Chapter Text
Wake up.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Everything screams despair.
From the corners of every stone roof to the tips of the fallen trees, an unsettling void passes through. She remains untouched—the axis of time doesn’t brush her; instead, it brings her nostalgia. The smell of decay is another story; she’s grown used to it far too many times. Walking alongside death is the magus’ path. Perhaps if she had followed it, her existence would be the opposite.
The night is chill and unbearable when she materializes into thin air. People avoid each other’s eyes, tucked into their own world, and she wishes she envied them. Unrecognizable or not, the town brims with life, regardless of the overcharged mana in the atmosphere. Taking a deep breath, she inhales, and her suspicions are confirmed. It matters not when affinities are sensed: magus can tell immediately, and heroic spirits don’t follow back.
A part of her is nonplussed. Someone could say things like: “This will always happen. Humanity has proven to be more of an inconvenience than useful.” It doesn’t mean she has to like it. Of course, herself, out of anyone, is aware. But another part of her is furious. Things like this will always brim her with anger. She can’t remember if the singularities caused her to experience this.
All she knows is bringing innocents is a crime against the rules of the Holy Grail War.
Her steps are firm, as she walks towards an alley, her eyes meeting the blood in the walls.
“Let’s see what happened here,” Fujimaru Ritsuka mutters.
“The preparations are ready.”
Ciel rises from the floor, finishing her prayer. A swift glance is thrown at the Church’s structure, the paintings, and the vacant seats. The current sight tells nothing. Aside of the pamphlets left behind, it signals the session has been over for hours.
Even the townsfolk had begun sensing the shift. Every so often, their eyes would dart around, questioning the peace, chalking it up to useless superstitions. Yet, the number of visitors to the chapel had increased, trying to seek refuge in any consolations her colleagues had. Their nervousness, palpable despite their best efforts, their shriek at the slightest noise, makes Ciel pity them.
“Very well,” Ciel says, turning around to face her colleagues. “Any words from the Association?”
“No, madam.”
Ciel narrows her eyes. “The deadline is after tomorrow.” She hopes they know her irritation isn’t directed at them, just at the stuck-up nobles and their traditions.
In the back, the door squeaks, announcing the entrance of someone. A young girl with white hair steps in, the uniform’s sleeves showing her bandages.
“It can’t be helped. They’re planning ways on how to betray the Church and the supervisor,” Caren Ortensia says.
Ciel blinks. From the corner of her eye, she finds her colleagues appalled at the casual tone. It’d be hilarious if the circumstances were different; the blunt tongue suits her acquaintance. “Caren, I’m surprised you remained this long.”
“My plane will be here in three hours. I came to say a final goodbye,” Caren replies, placing her bored eyes on the crowd. “What are you doing? Go and press for answers.”
Everyone minus her and Caren scrambles around, their steps echoing in the now empty chapel.
“Thanks,” Ciel says, and means it.
“You’re welcome.” Caren says, peering at her.
Questions pile up in her yellow eyes, and Ciel smiles ruefully, wishing she had packed some curry and bread for a dinner snack. The night will be long. It is tiring already; one or two hours of uninterrupted sleep will be bliss.
“You changed your mind?”
“No, I wanted to see this place before everything goes down.”
Ciel sighs, feeling a migraine. “Yes, the reparations are nothing I’m looking forward to.”
“My grandfather died on the job,” Caren muses, indifferently. “It’s a shame, casualties of that kind are more difficult to compensate.”
Ciel takes several internal deep breaths. She’d hated it at first, a long time ago, how her superiors had brushed the ritual as fake but necessary. They had to join, impose their authority, no matter if it was hypocritical. I wonder how Tohno-kun is doing. Better than me, I hope. The thought forms without warning. Who am I kidding? Of course not, he’s dying— Ciel halts the rest, suppressing the sorrow.
She turns her gaze up to meet Caren’s. “Are you hungry?”
Caren’s eyes twinkle, her smile showing a rare softness. “Your treat?”
Ciel smiles in spite of herself. “Only for tonight.”
The rain had begun sometime after the luggage had been delivered to their suit.
A bad omen, perhaps. Or nature was trying to wipe away any future impurities when it had no opportunity later. Luvia doesn’t care. She’s here to prove her superiority, restore her family’s humiliation in the Third War, triumph and return with satisfaction to the Clock Tower. Inconvenient or not, the weather has given her an excuse to avoid the Overseer.
The challenge is avoiding them, Luvia acknowledges.
“Thinking of something interesting, my Master?”
Her heels hit the floor harshly as she turns around.
A chuckle. The sound dares her to raise an eyebrow at the man sitting pleased on the couch. Their gazes meet, the man’s glasses dropping an inch from his nose. Instantly, one of his gloved hands lift to adjust the spectacles. The simple action is unrushed. Uncaring, as if the rain from outside is a daily thing. For him, she supposes, it is not. Luvia questions him with her other raised eyebrow.
“Maybe. What about yourself?”
His mouth lifts up into a charming smile. “It seems the murder rate has increased since three days ago,” her Servant announces.
Luvia looks at the local newspaper on his lap. A free copy from the main lobby, she recognizes.
“How barbaric.”
“What did you expect, my lady?” He sends her a flashing smile. “A good mystery is one that builds up until the public is ready for the villain.”
“Perhaps.” Luvia concedes. “It’s still against my methods to drop so low, and elegance has nothing to do with it.”
From the corner of the room, a wriggle sound interrupts them. Luvia walks evenly to the instrument, taking away the paper as soon as it finishes scribbling. Her eyes go back and forth, skimming the formalities, until her eyes catch the hidden message.
“Archer.”
“Oh? Letter from the Church?”
Luvia sends him a pleased smile. “My informant says the seventh Master hasn’t registered yet.”
It’s pure silence, the only sound coming from Archer's throat before he bursts into full laughter. He doesn’t stop, the eyes from behind his glasses glinting.
“When all the cards are drawn, things will become interesting!”
Luvia heads back to the other side of the room. The air-conditioning is turned off, Archer’s low chuckles and the thunder from the skies filling the silence.
She’s been here before.
Not in this place, per se. The sentiment of walking among horror is familiar.
The corpses never flinch. Any survivors had long succumbed to their wounds. How many civils were dragged, Ritsuka can’t tell. They all lie around, splattered, motionless. Her hand presses against the wall, trying to concentrate, attempting to see the last moments of the victims. Her head throbs, the sounds getting louder, messier, before she allows everything to flow.
The child screams again, I can’t feel them, I can’t feel my legs, and someone snaps their muscles, pressing until all heard left is pained cries. Torn apart flesh—the sound is horrendous in the middle of the pleas. Ritsuka forces her eyes to see it all: this is her job, she has to bear with all the injustice and cruelty. But her eyes sting, her nails dig harder into her own skin, and her whole body trembles in sheer rage.
It’s like an eternity before she recognizes her surroundings again. The memories are rough, scratchy, a black-white movie of poor quality, not enough evidence for her to point the culprit.
When Ritsuka opens her eyes to confront reality, the asphalt and cement greet her. Dry blood stains the alley, and in front of the sight are fingers, necks, arms; every of them tossed aside, forgotten like a second-rated meal. She counts to three, blocking the noises from driving her insane, and still, she feels the leftovers. The hushed, hurried voices: stop, please, stop—no, I beg you, god—no, no!
A hand touches one of the nearest heads. Something is odd, the neck’s skin is too dry. The bodies are empty, not a single drop of blood in them. Ritsuka leans down, and gingerly closes the eyelids, engraving the sight as a reminder. Immediately, a drop of water brushes her cheek, and as she raises her eyes, the grey clouds seem to roar. A storm is coming, Ritsuka foretells.
She decides to stand there, opening up her umbrella, the rain washing over, sluggish and cold.
The inhuman girl prayed to God.
She’s already died countless times, in many different, endless ways, too difficult to imagine. She wished to die, not be brought back, not in the usual way. But it was appearing the choice for anything else would never come.
(She wanted to die. She wanted to die. She wanted, more than anything else, this and yet—!)
Her prayer is interrupted.
Light and wind fill the chapel. A red umbrella opens. With a swift jump, the inhuman girl leaps backwards, a black key ready. She looks up. A young girl stands in front of her, her orange hair shining through the Church’s windows.
“I am the Ruler-class servant, Fujimaru Ritsuka," Servant Ruler says, “I ask you, are you the Overseer?”
Welcome to the Holy Grail War.
