom.

And yet, though he struggled with every ounce of his power, he faced the one enemy who could stop him. And in his soul, he felt a twinge of fear at the realization.

Enkidu was a beast of the gods, an invincible golem born of the Earth itself and with life breathed into it by divine spirits. Its power was incomprehensible to mortals, the song of Heaven made manifest. No blade in the Gate of Babylon could overwhelm it; it called to the greatest Mystery of all, the primordial creation of the World itself. From the Earth, the mother goddess who succored and protected it, Enkidu could call forth infinite blades of divine clay to meet and repel every single attack without fail. As Gilgamesh was an 'Archer' who used the greatest arrows gathered from across all of human history, Enkidu was a 'Lancer' whose spear was the world itself. To fight it was to fight the very planet on which they stood.

Gilgamesh would have relished this any other day of his life. To meet his friend again, and trade blows as they had done in Uruk, should have been the most sublime of joys. But those golden eyes mocked him, reminded him that even his one, true, perfect friend was just a reflection of the demon who sought to destroy his garden. There could be no joy in such a battle. Just rage, and sorrow, and…

And in my soul, just a twinge of fear.

He called forth another storm of blades, feeling the burning beneath his skin as he called to power he did not have, and watched as each one was met and crushed by the Earth's spear, a thousand javelins of simple black clay that met and matched the finest craftsmanship of mankind.

Enkidu smiled. "You're young, Gil. And small. Though in this form you might well be a more perfect king, you simply don't have the strength to face me. You… oh?" it murmured, gazing down at a sudden pressure on its feet.

"No, but I do have the intellect," Gilgamesh said, without a hint of joy in his gaze, as the chains of binding gods snapped around Enkidu's ankles from a pair of portals formed behind his feet, the infinite length of it crawling up him like creeping ivy. "You're not a god, but you are born from the heavens. Will this hold you? It doesn't need to for long…"

Enkidu's grin widened as the chain snapped around his upper body, more portals opening in a sphere around him, within the aura of his defense where the spears leaped forth from the blackened earth. Scant meters away, they would fire like bullets, and even with his reflexes Enkidu would not be able to intercept them all. Even one to the head or heart would be enough... "Clever, Gil. If you-"

"I don't need advice from a clay doll. Disappear, you counterfeit," Gilgamesh said, snapping his finger to interrupt whatever the creature had thought to say. The weapons fired as one…

And with speed and reflexes that Gilgamesh had never, never seen in it, not once in a lifetime as the closest of comrades, Enkidu's lance leapt from the ground and intercepted each one before it had even cleared the portal.

Gilgamesh gritted his teeth as the masterwork weapons fell like rain among the spears of black mud, feeling a burning in his blood that had nothing to do with fatigue. "Of course. You modified your body mid-battle, sacrificing other parameters to raise your reflexes and agility to superhuman levels. Even if you're just a cheap imitation of Enkidu, you're still a tricky one."

Enkidu smiled, as though he were not bound head to toe in heavy chains. "You haven't changed, Gil. When you hate something, the worst insult you can think of is still 'imitation.' Even though you have the sense to value skill as much as power in this form, some things never change. Though I have to admit, you came close. I assumed you would try to crush me with raw power, and was caught somewhat off guard. Fighting so cleverly…

"If I was alone, you might even be able to win."

Gilgamesh's eyes widened "Wh-"

"Ulalalalalalalalalalalalala!" screamed a voice that was itself like the essence of shouting, the empty void suddenly whipping into a hurricane, wind and lightning roiling across the black, endless sky. Without stopping to look, without the slightest further hesistation, Gilgamesh opened another portal and called forth the chain, releasing his false friend to reclaim the memory of the true one, calling the chain to his hand and using the weight of it to pull him, faster than he could dodge on his own, he shot off at a random angle…

And felt the wave of energy that passed behind him, missing by scant inches, felt the power of the charge rattle his teeth, smelled the musk of a beast that could stomp his skull into a sticky paste with the barest touch…

He landed, rolling to his feet, and narrowed his eyes in annoyance that he could barely express, as the thundering chariot slid to a halt, trailing lightning along each wheel, the massive bulls at the forefront snarling madly, blood-flecked foam dripping from their mouths. And of course, at the reins, it had to be him...

"A fine maneuver, boy! You'd have been a warrior worth mentioning one day, if you were going to survive this day!" screamed the charioteer, golden eyes gleaming in a craggy, scarred face lined by an unkempt mane of white hair that was still streaked with red, as if the corruption could not fully drive the fire from the man. "But you can only trick the King of Conquerors once, boy! My second charge will be my last, I assure you of this!"

Gil felt a tooth crack, he was clenching his jaw so hard. "So that's how it is…"

(*)

Rider shifted mid-charge, sliding past the blade like a wraith and kicking off the haft of the scythe, forcing the young Lancer off-balance even as inertia brought a whirling spike in at her face. She moved with the same serpentine, inhuman grace as her future self, flipping backwards to let the weapon slip under her and kick it downwards, but Rider had already landed from her own leap and begun her next move during the split-second Lancer was in mid-air with her back turned.

The younger girl landed, only one foot firmly on the ground and the impact forcing her knee to bend; she could not reliably kick off with any sort of power or control. Rider had begun moving just slightly before she had landed, and at the speed they were fighting, motion was essentially instantaneous.

And Rider's weapon had two spikes on it.

The girl's guard was as perfect as one could expect, and she managed to get Harpe between her enemy and her heart despite being in the worst possible position to defend. But Rider knew better than anyone how deadly she had been at that age… and so she had not been aiming for her younger self's heart.

The spike dove into Lancer's side unopposed, anchoring itself in her body with a sickening crunch as it cracked ribs. The girl hissed in pain and rage, swinging out her own weapon with one hand while she tried in vain to pull the spike free with her other; but Rider had already begun moving again, and Harpe did no damage beyond taking a few millimeters of her flowing hair. Rider slid backward, gripping the chain of her weapon as she did, and pulling it as hard as her superhuman muscles allowed.

Lancer actually screamed, bone once again cracking audibly as she was yanked off her feet, as Rider whirled the other spike of the chain into her hand, throwing it to meet the other Servant's head in mid-air…

And found it repelled by an arrow just the barest hint of a second before impact.

Damn. A trap to it… Rider thought, charging forward under the flying girl, slipping under her inevitable counter before she could gather the wit to perfectly aim it between her pain and disorientation. She needed to find the Archer, hoping against hope that they were within the bounds of her Bloodfort, because it was the only thing letting her keep up with Lancer while this wound in her side refused to heal…

And a small fist, seemingly from nowhere at all, slammed home into that very same wound, turning her fluid charge into a broken stumble, rolling end over end before coming to her feet, unsure even of where the attack had come from, much less where…

Damn.

The girl helping Lancer to her feet was identical to her physically; her hair was done up in girlish pigtails, and her dress was pure white rather than young Medusa's black robe, but she had the same otherworldly beauty, the same aura of divine perfection rolling off her. "You're as clumsy as ever, Medusa. I don't even know which of you is worse," she said, her tone cool and unconcerned, before she reached out and tore the spike from the other girl's side without warning, sending Lancer falling right back to her knees with a gasp of agony.

"Stheno…" Rider muttered.

Her older sister turned to her, her golden eyes gleaming between pale white hair the blended with her dress so perfectly it was hard to tell where each ended. "And guest."

The arrows came from a half-dozen directions at once, and even Rider was hard-pressed to slip between them. Not because they were fast, or numerous; on that front, Archer or even Assassin had been superior masters of projectiles. Rather it, was more like like the archer firing them knew exactly where and how Rider would dodge, forcing a dozen tiny mid-air corrections to avoid being skewered again and again. Tiny flares of pain erupted over her body as projectiles grazed her skin, each coming within mere millimeters of being a crippling blow, but she knew she could make it…

And then Stheno raised her hand and fired off a bullet of mana at her that she had no chance of avoiding while sliding through that storm of arrows.

The attack was as ridiculous as it was unexpected. Her sister had never been a warrior in life; never been able to defend herself at all, really. Stheno was an existence that was both 'perfect' and 'pointless,' a goddess who men adored because for all her beauty she needed them to survive far more than they needed her. Far from being a combat magus, she had possessed no abilities at all that could be used for battle.

Someone struck me, earlier, coming in at a perfect ambush. I was so shocked to see her I never made the connection, but only Stheno could have done it…!

She dug her heel in and pushed off the ground, spinning in mid-air to let the mana bullet slide beneath her… and as she had known it would, one of the arrows dove full-on into her thigh as dodging one attack left her open to another. Numbness spread from the wound almost instantly, and while she assumed it was poison or a curse of some kind, she was thankful for it; numb was better than pain when she needed to move, the arrows continuing to rain down…!

"I take it back," Stheno said, as a girl identical to her in appearance descended from the shadows to stand next to her, Lancer rising shakily to her feet between them. "That clumsy giant is far worse than even our useless little sister. Why did you stop shooting at her?"

"I got bored," Euryale said with a shrug, the tiny shortbow in her hands almost comically adorable, considering her nature as a corrupted, twisted mockery of herself. "Why did I have to be an Archer? This thing is absurd. You just have to wander around hiding until you strike, while I have to wear out my fingers on a bowstring. And she's not even a man, so the worthless curse on these arrows doesn't even do anything!"

"Hush, sister. It's not like I'm used to being an Assassin, skulking about and circulating mana. It's barbaric, what we've been forced into with these Servant containers," Stheno said. "Still, it isn't all bad. We're quite powerful, and we're together again. And of course, we get to kill Medusa."

"Not you, of course," Euryale said reassuringly to Lancer. "The filthy, corrupted one. The thing that murdered us."

Rider pulled the arrow from her body, the pain of the action far less than the pain of hearing her sister describe it in such a way. Yes, in her madness, she had turned on even her family, but it hadn't been murder, they came to me willingly, hoping to save me with their sacrifice. And I…

Yes. Yes, it had been murder. It might not have been 'her' who did it, not in her right mind, but she had murdered them in cold blood, destroyed the only people who ever loved her. The burning disdain she felt for her younger self, driving her to fight on with all her power and ferocity, could not stand up to Stheno and Euryale.

She had never hated them. Only herself.

"Shall we, then?" Stheno… no, Assassin… asked, a small smile curving her lips as Archer readied her bow, and Lancer stepped forward to place herself between them and the foe. "As a family."

(*)

The swordplay of Sir Lancelot was flawless. Immaculate. Even when his mind was dissolved in madness and mud, he was the finest warrior Saber had ever seen. Had he been able to put that skill to use in combination with advanced tactics, to see and exploit the minute flaws in her own movements, to set traps, to strike where she was weakest and he was strongest… she was legitimately not sure she could have beaten him in a direct fight save by destroying him from a distance with her Noble Phantasm.

But he did not have his peerless tactical mind. And once she had worked out how to 'game the system' so to speak, the excitement of dueling him had evaporated quickly.

She slashed in with perfect grace, her sword moving so quickly that to an onlooker it would have only been a red-gold hurricane in front of her. And yet, the black knight before her met her blade every single time… except when it the mana lining it split outward, cutting at him in an aura outside the blade as her power exploded from the sword, tearing chunks from his armor with each swing. Lancelot would have had the tactic analyzed and countered by the second exchange. Berserker, however…

"Arthuuuuuuuuur!" he screamed, his own sword a hurricane of mindless hostility; each stroke of the blade perfect, but unable to do anything but seek to drive steel into her vital points without any thought of defending himself. He met her sword on instinct, his inborn combat skill allowing him strike at both her and deflect her sword strokes with perfect precision, but he could not grasp why he was doing this. His armor was soaked with his own blood as she inflicted indirect wound after wound, his muscles slowing almost imperceptibly as she worked step by step toward severing them faster than his healing ability could keep up. Arondight tore at her again and again, its master blissfully ignorant to the fact that more of the blood on it was his own than his target's.

She slipped beneath a thrust that would have cut her head off, feeling the blade nick her temple, and grinning at the tiny pain as it came simultaneously with a surge of triumph. His arm was fully extended, and she had been just a step too close to justify striking out with his full range; she was within the sphere of his defense, now, and she brought her blade up in a shallow chop at his elbow. He was pulling back, but that was expected; a swordsman fighting at this speed, after all, had to know that the target needed to be where the enemy was going to be…

It's almost a shame, old friend. It would have been quite harsher on my mind to kill you in your right mind, but the duel would have been far more magnificent.

Excalibur struck black armor at the join, power and wind roaring off it as it tore through metal, biting in at the wrist of Berserker's sword arm. She had little doubt that Berserker could continue to fight without a hand, but the loss of his sword would be a disadvantage no level of durability could compensate for. The next blow would take his head, and…

… Really, though?!

She ended her cut prematurely, leaving the wrist hanging limply onto his arm and the weapon still clamped in the dead hand, because every instinct in her body told her that to do otherwise would mean her own death. A presence simply burst into existence behind her bare fractions of a second after; where there had been nothing, now there was a raging hurricane as a prana even more wild than her own lashed out like a hurricane, lining a blade even larger than Excalibur with bloody red lightning, tinged black where it curled off the weapon. Saber leaped backwards, letting the shockwave rolling off the blade carry her backward faster than she could have managed on her own even as it slashed onward… tearing into Lancelot, not even the target, and shattering his blackened chestplate as he was thrown backwards, to land heavily on his back, the ruined remains of his chest gushing viscous black blood. One stroke and he had nearly been cut in half through the thickest part of his breastplate. Only so many swordsmen could manage that.

Saber narrowed her eyes. "Interrupting a duel? That's overly rude even for you, child."

The new arrival on the field was a mirror of herself; at a first glance, she might even have been Arturia, when she had been fully immersed in darkness, unbalanced and madly lashing out at everyone around her; silvery white hair, golden eyes, black, bulky plate mail coating her from the neck down. The only major differences between this knight and Saber's own corrupted self were here blade, a monstrous broadsword, far more red than black, as if it's blade had been forged of crystalized blood… and a smirk that Arturia at her darkest could not have given. It was, in her own opinion, far too smug to ever be on her own face.

"A duel? This is a world born to kill you, Father. Didn't you even work that out?" Mordred said. "Avenger's Noble Phantasm isn't some knightly nonsense about honorable battle, it's a weapon to destroy you! Why would you ever expect it to play fair?!"

Saber smiled slightly. "So. Such a world would suit you very well, then. I'm afraid emotionally torturing me with Arthur's mistakes won't be all that effective, but burying me in enemies is a solid tactic. But you seem to have wounded your own backup quite terribly, trying to kill me too hastily. Not caring for your allies was always a fault of yours, child. Did you learn that cold attitude from my reign? I never asked to be your role model, but you did pick up most of my worst habits without learning the good ones."

Mordred dug her heel in, her body erupting in scarlet light as overwhelming mana flowed into all four limbs, coating her in bloody lightning. "Are you an idiot? I was trying to kill him! As if I would allow anyone to help me fight you! Your head is mine to claim, Arthur Pendragon! Even if it's in a darkened nightmare, the chance to prove I've surpassed you is nothing I'll share with anyone else!"

Saber blinked. "Well. I can say you certainly aren't lacking for confidence. And honestly, I really admire that tenacity and spirit of yours! You have a lot of good qualities that I never properly fostered in you, and for that I do have to apologize to you. Unfortunately, skill with a blade is not one of them, and without Lancelot backing you up... well, unless you're hiding Gawain or Tristan under your skirts, you're frankly no match for me."

With a roar that would have made most Berserkers envious, Mordred charged, her power propelling her forward with such speed it nearly looked like she was teleporting.

Saber sighed, sidestepping out of her path with speed that matched or even exceeded her 'child's', swinging her blade down with just barely enough force to deflect Clarent's swing onto a slightly different path, sending the weapon slamming into the ground… and leaving Mordred with a lot of force that was suddenly working against her. She flipped forward, unable to stop her charge and forced to divert the momentum in some other way, landing on her feet after a forward flip that Saber had to admit was damnably graceful.

Less so when Saber kicked her in the small of her back, the mana surging through her legs giving the blow enough force to crush the blackened steel of her armor. But it was the thought that counted.

"Perhaps I'm looking at this wrong. This could be an opportunity for us to bond, teach you a few things about warfare," Saber said, grinning at the mingled rage and (though she'd never admit it) fear in Mordred's golden eyes. "I know killing you won't help at this point, you might very well just appear again or be replaced by something worse. So, I'll just spend some time helping you grow as a knight while I try to work out a way to escape this place."

"Take. This. Seriously!" Mordred screamed, charging again, her blade clasped in both hands with all the grace and subtlety of a butcher going at a carcass as she came in with an overhand swing. The technique was childish, pitiful, but the speed of it was undeniable and the power was impossible. Mana, armor, any defense she could manage would be blown through with a single blow, cutting her in half.

Saber stepped to one side, letting the blade slide harmlessly past her, and stepped back in so quickly she appeared to have never moved at all, as if the blade had slid through her and into the ground. Not that Mordred had time to appreciate this or even really register it, as a gauntleted fist lined with magic slammed into her nose.

"You're not listening to your instincts. That's your real problem, when it comes to me. You have a phenomenal ability to read a battle, maybe even better than mine, but the moment you see me you just throw it away and rush in madly," Saber said mildly, watching as Mordred ran her gauntlet across her face, smearing blood and tears across it like some grisly war paint. "I know you hate me for some reason, but…"

"For. Some. Reason?!" Mordred snarled. "You… you denied me! Used me up and abandoned me, your own child! Detested me so much you denied me every dream I had ever possessed! But I beat you in the end! Proved I was your superior! Your child broke you, King Arthur, and nothing will ever change that!"

Saber sighed. "This is no fun when you get angry."

"FUN?!" Mordred roared, digging in her heels to charge yet again.

Saber slipped past the stroke without concern, and sent the younger knight tumbling once again as she slammed the hilt of Excalibur into the side of her head.

"Yes, fun. You and I have a lot in common, you know? Passion. Skill." She paused briefly, grinned, and continued, "and obviously, good looks. I think we could actually be great friends, if you gave it the chance. But the thing is, you're just absolutely drowning in your own past. Letting it define you. If you'd see that, move on, you'd be stronger for it, and we could actually have an enjoyable duel. I know it's hard, it took me years, but..."

"Move on. Move on. Move on?!" Mordred hissed, the fire in her eyes making Berserker's madness look positively cuddly. "Could you move on, after being betrayed and murdered by your own father?!"

Saber sighed. "That's exactly what I mean. Putting aside the little notion of who murdered who, does it really matter anymore after all these years? It's not like we were particularly close anyway. I was a cold-hearted doll and you were a selfish brat. It's not like I ever hated you, and you only hated me because of things you'd be better of abandoning. That pride, for instance."

"Fath-"

"No. Leave that notion in the past to die where it belongs! Mordred, I was never your father in any way that mattered, no more than Uther was a father to me. There was no bond of love between me and your mother. It would be more accurate to say she violated me, if anything. I did not raise you. I did not choose to have you, nor did I choose to take you in. We are not family in any way other than blood, and trust me: anyone who has ever met a magus family would know that is a fragile connection indeed. If I owe you an apology for anything it is this: the father you hate and desire so much simply does not exist."

For long, painful, moment the world was silent. Arturia felt a little bad for the first moment… behind the madness in Mordred's eyes was a pain that she knew was her fault, even if it had not been her intention or was rooted in a life she could no longer identify with.

And then the little brat smiled madly, an expression of blood and wrath, and that bad feeling dissolved.

"Arthurrrrrr…" Lancelot growled, and she didn't even have to look to know he'd finally come back to his feet.

A third summoning circle ignited, a third armored form beginning to materialize within it already, leaving her flanked on three sides.

Mordred's smile was the snarl of a hungry lion. "Well, you're close. My father certainly won't exist much longer."

Saber sighed. Parenting really isn't for me.

(*)

Bundahisn: Blackened Creation of the World of Silence.

Gilgamesh had worked it out first, because he was unnervingly clever, but all of them had to understand by now. They had been treating this as some test, some game to hurt them with remnants of their pasts. Perhaps they had believed that they could grow and learn, or demonstrate how they had surpassed their former selves, and everything would be just fine. They would move on, heroically, and defeat the monster, and all would celebrate.

But the human heart is weak, and frail. It never truly heals, only scars over and moves on, and the pain always stays there, deep down. Whispering.

All Avenger did, really, was give it the opportunity to scream, a roar for blood both silent and deafening.

Humans. You are, as always, your own worst enemy. Against an external threat you can stand strong and determined, but against your own pains and regrets, you will eventually be overwhelmed. They are limitless. They never tire. They never stop, or doubt, or turn aside from their unwavering hate of you.

Because they are the hate you feel for yourself. As long as you regret even one single thing, even if you have moved on and think you're healed, my Noble Phantasm will find it and give it shape to destroy you. Heroes and legends, perhaps, but you are still 'humans' that can feel 'pain,' and so the suffering of the masses will call to your deepest regrets again and again. Fight and struggle as long as you can, but your hearts will turn on you forevermore until you finally drown in the madness of your own 'humanity.'

There is no other end. The worlds your hearts have created within Bundahisn are antithetical to your very existence and will, eventually, fall mercifully silent.

FINALLY, THERE WILL BE PEACE.

(*)

Shirou Emiya had no goddamn idea what he was doing.

It was kind of humiliating to admit, even if it was only to himself, but it was true. Something about the mountain had changed, in just the few short minutes he was gone; he walked down tunnels that were no longer lit, finding his way by touch against surfaces that did not feel like stone or even the vile fleshy constructs that had once coated these caverns. So he wandered in darkness, relying on instinct and what truly hoped was the feeling of Saber in the back of his mind to lead him back to the center of the mountain.

He didn't know for sure what he would do down there, but in a battle of this caliber, even if all he managed was to fire off a single arrow from ambush and then die, it might still be enough to turn the tide. The darkness outside was growing, rapidly, and on the inside of the mountain Avenger had apparently summoned… something. Sakura and Ilya were as safe as they could be for the moment, but there was going to be nowhere safe in the entire world if they didn't stop that abomination. Assuming, obviously, that Shirou could even find him…

"Hello."

Shirou spun, hurling a projected blade at the source of the sound, and hitting nothing but empty air. He didn't even hear it clatter against stone or… whatever was coating the tunnels. It just seemed to vanish as soon as it got out of his very, very limited line of sight.

"That isn't going to be terribly effective, I'm afraid. My physical body was a thing of convenience while I found stability. I've mostly grown beyond it at this point… very literally, in fact," Avenger's amused voice said, seeming to come from behind him no matter which direction he faced.

"That… black orb?" Shirou asked, because for whatever reason this thing really liked to talk, and any moment it was talking was a moment he could take to figure out a way to kill it. "You're remaking the Greater Grail with the whole mountain?"

"Oh, very close. That's the focal point for my real body, which is encircling the Earth. This mountain is my core, yes, but that entire black ocean is 'me.' The Sea of Souls born of all mankind's despair and curses, that will drag your entire species down into its depth and drown them in their own suppressed self-loathing," Avenger said. "And before you get any ideas, no, destroying the core won't stop me. Slow me down, perhaps, but given the rate at which the Sea of Souls is expanding, it will buy your world a few hours at best. You would need to destroy the entire construct at once."

"There might be a way to do that, with the right Servant. Why would you tell me about it?" Shirou asked.

"First, you don't have a Servant with you at the moment, so that threat is a bit empty," Avenger said, his tone slightly mocking, but in the sort of good-natured way one might tease a friend rather than anything meant to cause genuine pain. It was… off-putting. "Second, as you are certainly aware, the rate of expansion is exponential. The faster the Sea grows, the faster it will grow. It has currently stretched beyond the edges of Fuyuki, and it should only be about an hour before it's the size of Japan. The number of Servants who could destroy something so massive are limited, to say the least. And the Servants your forces have access to are dying."

Shirou gritted his teeth. "They'll stop you. And if they don't, I will."

Avenger chuckled warmly. "They will try. But I was born of mankind's pain and despair, and cannot be defeated by anyone who holds such things in their heart. I will admit they have lasted longer than anyone has a right to. Saber in particular is… difficult to grasp. The darkness drowns the others, but she just swims in it. She's… different, inside. 'Something like me,' perhaps? But still, even she can only resist for so long. Even if it is much longer than you will."

The darkness around Shirou deepened, and something shifted within it. A summoning circle ignited before his eyes, the light around it flickering yellow… not the beautiful gold of Saber's power, but a poisonous, diseased shade like rotting flesh. And from it emerged a thing that was… wrong. Dark against the darkness, save where that sickly light flowed under its skin in elaborate patterns across its skin as though its black flesh was cracked ceramic with the golden light beneath pressing against the surface beneath it.

It stepped forward with emotionless, mechanical precision, muscles rippling under the skin of its arms… and in its hands appeared a pair of projected swords. One black, one white. Larger than the usual Kanshou and Bakuya, viciously different designs forged by a man who was similar in some superficial ways, but fundamentally different in all the ways that truly mattered.

"What did you do to him…?" Shirou asked, unsure if the emotion strongest in his mind at that moment was sorrow at seeing Archer so warped, or cold, quiet, hate for the creature responsible.

"Nothing at all. This is merely another aspect of him. Another aspect of you," Avenger said, his tone gentle and hideously invasive. "The darkness festering in your core, the empty black pit burned into you by the flames of Hell… you may have climbed out of that void. But that doesn't mean it's gone. There are as many Shirou Emiyas as there are timelines flickering away in the darkness, my young friend. Not all of them have coped so healthily as you. The only difference between you and Archer, and between Archer and this heartless beast, is one little choice made at the wrong time, for the wrong reason. What called him forth was just you, the scars within your heart, to punish you for everything you have ever regretted in the form of your worst possible self."

One little choice can change the world, Shirou.

Or end it.

(*)

"Ugh. Ugh. Ugh," Ilya said, pacing back and forth, because she couldn't think of anything else to do. "I should go in too? But I can't really fight… but maybe I can help some other way? But I broke this stupid dress… and it's in the way!" she hissed, stepping on the hem of the dress in question. "Who decided it should be so big, anyway?!"

It wasn't her fault, to be fair. A lifetime of preparation and the implanted memories of Grails past had proven totally, completely, useless. Justicia, Mama, all the others… they were silent in her, their salvaged memories containing nothing along the lines of this. For all her wisdom and power, Justicia had never seen this coming when she had given herself to empower the Greater Grail. None of them had. Not even Zouken would have wished for something like this to happen, even though only because it would be bringing death to his awful, worm-riddled old heart just as surely as everyone else.

"… it's all my fault, isn't it?" came a whisper from behind her.

"Blame your terrible grandfather," Ilya answered without turning to look. "You might have done it, but it's his fault you could. And while we're passing around blame, it's my family's fault that thing was in the Grail to begin with. And all our families who made the Grail at all. There's a lot of blame to pass around, and very little of it is yours."

Sakura, a blanket wrapped around her and an empty, unreadable expression on her face, stepped up to stand next to her. She looked like death, frankly; too pale, a sickly layer of sweat coating her, her hair plastered to her skull and a noticeable shiver running through her, as if she was burning hot and freezing cold at the same time. "Still, I was the key. I opened the door and let it in. It… it really seemed like the right thing to do. It felt right, everything seemed so warm and certain. And look at it now…"

Ilya winced. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember. Look… you weren't in your right mind. Don't worry about it."

Sakura actually smiled, for just a second, barely more than a slight tug to her lips. "You're being a little too nice."

"It's the end of the world. Being petty seems… well, petty."

Sakura nodded. "So… what do we do?"

"I don't know. There's nothing to do, really. Not for us. The Grail is opened and the contents are gone. We were born to be the generators for the Greater Grail, and that role is obsolete now. Either the heroes fighting in the mountain will win, or we'll die. I guess we just… watch?"

Sakura blinked a few times. "Well. Fuck that."

Ilya coughed a few times, choking on air as she couldn't decide whether to gasp or laugh and ended up just making a kind of hacking sound. "W-well. You… you're Rin's sister, then. I admit I had my doubts, but…"

"Senpai, and nee-san, and Rider, and… and everyone. They risked everything to save me. To save us," Sakura said, the fire in her eyes a sharp contrast to the black bags under them. We can't let them die. We can't. And we're running out of time. The world is screaming…"

Ilya blinked. "I don't feel anything like that. The darkness is spreading, I can see it, but everything is so… silent. Like the world is dead."

"You're listening too close. This area is muffled by the darkness, but the world is noticing what is happening here, and it's furious. Earth is screaming in rage," Sakura whispered. "It wants us to stop this. And if we don't, something worse will wake up to face it. And when that happens… there might be survivors, but they'll wish they had died with us."

"We're already trying! And how are you even knowing any of this you're babbling a…" Ilya began, trailing off as her jaw dropped. "Akasha. You… did you actually…?"

"I don't know. I was merged with a construct designed to be a gate to it, and I had more power than a human should have. A lot of Caster's magic was burned into my mind as well. I understand things that I don't remember learning. I hear things that aren't there. It doesn't feel good anymore, but I think that's because I was too insane to realize how disturbing it always was," Sakura murmured.

"I don't care if you're happy! You're useful!" Ilya cheered. "Maybe there's something we can do after all! Go ahead and start… um… Castering. Use your super magic."

"It doesn't work like that," Sakura said. "It's all jumbled. I have her memories, and mine, and so many more, and the world just won't stop…"

"Okay, okay, we can work with this. We just need to think of something we can do to help without… without fighting…" Ilya said, trailing off as she glanced at the core of the black ocean, and something flickered through her mind.

There was, after all, a spell that both she and Sakura knew very well. They were living mana generators, and between them had more raw power than a thousand magi. And the rules of the Holy Grail War clearly did not apply anymore…

"Ilyasviel," Sakura said, her gaze following Ilya's and coming to the same conclusion almost instantly. "Do you have anything to draw a circle with?"

"Blood. It will have to be blood. But we don't have a catalyst…" Ilya said doubtfully.

Sakura smiled, and the expression did wonders for making her look almost alive again. "Think bigger, Ilyasviel. We are doing what the world wants, aren't we? There's a very good catalyst of the ultimate, perfect quality. It will break every rule in the book, but they don't really apply to us. Between the two of us our power is almost impossible and our connection to the system is perfect… there's no real reason we can't do anything we can think of, if we work together and the world is so unstable. And besides, I think for this particular task, we have friends in very high places."

Ilya narrowed her eyes. "You're talking weird. Just say what you mean. Where's the catalyst?"

Sakura's grin got slightly malicious, and she explained her thought process.

Ilya's eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. She just stayed like that for several long seconds, gaping openly, before, very slowly, her own face reset itself into smirk so absolutely malevolent that it might well have burned a hole through Avenger's forehead if she'd turned it on him.

"This is completely insane," Ilya said, but her smile did not waver. "We might die just for trying."

"If it gives us even a tiny chance of helping Shirou," Sakura replied, "do you care?"

Ilya's grin only widened.

"Let's break some rules."

(*)

Author's Note: I told a lot of people Mordred wouldn't show up, and provided a logical and lore-friendly reason why.

People really should recall I'm a liar.