"Rin, what the fuck is he going on about?" Shirou hissed, a note of incredulity slipping into his tone. "Please tell me you get it? Because I'm hearing a whole lot of words, but I'm not really parsing anything."

Gilgamesh sneered at Shirou's interjection.

"Yes, 'Rin', enlighten your friend. Even as a child, you were a nosy, impudent sort; I expect that you desire nothing more than to explain the profound nature of my revelation, my gift, to you both."

Rin shot a quick glance at Gilgamesh, then at Shirou, her face still chalk-white. She looked to be on the verge of a panic attack.

"He...this man is, he was, my father's Servant in the last war. Servant Archer. He was suppose to have died in," she took a breath to steady herself, eyes darting back and forth, never letting Gilgamesh leave her peripheral vision, "in the fire, the one that made you an orphan."

She shuddered.

"If he's around, and still a servant, and that war isn't over, then..."

Her face crumpled further. Shirou resisted the sudden urge to comfort her.

"...then all our plans, all our preparations — they're utterly useless! No wonder the spirits are retaining their memories! No wonder you summoned a servant without even the damn ritual! The grail is malfunctioning, the entire system is broken, and we're not in the fifth war: we're in some bastard offshoot of the fourth."

She slumped, color returning to her face as her voice deadened.

"If we survive this encounter, the only guidance we'll have is what little my father wrote about his conflict, and that's only if the false priest hasn't gone and destroyed those records at some point during the last eight years."

"Wait, if we survive?" Shirou returned, alarmed. "What do you mean?"

Rin looked at him, something indescribably afraid swimming in her gaze, and then closed her eyes.

"Two masters encounter a servant, alone. That servant tells them he's still involved in whatever disaster the fourth war turned into. What do you think I mean?"

Gilgamesh didn't give him the chance to consider, raising both arms above his regal head, ochre light pooling between his gauntlets of gold.

"She means, boy, that I am going to kill you. Both of you. What kind of vapid idiot would reveal the nature of this conflict to those who might be given the chance to make use of it?"

I see.

Shirou gave a grim smile.

Nothing for it, then.

Gilgamesh laughed, the boy braced himself, and—

Shirou dove left as he shoved Rin to the right, Galatine's hilt traced to his fists as he spun to Gilgamesh, the monarch's gauntlets flashing before a titanic sword coated in crimson appeared in their grip, Shirou's mind naming it as Eckesachs, dragon-sword of Dietrich von Bern.

"Ah, defiance," Gilgamesh mused, a sharp grin affixed to his lips. Eckesachs vanished from his grip in another burst of gold. "I do so love breaking it."

Shirou's response came in the form of an angry swipe at Gilgamesh's chest, forcing the monarch to bend backwards, golden armor shifting like water as it cleaved to the lord's skin.

"What do you hope to accomplish, child? Do you truly think yourself my equal?" Gilgamesh's tone was light, but mockery danced in the crease of his eyes. Shirou tried to stab forward, but Gilgamesh flared his gauntlets, summoning an emerald buckler, and batted Gawain's sword away. "Perhaps you are delusional?"

I mostly hope to survive as long as I can, so Arthur doesn't run out of Prana while busy protecting Illya.

"I hope to live," came Shirou's brusque reply, the magus settling into a defensive stance. "I hope for everyone to live."

The king's eyes narrowed, disdain flitting through his crimson irides.

"You would pretend that, in this world, in this era of weakness and timidity, all who live deserve to do so?" A dark smirk plastered itself on his face. "You would defy the rightful ruler of the world, all for such a miserable dream?"

"I would defy heaven itself," the magus replied, matching Gilgamesh's gaze with his own amber, stepping backwards. "When it comes to helping the people I care about, there is nothing I won't do."

Gilgamesh made no moves towards him, merely raising an immaculate eyebrow.

"You fascinate me, magus. That doesn't happen often." His smile grew wide, bloodthirsty. "Before your death, child, indulge me: what is that sword? I will take it from your corpse, so please, let your legacy be with the weapon, not as a decomposing waste of power."

Shirou laughed despite himself.

"If you're so interested in this weapon," he started, "then take it!"

With a roar, Shirou threw Galatine at Gilgamesh, steel blade first, conjuring a copy of Gawain's weapon from the aether at the tail of his throw. He didn't take the time to admire his handiwork, concentrating on his ties to the sword on a course for Gilgamesh's chest, and he willed fire to it. At the top of its low arc, it burst into blue flame, a haze of lucent power shimmering between the fighters, Shirou already preparing to delve into Gawain once more.

Gilgamesh's eyes widened, and a flash of gold appeared before him, a tentacle-embossed, sea-green shield covered in dripping brine swimming from the depths of somewhere to his defense. Galatine met it in a clang, then clattered to the ground, cobalt flame wrapping the bulwark before it. The sound of sizzling water echoed around the street as the king's gaze flickered between the two copies of Shirou's sword, then met the boy's stare. An ugly scowl bloomed atop Gilgamesh's lips, before they parted, a single word escaping their depths.

"Forger."

The term had a weight to it, Shirou's very soul resonating with the title, the descriptor. He knew it, in himself, and his vision shattered like glass.

His sight flashed upon a sea in turmoil, a hill of swords glowing white, blinding, a sword at its apex casting luminance through the world entire, refracted, amplified by its crystal mount.

He saw purity, and his mind shuddered back together, amber eyes coming to rest on Gilgamesh's crimson.

What the absolute hell just happened? Shirou wondered, alarmed and awed in equal amount. Why does that title sound so right?

"You are no magus, boy." Gilgamesh's expression was inscrutable, but it was leagues from neutrality. "What are you?"

Shirou smiled, all teeth. He let both copies of Galatine dissolve.

"What am I?" His pupils glowed blue, then flickered back to dark. "That's easy. I'm a hero."

A flash of gold to his right was his only warning, but given the tension, even a flicker was enough.

Shirou dodged left, calling to hand Fwrhylin, the dark cleaver dotted with flecks of red on its gleaming edge, bone-white hilt grasped in both fists as Shirou pirouetted away from a spray of poison-green darts. He centered himself, then poured prana into the blade, a haze settling over his mind as his movements quickened. With a bestial roar, he lunged at the man in golden plate, his technique-less swing missing his opponent and skittering on the asphalt below.

"Really? That is your attack? Disappointing."

The man's tone was dismissive, a scoff hiding behind every syllable, and Gilgamesh turned away from Shirou just in time to be met with a crackle of malevolent darkness, an onyx hurled by Rin exploding in his face. His features began to rot in the wine-colored haze of mana, and he snarled, ducking low as a shard of bi-colored scheelite sailed over his head and erupted in a prismatic burst.

Shirou growled and dashed forward through the multihued cloud, slamming his cleaver into the man's legs even as he felt his face begin to warp, breaking his concentration before he could call Fwrhylin's power to bear. He let the sword dissipate and surged prana to his face, reversing the distortion.

"Shirou, what the hell?!" Rin yelled, tossing a chunk of carborundum to the ground below her. "Stay out of the damn way!"

I wouldn't have to if you had given me even the slightest indication that you were getting involved, the boy in question thought, backpedaling as his opponent rose to his feet, golden armor unblemished. Best not to say that out loud, I reckon.

Shirou stabbed forward, Gwydnawr appearing in his hand at the apex of his thrust, Bedivere's spear shadowing in octet as it sang to the small of the servant's back, but the man twisted, ducking at an impossible angle, overbalancing the magus.

Damn it!

The boy snarled and reached inward for Teyrnolfod, Kay's sword bursting to his hands from below his opponent, slicing a strip of gold from Gilgamesh's armor. Shirou grinned, turning the blade's motion to a stab, tracing a copy of the weapon in his other hand as the first prompted a leap away from the Sumerian. As the forger stood, the ground below Rin cycled through hues, surging upwards to encompass her form in dark, seamless armor, lustered in a rainbow veil.

Shirou bounded to her side, a copy of Setarfoad flowing to his hand as he stood, protectively, in front of his ally. Gilgamesh blinked at them, then tilted his head. The air above the two lit in gold, some kind of strange, twisting ribbon fluttering down atop them. Shirou braced to try cutting it to pieces, but Rin pre-empted him, shooting a withering curse bullet from her palm at the diaphanous bind, drawing it towards her; it touched her helm, and her dark-mail erupted in response, smothering the chain in a casing of iridescent black.

Gilgamesh gave a slow, mocking clap.

"Well done, young heroes. Truly spectacular. If I were not myself, I might even be impressed."

Rin rolled her eyes. Shirou kept his gaze pinned to the Sumerian, tensing as the man in question drew back an arm, as if clutching an invisible bowstring.

"However, much as I am certain you two wish for more time in my presence, it is time to say—" Gilgamesh stopped abruptly, turning away from the two masters, a flash of gold in front of the king presaging the appearance of a rough-hewn bulwark, an aura of deep fuschia surrounding its legendary wielder.

Without fanfare, the sky darkened, clouds of mottled white billowing forth from speckled blue, surging in size and color, a violent storm swirling to life in an instant. Shirou felt the ground begin to shake, and he dug the point of Setarfoad into the ground, attempting to brace himself. Rin grabbed his arm, almost thrown off her feet by the violent trembling beneath them.

A nexus appeared in the cloud cover, wisps of iridescent color spinning about it as the sudden tempest blew inwards, wave after wave of darkened vapor twisting to a circle, raging welkin pouring itself into a narrow ring. It lit in vibrant sunglow, stabbing down to earth at a point before the horizon then dissipating, but as they watched, an answering burst of argent flame lit the pillar, spiraling about itself and compressing to a cylinder of burning light.

For a timeless moment, the spire elongated to infinity, piercing the empyrean in an igneous lance of infinitesimal width. An instant later, the burning line of light winked out, a psychic wail echoed over the battlefield, and a wave of magic crashed through them, a pulse of compressed power driving the masters to the ground and Gilgamesh to his knees. In short order came a second wave, then a third; a crescendo of shattered time, the over-real imprinting on the world below, and the moment passed, leaving only a cloudless hole in the sky.

"What was that?" Rin hissed, shock writ large on her face, her form risen slightly from the asphalt below. "Was that from Illya's battle?"

"I'll ask," Shirou replied, equally alarmed, tapping into the mental bond shared with his servant. "Arthur, did that wave of magic come from your end of things?"

"No, Shirou, and I gather from your query that it did not stem from your location either," came the response. "I admit concern, but given my present circumstances, I suggest we put it aside for the moment. If you would like, however, I will take this minor respite to update you on my status."

"Go ahead."

"Very well. All combatants remain healthy, and I suspect neither Morgan nor Assassin are giving this skirmish their all. However, while all here are physically unharmed, Assassin seems to have bewitched Illyasviel. I fear she is waging an internal battle, one far darker than the fight between servants."

"'Darker'?" Shirou shot back, alarmed, "what exactly do you mean by 'darker'?"

"I know not what Assassin whispered to her, but your sister looks lost, Shirou. Fiery as ever, to be certain, but Miss von Einzbern's eyes wander constantly, her movements sluggish and uncertain, her drive towards victory flickering. I have seen this before in only the most despairing of knights, those men whose lives are bereft of purpose and guide, and it tears my heart to see it in one as young as she."

"You mean...?" Shirou's thoughts trailed off, the magus unwilling to consider Arthur's implication.

"Yes. I believe your sister is courting her death." The king gave an internal sigh. "Protecting one who does not desire protection is quite the challenge, regardless of the source of such reluctance."

That's...no. I refuse.

"Arthur, I won't command you, but I will say this: please, please don't let Illya die."

"Understood, but I will note that Assassin looks to be in retreat, so your directive may be unneeded. Let us hope that it is not one of my dear sister's illusions."

The magus refocused, head pounding. He inclined his face to Rin's, Shirou's troubled expression eliciting a frown from his fellow master.

"Saber isn't sure what happened, either," he said, avoiding Illya's plight for the time being. "Any news on Archer?"

"He's on his way," Rin returned, "though he was moving too fast for me to get an idea of where exactly he is."

"It might be time to—"

An imperious cough interrupted Shirou's response, a shadow falling over his still-prone form.

"Not so defiant now, are you?"

The boy turned his head upwards, eyes trailing across golden armor before resting on the face of Gilgamesh. The man stared into the distance, a contemplative expression gracing his countenance.

"I wonder, was that event caused by a particularly moronic servant, or by some idiot magus attempting to rise above his station? It has been quite the struggle not to grace this city with my rule, but if displays such as that are allowed, perhaps my restraint is unnecessary."

He scoffed.

"Such a lack of dominion would certainly explain why two children thought themselves fit to defy the greatest of kings."

Gilgamesh gazed down at Shirou and Rin, a sneer finding its way back to his face.

"I think this position rather suits the both of you. Groveling before me, unable to raise a hand in your defense...yes, it fits very well."

A golden portal dropped a scepter — Was, stave of Set, relayed Shirou's mind — into the monarch's waiting grasp, top swirling with sand and bottom tapering to a silver blade. He raised it high above Rin's head and spoke again, his tone laced in mockery.

"I'll do you the honor of making it your last. Please, be grateful."

As he stabbed down, Shirou grit his teeth, preparing to trace Excalibur, but his concentration broke when he heard a rapid whine. As the rod descended, a plain sword shot a glancing blow across Gilgamesh's golden fist, diverting the strike between the fallen magi, the blade fading to blue light, its purpose spent. A second sword rocketed past the king, and Shirou inclined his head, a gleam of metal fading away to reveal a man silhouetted against the afternoon sky. The figure leapt forward and revealed itself to be Archer, tanned fists curled about a dark metal bow of grand stature.

"Ah," Gilgamesh remarked, eyes narrowed at the bow-wielder. "I see. How amusing."

The Egyptian scepter vanished in a haze of gold as Archer leapt towards the Sumerian, hands closed around swords of white and black, face set in a severe frown. Gilgamesh laughed, once, and flashed a portal of gold between him and the onrushing swordsman, a shield of solid obsidian forming in its place as Archer threw his weapons past his opponent, another pair appearing in his hands as he vaulted the barrier of volcanic glass. Shirou scrambled to his feet as three more copies of the paired weapons flew past the King in gold, their red-cloaked source blocked from sight by the dark shield floating between them.

He looked towards the now-kneeling Rin, her wide-eyed gaze pointed towards the clash of servants, and steeled himself.

Alright, here goes nothing.

He took a deep breath, and thought of Arondight, the azure blade of Lancelot du Lac. A "trace on" muttered to himself, a line of fire running down his back, and the sword's spiked pommel formed in his grip, a pattern of cresting waves etched into steel, tapering to a wicked point. Shirou jumped and slashed forward in a streak of blue, obsidian blockade shattering as gold flashed in the corner of his vision, a crimson-hued ballista bolt screaming its way towards him. A twist, a dive, and the red-iron passed a centimeter above him, erupting on impact with the street, singeing his back as he advanced on the fray. Before him clashed Gilgamesh and Archer, the former still smirking, auric gauntlets wrapped around a mace burning an electric blue — Kaumodaki, Shirou's mind whispered, gada of Krishna — as the nominal bowman countered with what could only be described as a slab of stone in the shape of a blade, dashing around Gilgamesh as the monarch's mace smashed into the sword. Gilgamesh narrowed his eyes, and with a peal of thunder his mace destroyed Archer's weapon, cracks racing across the non-blade, its form imprinted in Shirou's mind with no name alongside.

A twitch, and Archer's hands were again filled by the paired blades, slashing and thrusting at his regal opponent as waves of pressurized thunder cracked the ground where Rin's servant stood last, an irregular pattern of split asphalt and oozing tar blasted to the ground as the king in gold suffered blow after blow, none quite splitting his armor. Shirou watched, reinforced eyes only barely following Archer's movements, vision picking up a gleam of silver in his peripheral vision as he already dove left, twin ethereal javelins passing mere inches above his head before fading to mist. The magus channeled further power and flipped upwards, a flash of gold presaging a spike of cracked umber erupting at his feet, a wall of darkened wood expanding instantly to block him from the battle of servants, vision stoppered bar a circular window to the fight beyond, Gilgamesh vanished from his perception entirely.

His muscles screamed at him, ignored, as Shirou slashed at his makeshift prison, determinedly watching on as Archer fell back under the assault of a man shaped from clay, three characters struck into its forehead by the servant even as he retreated. A fiery light entered the eyes of the creature, the golem nodded to Archer, and the two dove out of frame, the regenerating timber closing off the window as Shirou stopped, centering himself before a dive internal.

Well, he thought, taking a deep breath, I already have Arondight out. Sir Lancelot it is.

One breath more, a twitch of power, a sword flared blue, and his vision turned cerulean. Hazy images swam through his mind, the dark-haired beauty from his dream featuring prominently throughout, a pang of self-loathing streaking through him as he thought of his liege, Arthur, the—

I'm not him, I'm—

A flight to the continent, a head bowed, all-consuming guilt, a—

Not this time! I'm not—

A young love destroyed, a woman burned for unrepentant infidelity, a—

I—!

Shirou screamed, an amalgam of Japanese French expelled from his lips, an azure glint lighting his eyes. Arondight blazed blue, and the boy stabbed upward, a well of fire bursting from the top of the tree. The flames fell to earth as Shirou's body glowed the color of sky, and they wrapped around his figure, bursting through the oak enclosing his form. Gaze burning, he opened his mouth, and—

"I am the light of my blade!"

The tree splintered, a corona of blue light rippling from Shirou's frame, blasting away both his arboreal prison and the pavement beneath. He saw Gilgamesh and Archer trading blows a ways away as a ruby burned nearby, a glint of light from a nearby alley pinpointing Rin's location.

The boy dashed forward, slashing at empty air, preternatural intuition displayed as Gilgamesh danced into the wave of unseen force, the golden king blasted off his feet as Archer pressed his advantage, a deep wound carved into Gilgamesh's calves. The monarch fell to his knees, bracing himself on a plain wooden staff as Shriou arrived; the magus nodded to Archer, and the two slashed at Gilgamesh's neck, servant only barely outpacing master.

Consternation appeared on the king's face as he leaned back, head silhouetted in ochre then clad in a draconic helm of burnished bronze. A tone somewhere between song and roar erupted from his position, waves of crimson and navy blue emanating from the man as Shirou and Archer plunged their weapons downwards in concert, finding only empty air. The magus stumbled, balance broken, and desperately leapt to the side, a scathingly bright flash presaging an eruption of asphalt between the boy and Rin's companion, a wall of worn earth, tile, and lime rising to separate the impromptu allies.

"You almost made me sweat, worms," mocked a voice from above, its royal owner reappearing atop the barricade in a flash of red. "I'll reward you by giving you both fitting deaths."

This servant is...what is he?! We had him!

Shirou growled to himself, then turned to the great wall between him and his allies, raising Arondight high. He forced prana to the weapon, willing its very matter to compress, and it responded with a navy flare, the blade's silver surface darkening as it broke and reformed on a molecular level, a metallic screech erupting from the weapon of Lancelot.

A slash, a flash of near-ultraviolet, and a portion of the Great Wall disintegrated, a seven meter void carved into its surface.

Gilgamesh snarled, footing unsteady, ducking a hail of swords from Archer's side of the barrier. He raised a hand to the sky, and the air grew hazy, a massive portal appearing above the wall.

The ground rumbled, and a flash of argentum split the golden void. Shirou's mind screamed at him, and he stopped moving, a sense of ennui ripping through his will. Arondight sputtered, and its glow died. His arms dropped to his side, limp, and Lancelot's blade met the street below, a metallic thunk echoing in his ears.

What is...why does everything suddenly feel so...

"Pointless?"

Shriou spun around, but Gilgamesh was staring upwards. The monarch turned to the magus, a contemplative smile gracing his lips.

"You should be honored. After all, you, not the servant on your side, have been declared the most powerful of my current enemies."

A point extended from the portal, then a whetted edge, a familiar, ensiform shape—

Why is he...

"You wonder why I am kind? Why I am gracing you with sympathy, not command?"

Gilgamesh's smile grew sharper, almost rising to a smirk. Shirou staggered as the weight of the sword above hit his mind, embedding itself there, too, descending within and without.

That's—!, he gave a violent shake of his head, unable to force the weapon out of his being, to unlearn what it was.

"It is because you will die here. Do you know the name of your executioner's blade? Of the man in Cicero's tale, passed from Diodorus before him?"

Shirou's eyes returned to the construct above, blade fully formed, a strand of horsehair glinting in the light atop its pommel. He whispered despite himself, mind flashing to the things he knew of the weapon above, a shudder passing through him.

"Damocles."

Gilgamesh laughed, harshly, then stared into Shirou, gaze triumphant. He held a hand to the sky, and in a sudden motion, clenched his fist, an orange glow erupting from his golden gauntlet. Above, the sword shimmered and began to drop.

Shirou grimaced, thoughts racing. I can't stop it. I...

"Farewell, boy. You weren't a worthy adversary, but perhaps, in another world, you might have come close."

From the corner of his eye, Shirou saw a blur of cobalt, but he was transfixed, vision locked onto the edge descending upon him. It grew as he watched, a longsword becoming a broadsword, a broadsword becoming something else, a weapon fit more for a giant than for a man. He imagined it growing further, filling the sky entire, the very heavens pressing themselves on him and him alone.

How could I possibly hope to win? What kind of utter idiot am I, that I thought I—

Shirou gasped, and almost involuntarily, he reached down towards his fallen sword, some primeval instinct clutching to it as a lifeline. His eyes widened, and he stared, not up, but down, his gaze pinned to the seals engraved on his fist.

But it was never about that, was it? Even if it's pointless, even if it's stupid...

He gave a soft smile. Kiritsugu's face swam across his mind, and he nodded.

It's still something I have to do. It's still who I am.

He looked up, up at the sword of certain death dropping lower and lower. A thrumming began within him, and his lips formed words without thought, a harmony guided by instinct alone. Arondight lit on silvered fire, barrier after barrier shattering on a hyperreal plane, the magus driving further to union in spirit and form. Images flashed through Shirou's mind, a cascade of the eternal diverting for an instant to his being so far below: there was fire within, a specter incarnate, an empyrean sword, and—

"Mercury is my blood, and diamond is my spine!"

Rings of white light poured from Arondight's hilt, ringing its wielder's not-quite-mortal body, tapering to nothing on his other hand. As the pulses grew, a soft sheen of ivory formed on Shirou's skin, deepened and nourished by the cavalcade of tori. Layer after layer built the strata, turning the soft shine to a luminescent flare, an unburning fire echoing for a moment the spires of heaven. For a moment between moments, the light curved and twisted, a hill of swords taking shape in the mirage, and it collapsed inward, wrapping its progenitor in a cocoon of solid white.

A beat, and the cladding surged outwards, revealing its transformed inhabitant. Where Shirou's eyes were before a rich amber, they glowed a deep blue, twin sapphires cored by gleaming silver. His skin was pale, nearing alabaster, and his hair — maroon streaked by burning red — blew in an unseen wind. In his hand was Arondight, blue blade lit tall in a plume of quicksilver flame, its contrast in inverse concurrence with Shirou's changed sight. As the flames about Lancelot's blade spired to its tip, the ivory leaked from the magus' skin, but his eyes retained their change, their reach past the real, and Shirou saw.

He saw the sword of Damocles descending, its path certain and true. He saw the eddies left in its wake, the ripples in the aether radiating from the fall of fated doom. He saw his death, writ in flame and steel, and he saw a hint beyond, a light glimmering weakly in a field of ordained dark. He saw his way, and he knew his course.

With a roar, Shirou threw Arondight upwards, meeting Damocles' bane in an explosion of argent blue. Shards of Lancelot's blade fell about him before fading to aether in an indigo haze, but another copy of the blade slammed into the falling sword, and another, another, another—!

Scratches covered the indurate weapon, grooves forming deep in gleaming metal, while fire coated the edge of Damocles' pendulum, cuts of innumerable copies of Arondight branded deep into its steel. More copies poured upwards, a veritable river of silver stoppering the descent of the sword, and Shirou felt a stirring in his soul, a sanctified hymn forcing its way to liberty. From his mouth came supernality, his skin tracing itself in fire and light, and the sword descending upon him shuddered, finally wrenching itself away, accelerating towards Gilgamesh's wall as he shut his eyes. Through his eyelids, the magus saw a blaze of orange, then was thrown backwards, ripped from the ground with thunder echoing in his ears.

Shirou landed with a sickening crack, and felt a rib shatter. With glassy vision he saw the street cave inwards, a ragged wound in the asphalt glowing red for a moment before the titanic sword and vanished in a blink of gold. Further down the road, the magus noticed Rin fall backwards, her weakened form caught by Archer as she sagged. The bowman leapt to the tiled roof of a nearby house, Rin's body limp in his arms, and dashed off, dodging a short barrage of silver arrows sent his way from a golden portal opening to his right.

With gritted teeth, Shirou tried to stand, only to collapse down to one knee, a rush of pain searing itself across his chest. He clutched at his side with his hand, but stood again, left arm dangling. Behind him, he heard disdainful laughter.

He turned around, stopping abruptly when he felt — then saw — the smooth edge of a garnet blade, pressed up against his neck. Murgleis, sword of the traitor Ganelon, his mind supplied, aid uncalled for.

"It seems you were more competent than I thought, forger," remarked Gilgamesh, pacing to the boy' front, his weapon tight against Shirou's throat. The king smirked, red eyes narrowing in obvious glee. Shirou held his breath.

Give me an opening...

"Not much less, however. I was busy defeating your friend and her pet swordsman, so I'm not certain what you did to escape Damocles' predicament, but I assure you, it does not matter."

The Sumerian laughed again, a cold bass filling the air between them.

Come on... Shirou thought, right hand drifting from his side.

"I would say I take no pleasure in this, but that would be a lie. You dared to defy me, and for that, worm, the punishment is death."

Gilgamesh brought Ganelon's blade back. In Shirou's grip formed Pysguread's piscine hilt, an outline of unlit runes tracing their way up tapering silver.

Not yet.

"Any last words, child?"

Gilgamesh paused, golden gauntlet still outstretched. Shirou didn't respond, instead angling Percival's blade towards the king's armored bicep.

"No? Pity. I'd love to hear you beg."

With the last word, Gilgamesh swung, and — Now! — Shirou stabbed upwards, piercing the king's golden arm. Strands of red hair fluttered to the ground, Murgleis' path shifted just above the boy's skull; for an instant, the battlefield was silent, save for an indrawn breath and a pained hiss.

In the next, Gilgamesh snarled, then stabbed Ganelon's blade downwards. Shirou brought Pysguread to meet it, and with a snap, Murgleis broke in two, its garnet blade and carbuncle hilt each outlined in white light, Perceval's sword glowing the same hue.

"Boy," Gilgamesh said, voice tight. "I will see you suffer."

The lord of Sumer grabbed Shirou's shoulder, forcing Pysguread to the ground, and threw him down once more. Shirou felt another rib give out, and a pained gasp escaped his lips. Gilgamesh gestured, and in a flash of citrine, Ganelon's blade found its way to his hand again, whole and unmarked. The king stepped forward, crushing Shirou's left arm beneath his golden boot.

"I will start with your toes. I will carve them off, joint by joint, rubbing salt in every wound until each bloodied hole in your body is speckled with white," began the king, voice wintry. "Once your feet are gone, I will move on to your fingers, feeding them bit by bit to the worms and insects that crawl across this earth. I will ensure that your hands are eaten by disease, rupturing in pus and blood. I will see your eyes plucked from your skull, mashed with wine and poured again into your empty sockets."

Gilgamesh pressed harder, smirk vanished and gaze hard. Shirou closed his eyes, burrowing deep into himself.

I'm sorry, Arthur. You were right.

"Your teeth will be shattered, and your lips burned. Your ears and nose will be filleted by the finest of knives, every layer of skin and fat lay bare to wind and rime. Your limbs will be ripped from their sockets, each individual bone splintered, pestled portion by portion until crushed to marrow-speckled dust. You will lie there, deaf and blind, mute and broken, and you will live, and I will heal you, and I will repeat this again, and again, and again, and again, your sentence ending only when time itself has ceased."

The king raised his blade.

"I—"

Ganelon's sword shifted—

"I command—"

Murgleis descended—

"I command thee—"

Shirou's hand burned—

"I command thee, Servant—"

He saw a golden scabbard, glittering, sinking below ash-banded skin—

"I command thee, Servant Saber!"

—and hallowed ruby met silvered gold, Gilgamesh's crimson blade splintering in a flash of deep white. Fragments of garnet sprayed across the battlefield, striking the polished steel carapace of Britain's greatest king with a series of metallic clinks, and Shirou's eyes shot open, desperate amber meeting knowing blue.

Arthur stood before his master, armor sun-lit and face placid. Before him stretched Excalibur, golden blade freed from aerial sheath. His deep blue cape blew in an ethereal wind, a pastiche of motion belying the magic moving him to Shirou's defense.

Gilgamesh stumbled back, eyes wide.

"You!" the Sumerian roared, anger coating his words. "How dare you?!"

"You seek my master's demise," the Briton replied, "is that not reason enough?"

In lieu of a retort, Gilgamesh snarled, summoning to hand an impossibly sharp cleaver — Parashu, battle-axe of Vishnu's sixth form — and jumped forwards, aiming to rip Arthur from maxilla to groin, the poleaxe's four edges each glowing a violent carmine. A flash of cerulean stole Shirou's vision; an instant later, Parashu met the cobalt-hued blade of Teyrnolfod, sword of Lucan the loyal. Cracks raced across the glass of Arthur's weapon, propagating faster than the flitting of an eye, and with a sharp crack, it shattered, shards of blue spraying into the air. A corona of rainbow'd light flashed from the pommel of Lucan's blade, and — a flash of jagged static, electric blue reforming a blade-shaped web — the cobalt slivers flew back together, trapping within themselves the axe on which they broke.

For a moment the servants pressed together, a contest of strength pitting king against king, before a grey flash lit the air about Arthur's hand, Teyrnofold vanishing and Treildfigen appearing its place. Gilgamesh stumbled and Arthur struck, a great slash appearing in the Sumerian's golden armor; Kay's sword pulsed hoar, light flowing from blade to wound, and a thin line of red spouted from Gilgamesh's chest. The servant of the blade attempted a backswing, but was forced back by three glowing portals appearing at his rear, a masterful swipe of Treildfigen saving Arthur from three spears of black-lacquered bamboo. His Sumerian foe took the second to jump back, ocher vestments mending with rapidity supernatural in kind, and reached a hand out, closing his grip on a club — Sharur, mace of Ninurta — emblazoned with proto-semitic script, its head shaped in the image of a winged lion. The leader of Uruk stroked the bludgeon, and it took flight, departing Gilgamesh's hand just as Arthur's gauntlet glowed black and he stabbed forth with Fwrhylin, flickering edge erupting in smoke and blasting Gilgamesh back. The king in gold was sent reeling, tumbling to a stop against the same home atop which Archer made his escape.

A blur of silver, and Arthur was there, gauntlet pulsing green as Wyneidraich sparked into being, speeding downwards, serpentine arc imparted with the momentum of Arthur's dash. Gold flashed, and Caradoc's blade was met with a sword of purest white — Kladenets, the self-swinging, spoke Shirou's mind — as Gilgamesh grimaced, the Sumerian trying to push off from his prone position as his motile blade clashed with Arthur's weapon. Inch by inch, the Russian sword bent back, until with a snap it fell limply to the ground, vanishing in a haze of aurum, its purpose served. In the interval Gilgamesh stood once more, and with a slash of his hand, five portals appeared in front of Arthur, each disgorging statues crafted in brown, soldiers formed of terracotta clay, color flaked away by time and lost memory. Arthur's hand roared azure as he swung, and Arondight shimmered to his grip, slashing apart the Qin soldiers but delaying his pursuit by a precious fraction of a second.

Gilgamesh leapt up, tiles cracking under his feet as he landed hard on the roof. Arthur made to follow, crouching, turning his head a millisecond late as Sharur came soaring in from above. The hammer smashed into the Briton with a thunderous crack, vanishing into gold, and Arthur shot back, a soundless cry escaping his lips. Camelot's leader slammed down just adjacent to Shirou, an impression of his form crushed into the asphalt below, and he grit his teeth, power knit together by purpose and will.

Eyes narrowed and fists clenched, a sneer slithered onto the face of Uruk's king.

"You haven't changed at all, Lord of Camelot," he said, five portals appearing above the head of the aforementioned Briton. "You're still weak."

Each opening grew to a pentagon, crossing together as before, and the ground began to shake. Arthur winced as he stood, gauntlet empty for a fraction before its golden sheen outshone the portals hovering, widening, in the sky. A click – another – and Excalibur flashed into view, fiery runes lighting its indigo spine, pommel glowing violet. Above their heads, a thin ray of white light shone down, angling wider as it descended. Another click, and Excalibur grew to meet it, blade glowing a luminous yellow, a hum beginning to rend the air. Shirou craned his head upwards, and as he looked upon the spire piercing the sky, a thing began to take shape within him.

The light above shifted, glowing a sunset indigo, howling stars appearing in the line disgorging from the portal; the downed forger clasped a hand to his head, vision doubling, crying out as he saw —

— a hill shaking, bounding silver in turmoil, lustrous comets streaking through a cloudless sky —

— a fire blooming on the edge of Gilgamesh's summon, flickering even as Excalibur's blaze expanded, thirteen pillars of golden flame descending through the horizon —

— a creature accreting to polished starfire, a sword bedecking the reaches of the firmament corporeal —

— a pattern of starlight crowning the manifestation above, an emanation eclipsing Camelot's King —

— knowledge searing his mind, transcendence stable within him, strength yet unrivaled now in his grasp —

— a nova coring the sword called by Uruk's Lord, Excalibur extending to fae-light alone, servant Saber's blade at apex —

— a name echoing in his skull, a thing crafted by deity's will, a monster reforged —

— Asi manifest whole in the sky, wisps of terror matching power for power the supernality in Arthur's fist —

— Rudra's might fixed in a sea of sapphire, a constellation of midnight in a world of blades —

— a flash of red, Sakura's voice crying in terror, "Save him, Rider!" piercing the drone of imminent war —

— a mountain drowned in shining sea, a hill crested with sword of fire, a divine spark bound to mortal form —

— and a gale of crimson heat swirled forth, corkscrewing with cold air as it ringed the boy and king, one collapsed, the other ascendant. A second hum filled the air while the strands of wind comprising the circle began to glow a vivid orange, cycling through goldenrod and carnelian as the band around the two burst into unburning fire, sweeping away the cataclysm forming between the monarchs. From the light formed a net of clouds, shot through with the same flame, pulsing harshly in tune with the hum of the aether, and the web fastened to the loop about the servant and master. The whirlwind contracted, then grew bright, brighter, brighter — !

A flash of fire, and they were gone.

A king, stalwart and kind.

A zealot, fervent and deadly.

A witch, yearning and cruel.

A warrior, charming and hale.

A judge, righteous and proud.

A hero, bitter and broken.

A herald, grand and eternal.

To battle's maw, were seven called — Five cored in light on high — From mortal chain, two souls detached — and in dark, the remnant bowed.

~End of Arc 1~

AN: Ah, and now the story tries to earn its "mystery" tag; I admit that it was a struggle to choose between that and "supernatural", but the mystery of what the hell happened in the 4th war is the driving force of the narrative, at least for a while, and "adventure" is too perfect to drop. The AU started in that war, but then again, you could say it started multiple millennia ago.

I do hope I made Gilgamesh satisfactorily strong, arrogant, condescending, and ostentatious. He's a tough character to write well, so I'll settle for "marginally".

The threat said ostentatious king made is deliberately homaged from one in The Princess Bride, the best movie yet produced on this planet.

Asi is, as far as my knowledge goes, the single most powerful weapon in the entirety of the Mahabharata, one of the two great Indian epics. It's strong as all heck and, I think, a fitting rival to Excalibur to end the first arc of this story. One of few, really. I'm not going to waste Excalibur's actual use on the end of arc 1, mind you, that would be ridiculous. Gotta keep combat escalations in my arsenal for later use.

All the major players have been introduced, and so...let's start the show. Next time: Arc 2. (That next time could be in 4 months, or it could be in 4 years. Who knows? Sure ain't me!)

Certain Servant Parameters, Some Spoilers Included:

(Please note that these are very rough and exist solely because I can't help myself. Servant "stats" in this story can't really be quantified as such; luck is nonsense straight up, though, so I'm not even pretending with that one. Also, if anyone honestly can't help themselves, I'll give them hints in PMs.)

Saber/Lancer (Prior):

Name: Arthur Pendragon

Master: Shirou Emiya/Kiritsugu Emiya (Prior)

Str: A. End: A. Agi: C. Mag: ?. NP: E - EX

Alignment: Lawful Good

Caster:

Name: Morgan le Fay

Master: Unknown

Str: D. End: C. Agi: B. Mag: A++. NP: A

Alignment: Neutral Evil

Berserker:

Name: Unknown

Master: Illyasviel von Einzbern

Str: A+. End: A. Agi: B. Mag: D. NP: A+

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Rider:

Name: Unknown

Master: Sakura Matou

Str: ?. End: ?. Agi: ?. Mag: ?. NP: ?

Alignment: [DATA MISSING]

Lancer:

Name: Cú Chulainn

Master: Bazett Fraga McRemitz (What a name!)

Str: B. End: C. Agi: A. Mag: B. NP: B

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Archer/Saber (Prior):

Name: ...what do you think? Really now.

Master: Rin Tohsaka/Unknown (Prior)

Str: D. End: C. Agi: C. Mag: B. NP: ?

Alignment: True Neutral

Assassin:

Name: Unknown

Master: Unknown

Str: D. End: B. Agi: C. Mag: D. NP: A

Alignment: Neutral Evil

Archer (Prior):

Name: Gilgamesh

Master: Unknown/Tokiomi Tohsaka (Prior)

Str: D. End: B. Agi: C. Mag: A+. NP: EX

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Rider (Prior):

Name: Odysseus

Master: Unknown

Str: C. End: A. Agi: C. Mag: C. NP: B

Alignment: Neutral Good

Caster (Prior):

All Parameters Unknown.

Berserker (Prior):

All Parameters Unknown.

Assassin (Prior):

All Parameters Unknown.