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He hits the ground with a crack that doesn’t sound natural, the stray black key in his leg weighing heavily. Fuck.
“Stand up.”
The avenger growled in response, shooting a glare sharp enough to kill the reciever. The ruler only smiled in return, his sword pointed firmly at the other’s neck, a boot planted firmly on his chest. Clearly he had no intention of letting Dantes get back up, even though he encouraged him to try. That combined with the fact that he had been injured by a holy weapon, of all things, only served to fuel his anger. Unfortunately, in his current situation, all he could channel that anger into was a killing stare.
As much as Dantes loathed to admit it, he was too tired to get back up.
They had been fighting for hours at this point, neither side visibly yielding. They didn’t have infinite mana - their masters were only human, after all, and even as a ruler, Shirou had still been summoned by somebody. The priest read his shots like a book, but couldn’t get in close enough to land a meaningful hit. It was a fight based on who would slip first. Clearly, this time, it had been him. He had only been taken down because of a lucky throw, and the odd use of those black keys had thrown him off. It seemed like the ruler surprised him with some new magic tricks every time they fought. Shirou, satisfied with the current state of things, simply waited for the next move. He looked to be in perfect order, but Dantes knew better. He saw the barely controlled rhythm of his breathing, the sweat on his face, the bloody graze on his neck he hadn’t noticed yet, the slight shaking of his outstretched arm. They had fought only a few times, but it was impossible to miss. He was tired. They were tired.
Even after all of this, he knew Shirou wouldn’t kill him.
It didn’t mean the fight wasn’t pointless. None of them ever were. It was a war, after all, and wars beckon fighting. However, out of all the participants, they had a mutual interest in each other. Nothing too involved, of course, they had no history together. While he didn’t know Shirou’s past, Shirou knew his. Dantes knew for a fact that anyone from his life wouldn’t leave him alive after so many chances, and that led him to wonder - what exactly led this boy to be such a skilled fighter? What was the source of his conviction?
Why did a seemingly pure saint reek of selfishness, greed, and deceit?
To most, Shirou was just another human caught up in the various ties of the war, but Dantes knew. He wasn’t stupid. Their confrontation led to a fight, one fight led to another, and before long it had become almost a habit. Never when others were around, of course, but not for a lack of trying. Shirou had a mastered the art of disengaging from anything that could potentially expose his status as a servant. Seeing as they couldn’t exactly take time aside to talk without their respective masters asking questions, they had nothing but the dialogue before and during their duels. It was brief, but it was more than enough for the both of them.
Once, Shirou had spoken to him of salvation.
He spoke of letting go of his rage, of forgiveness, of wishing for the happiness of all on earth. It was an interesting concept, but when he spoke of wishing the same for Dantes, it became laughable. After all, he was a being born from hell, a vessel of anger and hatred. Nothing Shirou could do would change that. And yet, here he was - determined, the fire blazing in his eyes, his determination to achieve the impossible unwavering even now.
“Avenger.”
The press of cold steel on his throat brings him back from his thoughts.
Dantes ceases his struggle - patience is a virtue, one he had learned in his life - and Amakusa lets up the pressure.
The sound of a sword sheathing rings clear.
“It’s been fun, as always, Avenger. Unfortunately, my master requests my presence.”
A lie.
“But I do look forward to seeing you again.”
The innocence in his smile never quite reaches his eyes.
Dantes says nothing, merely letting him retreat. He stands up, shaking off his coat, eyes drifting to the particles remaining from Shirou dematerializing. With his exit, the blade in his leg dissolved into thin air as well. He could deal with that later.
Dantes lit a cigarette, looking up to watch the sky growing darker by the second. Night was falling, meaning less people would be out on the streets. He could head through the backroads shortly. After he’s done smoking, of course, but that left him time to himself. It was almost lonely, and he shuddered to think he had grown dependent on another’s company, especially that of a saint.
There would be another meeting. Shirou couldn’t leave him alone, and for better or for worse Dantes had become the same way. It could be in a day, it could be in a month, but he was sure they would meet again.
His words to a friend in another time rang through his head - attendre et espérer.
Wait and hope.