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There was a certain promise waiting to be fulfilled. Its mere existence made his blood boil.
An impatient hand struggled to hold tight a familiar gun he had hidden under his coat. The bus trip seemed everlasting.
Even if last-minute regrets were replacing every rational thought, he had a will too strong to simply disappear by defeat.
Kiritsugu Emiya was heading to the church with killing intent.
There was a childish yet hideous secret he had been hiding. A nightmare that had been bothering him for a while.
The first time he woke up due to it, he had to explain to others by treating it as a laughing matter: a relaxed smile and calm words had sufficed to satisfy the children's doubts. But the more he thought about it, the more his hand trembled, the more vulnerable he felt. In comparison, dreaming of the people he once loved would make his heart ache—a feeling he's used to.
The man who had once been a cold-blooded killer now held so much resentment in his heart that he could no longer ignore it. While he had no desire left for the wish-granting machine that was the Grail (at least not anymore, he wasn't worthy to carry that burden anymore), he found himself in his dreams staring too often into the eyes of the man who had opposed him to the end. Despite the man's attempts, Kiritsugu could not look back at him, nor could he answer his pleas.
To be defeated is such a shameful thing.
Unfortunately, a cold heart eventually grows numb to the pain. Time goes by, it does not wait. Cherished memories can be so frail, and Kiritsugu Emiya bore a certain curse which only made him decay, a remnant of the last time his blood-stained hands failed to do their job. (yet, many years have passed since then.)
Assassins have no place where cherished memories lie, but rather where blood is spilled.
Resting his face by the window, a bump made him get back to reality.
His steps made an echo once he set foot in the church, as if he was asking for some kind of uncomfortable permission to enter the building, desecrating something that was so neat and clean.
It was both grim and dark inside despite the sunlight that entered through the stained glass, although the figure of the man he was searching was fully visible, standing in front of the altar, unbothered.
Kirei Kotomine's presence was like a black stain in the middle of a once almost perfect work. His surroundings would all point back to him, his broad back and upright posture, unintentionally, unnaturally. Both he and the stain had the power to ruin something, as if it were a way of expressing their admiration, or perhaps their duty. The tenebrous smile he wore every time you looked at him revealed that he might enjoy that fact. The same could not be said for Kiritsugu, whose training as an assassin had taught him to blend into his own shadow, unrecognizable among all. Kiritsugu's life was that of a masterpiece ruined before it reached its perfection. Black stains completely hid what was once there. This combination of what is beautiful and what is deliberately horrible only aroused pity in the eyes of others. A religious man would find it beautiful, this ode to ruin.
But those stains—he had chosen to paint them himself.
A strong will was always enough reason to kill, he thought, and it was all it took to gather strength. He pointed the gun; it made a noise, and his prey turned his back.
“Ah, so you finally showed yourself”, said the priest, the first one to talk. His words resonated within the walls and the other man's only reaction was to frown; hearing that voice again would give him a headache. Very much like in his dreams, he thought his foe was not worthy of an answer.
However, once the priest noticed his guest’s unwillingness to continue the conversation, he decided to take the first step, as if he was inviting him to come closer. It was obvious he was smiling, enjoying the other’s presence.
This meeting was not only Kiritsugu’s scheme, but a reciprocal wish between two people.
An appropriate conclusion for an unfinished relationship.
Such an intimate rendezvous, one might think, hence he laughed.
“You don’t cease to amaze me, Kiritsugu.”
How ironic were his words, ostensibly containing a mocking tone. The one being addressed was tempted to answer back, yet he bit his lip instead.
This was a twisted game. Answering him meant losing again.
His choice of words and the tone of his voice would try to be inherently impersonal, as they always were; but they would contain all his grudge, too. He knew the other would notice even the slightest change in his tone. He didn't want to give him another reason to amuse himself.
Where was this pathetic gaze Kiritsugu had the last time they saw each other?— the priest wondered instead. The eyes pointing at him were just as black as last time, but nowhere as fierce.
The man who was found reciting prayers some minutes ago now raised both of his hands, faking a surrender. He widens his smile, then tilts his head. The attention he dedicates to his partner’s movement is only a sign of politeness amidst the pride of being the winner, a way to tell him his act will be proved futile, he is too prepared. Therefore, he notices something:
the hand that held the gun—it was trembling. It was clearly not due to fear, but due to so many other emotions too ugly to be described. This was a weakness so obvious to try to hide.
Both were aware now.
Kiritsugu Emiya was cursed by the grail.
Someone inflicted him long ago with a wound and he had been bleeding since. His sins were trying to escape through it and now it was infected. It was gruesome, yet a certain devotee thought it was rather beautiful.
No one else but him was able to see it, still the red-haired child knew the old man was bleeding somewhere by judging his pale look and sad eyes.
"How strange", Shirou would think, for no matter where he looked, there was no wound.
How painful it was to harm and be harmed.
Yes, he was cursed: he felt so many things he thought he had buried. The dead would come back, they would dance a ball in his memories. It was hard to fall asleep to familiar faces.
Whenever he dreamt of Irisviel, she would kiss him like she would never do it again. He did not taste her love through her lips, but her blood and the death he had inflicted to her. It was a reminder and a self-inflicted wound.
Kiritsugu Emiya was cursed as penance for losing and breaking whatever was the foolishness he secretly had promised to his loved ones.
The person in front of him was too enchanted looking at his overall appearance: someone who had lost his life despite the fact he was standing here right now.
Half-opened eyes showed a pleasure unnerving enough for the one who could feel nothing but grief.
So, Kiritsugu Emiya took the opportunity and shot.
It was disgraceful, but some time ago, Kiritsugu would start envisaging the image of shooting him to death.
Was it really that cathartic? Could doing this release him from the emotions he was starting to feel?
Sometimes the answer was Yes.
Yes, there was nothing more delightful than the idea of piercing his skin, the bullet penetrating whatever a monstrous man like him had as an inner body and finally emerging again, coming to light but leaving a trail of blood. It would not be a fatal blow, just like it was not one that last time either. He would say something along the lines “how all this hatred was expected from a sinful man like him”, how he desired it, and he would be probably smirking.
His smirk.
That is why he would shoot him again.
He would repeat it; the process of firing the bullet, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, again and as many times as needed. He would love to burst into tears next to his enemy's dead body, just like it had happened with Irisviel, not lamenting death this time, but mesmerized by how much he wanted it, despite the ugliness of this act.
Kiritsugu Emiya was cursed by the Grail. These feelings were not his own, he did not want them.
This was the aforementioned curse: pathetical internal bleedings presented in the form of the venom he held. Or rather, the wish to hurt someone else.
There was no place left for so-called heroic motivations.
The bullet arrived at the wall in front of him. It wasn't just his imagination; it made a thunderous sound.
The trembling hand dropped the gun.
Kirei reached for the weapon, looking at the man who tried to kill him and failed almost tenderly. Mimicking the killer’s movement, he loaded the gun in return.
“Don’t you want to die a martyr, Kiritsugu Emiya?”
His voice was deafening as always, despite not receiving an answer.
"Someone who ended so many lives, don’t they deserve to die in retaliation? There’s no reason to fill your heart with doubts, since there’s nothing pure nor sacred remaining in you.”
“The same goes for you, Kotomine.”, he dared to reply.
By muttering the name which was before unutterable, he was committing his first act of defiance. Or maybe he was acknowledging further his own defeat.
Kirei left out a dry laugh.
“I see, you accepted it. Redeem yourself and beg to the Lord for salvation, then. I am giving you a second opportunity. Shoot-to-kill, and I’ll make sure you fall with me.”
With a vicious thrust, the priest seizes the assassin's hand and forces him into the pose of two dancers, gun in hand, a smile on his face. Kiritsugu's heart started beating faster, as if some kind of young love had awakened after a long time.
If someone told this man that the drive to kill could be so similar to the drive to love, he would deny it. He would say it is bullshit. He had experienced both once, so he knew what he was talking about, but now it was like a passing illusion. His heart was now so insensitive to these feelings to remember them correctly or to tell them apart.
At the same time, he found the words that came from the man of faith were mockery so unpleasant to let them pass, which is exactly what he did and why he did it.
By handing him his murder weapon again (wearing the smile of someone who had always been the winner), Kotomine was proposing to him.
If your own life causes you unpleasantness, then let me be the one to end it. Wouldn’t this lack of unpleasantness be pleasure itself? Don’t you want to get back what you lost? (did you have it in the first place?)
Those hard feelings were something God would surely punish, Kirei thought.
Just as the purposely ruined masterpiece is beautiful, Kirei looks at Kiritsugu's desperate gaze as if it were a work of art—and him, the only one to be able to admire them. How lovely, those dark eyes that conveyed agony by nature.
Let me be the one to punish him.
To see this instinct of destruction growing within the assassin (something that did not belong to him, not originally, but artificially implanted by his loss) was worth this exchange.
Unwittingly to both, when Kiritsugu reached out to Kirei to get his murder weapon back, their silhouettes came together like two lovers.
Shoot-to-kill . These words were both a suggestion and a request. It was also the premonition for some sort of shared fate.
Before he could react, Kiritsugu felt a blade piercing his body and spat blood. In an unforeseen move, his butcher has begun the promised attack, drawing blood and prompting him to move forward. He made some disorientated steps, remaining in his place as if he was choosing where to fall when suddenly he realized the same hand that had stabbed him was now holding him in a firm grasp. Losing consciousness in the hands of the one he tried to kill, he finally felt powerful enough to be the one to decide his fate.
He still had to fulfill his part.
Without any doubt left, he placed the gun on the man's head and pulled the trigger.
The gun fell to the ground. It made a sound that could be heard across the whole building, dirtying it by breaking its sacred silence.
Kiritsugu woke up in the church's bedchamber with a wound on his side.
Someone had treated it beforehand, so he had no life-risk. Nonetheless, it would never heal.
His suit was drenched in blood. His hands too. Not to mention his gun, now rendered unusable on purpose.
When he walked across the building, he noticed no one was there, but in the ground, there was a pool of blood.
"He will have to clean up this later", he thought, and clicked his tongue. Looking back at it, the fact he had trusted his enemy's words was embarrassing and enough proof of his recently acquired weakness.
He should have known the result of this fight had been decided from the start. This was nothing but a bullet that had been shot years before, it just touched their flesh now.
He recalls the moment he fell, succumbing to his own wounds.
When he closed his eyes, he could hear the sound of something he did not own anymore. Not only was it everywhere, on the walls, under the floor, on his own enemy corpse— it was also unbearable.
His heart was racing. He was hearing his own heartbeat and the absence of the other.
For this brief moment, the illusion of killing the one he hated the most was enough to replace the love he thought he had given up— thus, he cannot help but wish to feel it again.
The weight of the weapon being held by his hands. The warmth of someone else's life. The beating of a heart, timidly letting itself be heard. (and moreover, it was his own)
To feel the decomposition of the other by his own hands; this somewhat ode to life was enough to arouse the need of this feeling again, although this time it would be too despicable to call it by its proper name.