Fate/Reverse Part 1.40

White Blade

Before the masked figure could even react, the sword ripped upward, splitting that mask in half. The shade’s entire body evaporated into a pure silver light and faded on the wind. Only then could Aimon make out the attacker clearly.

The man pulled off his helmet, shaped like those of ancient Greece but pitch black. He had a shock of red hair and a youthful, bored-looking face. Bronze and gold armor covered a wiry but elegant body, down to the same strange sandals that the masked figured had been wearing.

He slashed through the dissipating light with a few lazy strokes of his sword before smirking down at those below. “Right, then. Who’s next?”

Aimon drew his sword and stepped forward.

The man was clearly a Heroic Spirit, thought he gave off a different feeling than the woman who called herself Morgan Pendragon. His was a cleaner magic, pure and forceful like the sun at midday. That’s exactly what galled him.

“You’re a hero, summoned to fight for this… ‘Grail’ correct?” Aimon challenged. “If so, how can you stab someone from behind in that manner, someone who claimed to be your ally minutes earlier?”

The Servant shrugged. “Heroes exist to kill what needs killing. And a traitor who sides with the waste they were supposed to clean up deserves killing. I’m not picky about how.”

Aimon’s summoned ally stood up, positioning herself slightly in front of him. The way she stood confidently but on the balls of her feet, ready to spring to his defense, reminded him a bit of Marissa. It made him feel safer, though his chest ached.

“So you’re one of this enemy faction’s Servants?” she challenged.

“Yup,” the young man said with a friendly smile. “The other Servants of White picked me to come and clean up the Blue faction, just in case.” He cocked his head and shot a glance at the colonial-style building with the foul presence. “And good thing too. Seems there’s another Caster of Blue. But you’re not one of them are you, princess?”

Morgan bristled. “Indeed, I am neither of those things. You may call me Alter, for I am different from the spirit that originally inhabited this vessel.”

Aimon started as her voice snaked through his mind, though he could not see her lips moving. “Call me Alter as well, my partner. A Servant’s True Name can be a weakness.”

Then she spoke aloud again, to the man above. “Sent forward to kill us before we were ready, hm? A man as cowardly as you would have to be Assassin of White.”

The youth’s smirk bloomed into a full-blown grin. “Sure. Nice to meet you, milady Alter.”

“How fortunate. Please stand back, Master.” The woman had a grin of her own now as her body morphed back into her combat stance, sprouting scales and wings. “Assassins are quite weak in a direct fight. I shall handle this.”

The Servant didn’t look weak to Aimon. The way he moved his blade was artless, yes, but his languid movements couldn’t completely hide the grace and control he kept over the simple strokes. The man was skilled with his weapon, the kind of skill that comes with long practice and direct experience.

But these beings were beyond human, so Aimon held his tongue. Another Servant’s judgement was probably better than his at this point.

The man crouched in the sky as Alter’s wings sped her towards him. “Scales for defense, huh?” He muttered. “In that case—”

Aimon sucked in his breath as the two closed. Alter slashed from the left while keeping her right arm up to block his cut. But the man knocked her wrist aside with his free hand and slashed down. The blade passed through her scales then her arm, carving a black line into her chest.

Alter’s severed hand spun away.

She and Aimon both watched, stunned, as her flesh and blood fell down, trailing black droplets in the sky. The enemy Servant’s expression had changed. Cold and focused, he followed through on the slash, slamming the heel of his palm into the base of Alter’s throat. She careened back down to earth.

Aimon rushed to break her fall, dropping his sword and catching her in his arms before she could slam into the ground. The effort nearly brought him to his knees, but Alter’s head struck his chest instead of the hard pavement. She was surprisingly light, even considering the pound or two’s worth of arm she had lost. Her skin was warm through her thin dress, but the blood that ran down onto his hand felt thick and cold.

Alter groaned and looked up at him, her veil askew. Her wide eyes blinked in surprise and he thought he saw a hint of a blush sneak into her pale cheeks. “Th-thank you,” she said, then grimaced and cradled her wounds. “Ahhh… My arm…”

Her reaction struck him as forced, but Aimon set her on the grass as gently as he could. “If you can stop the bleeding, do it quickly,” he said. “I’ll drive him off.”

Alter looked up at him in disbelief and the Assassin laughed. “You want to fight a Heroic Spirit?” He shrugged and floated down to earth to face Aimon. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. If you want to pick up your sword, I’ll let you. Might last a couple blows.”

But Aimon stood his ground. He didn’t trust this man enough to turn away from him. Besides, he had seen what that silver blade did to Alter’s iron-hard scales. It was time to place his trust in Marissa’s sword and the magic he felt there.

He drew it, though the knowledge that her hand would have held it the same way ate at his heart. The Assassin sighed, and with the same cold look as before, lunged for Aimon’s neck.

The blow came quick and heavy, faster than any Aimon had ever faced before. Instinctively he shifted her sword to parry, drawing magic from the supernatural blade to make up for the mana he had used to summon Alter. He poured what he could spare into strengthening his arms, and the rest into his straining eyes.

Even then he was slow.

“Impressive. Normally that would have cut you and your sword in half, but there’s not even a scratch.” The Servant cut lazily, with his free arm hanging relaxed by his side.

But to Aimon the strokes came as fast as lightning, and he had no time to think or plan, only react. So he was the one who stumbled when Magdalena shouted.

The Assassin lifted his blade for the kill, but a scythe of compressed air smote him in the side. The attack burst into a sudden cyclone, buffeting Aimon and forcing him to close his eyes for another precious moment.

When he looked again, the Servant was completely unharmed.

“Nice try,” he said to Magdalena. “But magic isn’t going to work on me. I’ll kill you next if you want but wait your turn, alright?”

Teeth clenched together, Aimon assumed a defensive stance again. Behind him, Alter had become unnaturally still. He could sense her life force, but who knows how long it would last.

Somehow he had to stop this man. He was the only one left who could even slow him down. The steel diamonds that showed through the sword’s cloth grip felt cold against his skin. Marissa would have found a way to do it. She would have saved everyone.

Already distracted by his failings, Aimon’s gaze wandered to the grass around his foe’s feet. It seemed to be getting longer, darkening. And something was slithering through it, like a snake with no sheen of scales and a pale, misshapen head. It looked familiar. Was that… Alter’s hand?

Then he realized the Assassin’s foot had shifted. His attention snapped back to the blade arcing towards him, too fast and too close. Marissa’s sword shot up to parry the blow, but it wasn’t quite enough. The silvered edge was pushed away from Aimon’s throat and bit instead into his shoulder.

The Assassin drew back, slicing deeper and pulling his blade back into a guard. Aimon grunted in pain, though he managed to stay on his feet.

His opponent smirked one last time and swept forward with a mighty slash, knocking him off-balance. This was it then. The next blow would end it.

Then the blackened grass around his feet erupted.

Dark vines shot up to lash around the Servant’s limbs, digging thorns into the gaps of his armor and tugging him down towards the earth. The man roared as he struggled, but above it was the sound of Alter’s piping, arrogant laughter.

“Immune to magic you say?” she tittered. “I daresay you’ve never faced magic quite like mine, hero.” The last word was more of a snarl. She caught Aimon as he stumbled back into her and he saw that where there had been dark, bloody wounds there was now the solid sheen of scales. She had been acting, he realized, trying to get the man to lower his guard. And it had worked.

“My blood is my weapon,” she sneered. “Drawing more of it will only hasten your death.”

“Good to know,” the Assassin said through a grimace of pain. With an effort, he sliced through the vines at their stalks by the ground and most of them crumbled away. “I’ll have to strike more cleanly next time.”

“I’m not convinced you’ll get a next time.” Alter snapped her fingers and something reared up in the grass. It was the missing hand Aimon had noticed, coiled on a tail of congealed black blood like a snake. It struck like one as well, flying up at the back of the Assassin’s neck.

The man saw the motion at the last second and twisted to catch the thing with his free hand, but it was too late. Smoke was already boiling off it as Morgan chanted with a cold smile.

“Burn all ye heroes gathered here…”

Serpent of Camlann

The snake erupted into a coil of black flame that clamped down on the Servant and burned through his armor. He screamed and slashed wildly with his sword, but the flames only grew back together as he parted them.

“Damn you,” He spat at Alter. “This wasn’t part of the plan. You weren’t part of the plan!”

He staggered under the growing fire. But then red light wrapped around him and he managed a bark of laughter. “Seems Ruler is an adaptable bastard, though. He has a use for me yet.” He narrowed his eyes at Aimon and Alter, then vanished in a bright flash. Only his words were left hanging in the air like a dark and distant cloud. “See you next time. We’ll finish our duel then.”

The black flames burned themselves out and Natasha and Magdalena emerged from their barrier by the church. The girl looked down at her feet with a look of dejected failure that Aimon identified with well. But the older woman was staring into the grey void around them. “Ruler,” she murmured. “So he’s still alive. Then why did things go so wrong? Why didn’t he keep the balance?”

Beside Aimon, Alter swayed dizzily and leaned against him. He wondered how much of her exhaustion was an act, but he steadied her all the same.

“There,” she said, breathing hard. “There goes… the weakest… Servant of White.” She turned to give Aimon and the others a weak smile. “Well, brave humans… It seems we have our work cut out for us.”