Every time this happens, every single damn time, it ends the same way.
But still. I fight.
It's what I was born for, it's what I died doing, it's what I was brought back for.
A brutal one-two combination attack sees Lancer staggering back, the look on his face not particularly improved by slamming my shield against it.
Pity. He's ugly.
"Give up, Saber! Give up and die, damn you." Lancer sneers as he speaks, the blood from his nose already flaking off, revealing divinely perfect skin. Bah.
And he wants me to die, huh? No, I don't think so... not yet, anyways. Outnumbered as I am, it's obvious I'm going to bite it.... but my enemies aren't determined to die to bring me down. Not yet, anyways.
I surge forward, shield and mail weightless, sword descending in an unstoppable arc on Lancer, who still staggers off-balance. Heroic Spirit or not, hard blows to the head hurt.
He knows better than to try and parry. Yes, my beautiful sword, you are unstoppable. Indestructible, invincible, the world has decreed you to be in this way, and so you will be forevermore.
But no matter how hard I strike, no matter how fast I move, every time this happens I forget that I should be on the defensive, not furiously attacking my foe.
And I pay for my mistake. Archer is one of history's most cunning heroes. I know who he is. He, of course, knows who I am.
He is a great warrior, and that bow of his is deadly.
I barely have time to defend whip around and bat the arrow out of the air that would have taken my head clean off.
Bloody Noble Phantasm of his.
And now Lancer calls on his.
This is not good. No matter how puissant I am in single combat, Lancer is nigh-invincible. God-forged mail and armament. Divine blood rushing through his veins at every beat of his magnificent heart. Skin proof to all but the mightiest weapons (though, fortunately, this doesn't extend to any part of my sword. Ha. Eat your heart out, greek.)
But now they appear, rank upon rank upon rank of armored warrior.
It is really too bad that Archer and Lancer share their origin in the same legend. They fought alongside in their life (and, admittedly, against each other, too). It is somewhat fortunate that Rider's master refused to lend his Servant's aid to their efforts in the struggle to kill me.
I would have let him live for that, after killing his chinese madman servant.... if not for the fact I'm going to bite it, here.
But still, I fight. It's what I was made for.
I wonder why we servants always let each other call upon our weapons of legend without interrupting each other. Professinal courtsey? Can't be. We're all warriors, we know better than to leave an opening go unexploited. But still, I did. Odd. And Archer didn't even use the time to shoot me in the back of the head while we both watched Lancer's army appear.
The ant-warriors. The sons of Myrmidon. Physically as close to the perfect human warrior as one can get. Divine blood, too, but watered down considerably. At least one good thing about that.
They surge like a tidal wave made of flesh, steel and murder, surrounding me, stabbing, hacking, trying to pierce my defenses. Not that they can. They are but fodder, to buy time for their master. And they don't care. They will die all over again for their lord.
And then it happens.
The rage of battle, the army besetting me from all sides, once again it happens, outnumbered, a heroic last stand, thinking getting difficult for me.... mustn't.... let... go... mustn't.... call.... them..... backkkkkk......
--
I am Achilles, son of Peleus, Servant Lancer, and for the first time in this War, I am afraid.
Yes, Saber is good, but that's to be expected when you get to fight one of the finest Knights of the Sword the world has ever bred. It's glorious. His sword cuts with contemptous ease, sending parts of my Myrmidons flying all over.
No matter. Their numbers are endless, their coordination is perfect, and their deaths buy all the time we need, Archer and I, to set up our killing blows.
For a moment I wonder whether Saber's sword could cut me... and then I consider that I don't want to test it.
Experimentally, I ready a throw of my lance, throwing with the mastery of a thousand battles and the undeniable power of a Hero.
Just as expected, it fails. That sword shatters my lance in mid-flight.
I hold out and my lance reappears. Ahh, divine provenance.
Archer motions for me to move, to get away from where I'm standing.
Oh, this is not good. When a man whose intuitive understanding of the battlefield borders on precognition tells you to leave, you get the hell away from where you are, or else. And in most cases, you don't want to know what Or Else is.
I jump, easily vaulting over the trees that seperate me from Archer, settling down next to him.
"Son of Peleus, look at what your careless invocation of your army has wrought! Look at the living memories your folly has conjured! I told you not to do this!"
I want to rebuke him, to tell him that our legend is greater than his, that we outnumber him, that we are better than he is, but when I see what happens to my soldiers, I am shocked into stillness.
First one, then two, then more and more figures appear, warriors armed with faith and fury, the battle-brothers of Saber in life, the ones who died in the battle that made him the legend he is.
A legend that culminates in a heroic last stand, in a heroic death.
Too late and to their sorrow do those who place their faith in quantity learn the power of quality.
I should have remembered that.
My myrmidons are without number, but the heroes arrayed Saber are so far beyond the faceless army that it is laughable.
But Archer makes his move, even as I fight a duel against one of Saber's companion knights, charging with shield and spear against warhorse and lance.
I am Achilles. He is just a hero.
The knight is taken off his horse, my lance pinning his shield and arm to his own body, and I move to end his pain as I pluck splinters of his lance off my armor.
A quick jab is enough to end him.
But enough. My master ordered me to obey Archer in this, to bow to his tactical acumen. I shall, therefore, guard him .... but he didn't say how.
Fool. I will kill him once Saber is dead.
Most of his companions are dead now, the tragedy of their first death played out again in gory detail.
They would have broken any mortal army ten times over, standing on a mount of corpses as they are. How they keep their footing as they do, most people will never know. It's part of the hero thing.
Nothing gets your pulse up like standing on a mound of slain foes, trust me on that.
And then I am amongst them, blade and shield and armor and a hundred percent rage.
My myrmidons fall in, perfectly attuned to their master even beyond death. The best soldiers any commander could ask for. Intelligent, incorruptibly loyal, perfectly willing to die to advance my cause.
Within minutes, only three are left.... Saber, and two of his compatriots who could have been Servants, if of weaker legend than the radiant knight.
The bishop is the first to fall, a man of faith and fury, forged in the wars of an age when the best way to spread your faith was to murder everyone who disagreed with you.
He never fought those with divine blood, as the heroes of my age did. When I run him through, the scream of rage of Saber and his companion is music in my ears.
And then the arrows strike.
Archer. That miserable traitorous godless scum. Always a combat pragmatist.
So what if I am in the way? He told me to stay out, I know he'll say that. And they'll believe him... since Master knows that I prefer to charge in.
Twelve axes. Whosoever shoots an arrow through these axe-heads shall wed the wife abandoned for two decades.
Foolish, foolish mortal men, to even attempt to wed the wife of a hero.
They died as we do now.
Archer's Phantasm goes off. Arrows everywhere. Through every of those damnable axe-heads his arrows fly, and he fires faster than any man should.
The last of his companions, his closest friend, his almost-brother-in-law... just dies. Too many arrows, too many flashing blades - though even my Myrmidons thin out as Archer works his unstoppable magic -
Well, fuck. Saber advances towards me, armor and shield riddled with arrows, with lifeless eyes devoid of intelligence or reason.
Archer's arrows bounce off my armor and barely leave minor scratches on my skin, but that sword... when I try to deflect it with my spear, my weapon shatters, though simply willing it to be so re-forms it.
With every blow against my shield, one of its many god-forged layers breaks away, and Saber hits fast, hits hard, hits without mercy.
Every blow a portent of a destiny that has me fated to die.
Every frantic parry an attempt to break the chains of prophecy.
But it is not to be.
My shield crumbles.
My weapon breaks.
The paladin's sword carves me open from hip to shoulder.
Archer isn't laughing now, I bet. He was so sure he'd be able to kill me after I finished off Saber.
We are both fools. We forced him into a corner, played to the power of his legend, and now the two servants left standing both know that in this battle, there will be no survivors.
Damn.
I'm sorry, Mas-
----
Well, this could have gone better.
I had hoped to exhaust Saber's resources with the vast army of the myrmidons, but to no avail. All I achieved was Saber calling on reinforcements.
And now my meat shield is dead. To think that a weapon could cut so cleanly through the invulnerable skin of Achilles.
But this sword is more than just a blade wielded by a master, this sword is a holy reliquary to the man's faith, and when you pit one power of divine origin against another, something has to give... and it's rarely the absurdly sharp blade that does.
The son of Peleus fades, on his knees, grim realization in his eyes.
I never stop firing. I never stop planning.
I never run out of tricks.
I am Odysseus, and I will not be defeated.
But it is absurd. With every step he takes, a hundred arrows fly against him, and with every swing, with every parry, ninety-nine go wide, broken, shattered, useless.
And it takes more than a dozen arrows to fell one like him.
It takes twenty.
Too bad for you, Saber, that I know who you are, that my Master knows who you are and that we both know how to defeat you.
The grim knight advances, cuirass smeared with the blood of a thousand men, arms dripping with their gore up to his shoulders.
Thirteen.
"My arrows will never stop as long as I live. This is my will. This is my power."
Fourteen.
"I have faced death and overcome it once, in life. I shall do so again."
Fifteen.
"I will live again, flesh and blood and bone."
Sixteen.
"I shall claim my heart's desire."
Seventeen.
"I will fight, and lie, and cheat, and never stop."
Eighteen.
"For I crave the world of the living."
Nineteen.
"I will claim what is mine by right of might! I WILL LIVE AGAIN, SABER!"
Twenty.
"BEHOLD, YOU FOOL, THE FALL OF TROY!"
And then I stab him from behind. Works like a charm, every time. They never question why I, Odysseus, would just stand there and snipe them (although I did) while they advance on me.
I am more than the other servants are, I am more than just a killing machine.
I am smart.
For I am Odysseus, and soon, I will live again.
-----
The pain in my back reminds me of the pain in my heart when Olivier fell... both the first time, and today. It snaps me out of the blood-rage that claimed me, the rage that makes me re-live my last battle in life.
Why does it have to hurt so much to lose your best friend?
I am wounded unto death. Twenty times, by the hand of a master.
Just like last time.
But there is more to me than Durandal.
I backhand Archer away from me, feeling his blade grate against my insides as I do. Irrelevant. Pain of the flesh is nothing compared to pain of the heart.
There is more to me than my fellow Counts, the heroes of Charlemagne.
He rises, shocked. Did he really think that all it takes to kill me now is to re-enact my death of legend? Fool.
There is more to me than foolhardy bravery and furious rage.
And the way his eyes widen with shock as I raise my horn to my lips is priceless. I am already dead, but so is he.
And then I blow, with all my might, the deep note magically reverberating in the air as though we were back on the field of Roncesvaux.
Oliphant, oh Oliphant, Horn of Victory Beyond Death, how it hurts me to use you.
But still, I blow with all my might, the veins in my temples bursting, and blood flowing freely from mouth and head.
But this is what I was made for.
Roland, paladin of Charlemagne, wielder of Durandal, carrier of Oliphant, Servant Saber.
My Master will understand what I did, and I am sure she will find a way to turn this situation to her advantage.
Ahhh, I can hear it now, the clarion calls of the Frankish army as they approach, always just a moment too late. But such is Fate.
I write my death upon this world as I have done before, Durandal unstopped by mere stone. But Archer has won our duel, has exhausted me against an army without number and the greatest hero of the War for Troy.
But it will not save him.
"I am sorry, Archer, to deny you your wish... but now it is time ..."
I drop to my knees, coughing blood, the vast array of injuries inflicted upon my body finally registering as my last stand has played out.
"... time for the legends of yore to..."
Funny. Dying hurts less than seeing your friends die for you, to see them die because of your own foolishness.
"... return to.... the past."
And as my consciousness slips away, I hear the rage-filled screams of Archer as Charlemagne himself descends upon him.
'tis too bad, my lord, that I shan't fight by your side again.
---
Dramatis Personae:
Servant Saber, ROLAND, also known as ORLANDO: Set upon in a war for the Holy Grail by two servants, ROLAND defends himself, re-living in a haze of rage his last stand, only snapping out towards the end, when he is struck a mortal blow.
ROLAND's weapons are threefold:
First, Durandal, the blade that cannot be destroyed (and, thus, not be stopped), wielded by the man it belongs to (see: GILGAMESH, and how to fail at using Durandal))
Second, the Counts, the men who fought and died with him holding the Roncesvaux pass. First and foremost amongst them his brother-in-law-to-be, Olivier, himself a mighty hero.
Third, Oliphant, the Horn of Roland, which grants vengeance against the one who struck ROLAND a deathblow, though using it makes ROLAND's death inevitable.
-
Servant Lancer, ACHILLES, the mightiest hero of the war for Troy: Part of the ambush, tries to kill ROLAND, and exults in the carnage.
ACHILLES' wargear are these:
First, the Myrmidons, an endless army of perfectly coordinated superhuman warriors.
Second, the Lance of Achilles, fated to always return to his hand so that ACHILLES may throw it once more against a worthy foe.
Thrid, the Armor of Hephaestus, complete with shield, nigh-impenetrable by almost all weapons known to man. Unfortunately, only nigh-impenetrable, and only against almost all weapons.
-
Servant Archer, ODYSSEUS, the man who brought down the invulnerable fortress of Troy: Part of the ambush, attempts to kill ROLAND and ACHILLES, tries to survive.
ODYSSEUS' Wargear:
First, the Axe-Head Shot and the Bow of Odysseus. Odysseus can, at will, rearrange the twelve axe-heads of legend and redirect any arrows he fires with his bow from any of the axe-head holes. This allows for up to twelve arrows per shot fired, from multiple angles. (And if you wonder where an axe head has a hole, try removing the axe handle - thanks to Ladegard for FINALLY pointing that one out to me >_<)
Second, the Ploy of Troy - Odysseus can, if his enemy is sufficiently distracted (for instance by parrying an attack, such as a hail of arrows), create a perfect double of himself, invisible to the target of the Ploy of Troy. This double then executes one perfect attack against the target, automatically resulting in a mortal wound (though not immediately fatal).
-
Not proofread, full of germanisms, but I don't care, it'S the first time I wrote a fanfic since the last real Iron Fic contest.
But still. I fight.
It's what I was born for, it's what I died doing, it's what I was brought back for.
A brutal one-two combination attack sees Lancer staggering back, the look on his face not particularly improved by slamming my shield against it.
Pity. He's ugly.
"Give up, Saber! Give up and die, damn you." Lancer sneers as he speaks, the blood from his nose already flaking off, revealing divinely perfect skin. Bah.
And he wants me to die, huh? No, I don't think so... not yet, anyways. Outnumbered as I am, it's obvious I'm going to bite it.... but my enemies aren't determined to die to bring me down. Not yet, anyways.
I surge forward, shield and mail weightless, sword descending in an unstoppable arc on Lancer, who still staggers off-balance. Heroic Spirit or not, hard blows to the head hurt.
He knows better than to try and parry. Yes, my beautiful sword, you are unstoppable. Indestructible, invincible, the world has decreed you to be in this way, and so you will be forevermore.
But no matter how hard I strike, no matter how fast I move, every time this happens I forget that I should be on the defensive, not furiously attacking my foe.
And I pay for my mistake. Archer is one of history's most cunning heroes. I know who he is. He, of course, knows who I am.
He is a great warrior, and that bow of his is deadly.
I barely have time to defend whip around and bat the arrow out of the air that would have taken my head clean off.
Bloody Noble Phantasm of his.
And now Lancer calls on his.
This is not good. No matter how puissant I am in single combat, Lancer is nigh-invincible. God-forged mail and armament. Divine blood rushing through his veins at every beat of his magnificent heart. Skin proof to all but the mightiest weapons (though, fortunately, this doesn't extend to any part of my sword. Ha. Eat your heart out, greek.)
But now they appear, rank upon rank upon rank of armored warrior.
It is really too bad that Archer and Lancer share their origin in the same legend. They fought alongside in their life (and, admittedly, against each other, too). It is somewhat fortunate that Rider's master refused to lend his Servant's aid to their efforts in the struggle to kill me.
I would have let him live for that, after killing his chinese madman servant.... if not for the fact I'm going to bite it, here.
But still, I fight. It's what I was made for.
I wonder why we servants always let each other call upon our weapons of legend without interrupting each other. Professinal courtsey? Can't be. We're all warriors, we know better than to leave an opening go unexploited. But still, I did. Odd. And Archer didn't even use the time to shoot me in the back of the head while we both watched Lancer's army appear.
The ant-warriors. The sons of Myrmidon. Physically as close to the perfect human warrior as one can get. Divine blood, too, but watered down considerably. At least one good thing about that.
They surge like a tidal wave made of flesh, steel and murder, surrounding me, stabbing, hacking, trying to pierce my defenses. Not that they can. They are but fodder, to buy time for their master. And they don't care. They will die all over again for their lord.
And then it happens.
The rage of battle, the army besetting me from all sides, once again it happens, outnumbered, a heroic last stand, thinking getting difficult for me.... mustn't.... let... go... mustn't.... call.... them..... backkkkkk......
--
I am Achilles, son of Peleus, Servant Lancer, and for the first time in this War, I am afraid.
Yes, Saber is good, but that's to be expected when you get to fight one of the finest Knights of the Sword the world has ever bred. It's glorious. His sword cuts with contemptous ease, sending parts of my Myrmidons flying all over.
No matter. Their numbers are endless, their coordination is perfect, and their deaths buy all the time we need, Archer and I, to set up our killing blows.
For a moment I wonder whether Saber's sword could cut me... and then I consider that I don't want to test it.
Experimentally, I ready a throw of my lance, throwing with the mastery of a thousand battles and the undeniable power of a Hero.
Just as expected, it fails. That sword shatters my lance in mid-flight.
I hold out and my lance reappears. Ahh, divine provenance.
Archer motions for me to move, to get away from where I'm standing.
Oh, this is not good. When a man whose intuitive understanding of the battlefield borders on precognition tells you to leave, you get the hell away from where you are, or else. And in most cases, you don't want to know what Or Else is.
I jump, easily vaulting over the trees that seperate me from Archer, settling down next to him.
"Son of Peleus, look at what your careless invocation of your army has wrought! Look at the living memories your folly has conjured! I told you not to do this!"
I want to rebuke him, to tell him that our legend is greater than his, that we outnumber him, that we are better than he is, but when I see what happens to my soldiers, I am shocked into stillness.
First one, then two, then more and more figures appear, warriors armed with faith and fury, the battle-brothers of Saber in life, the ones who died in the battle that made him the legend he is.
A legend that culminates in a heroic last stand, in a heroic death.
Too late and to their sorrow do those who place their faith in quantity learn the power of quality.
I should have remembered that.
My myrmidons are without number, but the heroes arrayed Saber are so far beyond the faceless army that it is laughable.
But Archer makes his move, even as I fight a duel against one of Saber's companion knights, charging with shield and spear against warhorse and lance.
I am Achilles. He is just a hero.
The knight is taken off his horse, my lance pinning his shield and arm to his own body, and I move to end his pain as I pluck splinters of his lance off my armor.
A quick jab is enough to end him.
But enough. My master ordered me to obey Archer in this, to bow to his tactical acumen. I shall, therefore, guard him .... but he didn't say how.
Fool. I will kill him once Saber is dead.
Most of his companions are dead now, the tragedy of their first death played out again in gory detail.
They would have broken any mortal army ten times over, standing on a mount of corpses as they are. How they keep their footing as they do, most people will never know. It's part of the hero thing.
Nothing gets your pulse up like standing on a mound of slain foes, trust me on that.
And then I am amongst them, blade and shield and armor and a hundred percent rage.
My myrmidons fall in, perfectly attuned to their master even beyond death. The best soldiers any commander could ask for. Intelligent, incorruptibly loyal, perfectly willing to die to advance my cause.
Within minutes, only three are left.... Saber, and two of his compatriots who could have been Servants, if of weaker legend than the radiant knight.
The bishop is the first to fall, a man of faith and fury, forged in the wars of an age when the best way to spread your faith was to murder everyone who disagreed with you.
He never fought those with divine blood, as the heroes of my age did. When I run him through, the scream of rage of Saber and his companion is music in my ears.
And then the arrows strike.
Archer. That miserable traitorous godless scum. Always a combat pragmatist.
So what if I am in the way? He told me to stay out, I know he'll say that. And they'll believe him... since Master knows that I prefer to charge in.
Twelve axes. Whosoever shoots an arrow through these axe-heads shall wed the wife abandoned for two decades.
Foolish, foolish mortal men, to even attempt to wed the wife of a hero.
They died as we do now.
Archer's Phantasm goes off. Arrows everywhere. Through every of those damnable axe-heads his arrows fly, and he fires faster than any man should.
The last of his companions, his closest friend, his almost-brother-in-law... just dies. Too many arrows, too many flashing blades - though even my Myrmidons thin out as Archer works his unstoppable magic -
Well, fuck. Saber advances towards me, armor and shield riddled with arrows, with lifeless eyes devoid of intelligence or reason.
Archer's arrows bounce off my armor and barely leave minor scratches on my skin, but that sword... when I try to deflect it with my spear, my weapon shatters, though simply willing it to be so re-forms it.
With every blow against my shield, one of its many god-forged layers breaks away, and Saber hits fast, hits hard, hits without mercy.
Every blow a portent of a destiny that has me fated to die.
Every frantic parry an attempt to break the chains of prophecy.
But it is not to be.
My shield crumbles.
My weapon breaks.
The paladin's sword carves me open from hip to shoulder.
Archer isn't laughing now, I bet. He was so sure he'd be able to kill me after I finished off Saber.
We are both fools. We forced him into a corner, played to the power of his legend, and now the two servants left standing both know that in this battle, there will be no survivors.
Damn.
I'm sorry, Mas-
----
Well, this could have gone better.
I had hoped to exhaust Saber's resources with the vast army of the myrmidons, but to no avail. All I achieved was Saber calling on reinforcements.
And now my meat shield is dead. To think that a weapon could cut so cleanly through the invulnerable skin of Achilles.
But this sword is more than just a blade wielded by a master, this sword is a holy reliquary to the man's faith, and when you pit one power of divine origin against another, something has to give... and it's rarely the absurdly sharp blade that does.
The son of Peleus fades, on his knees, grim realization in his eyes.
I never stop firing. I never stop planning.
I never run out of tricks.
I am Odysseus, and I will not be defeated.
But it is absurd. With every step he takes, a hundred arrows fly against him, and with every swing, with every parry, ninety-nine go wide, broken, shattered, useless.
And it takes more than a dozen arrows to fell one like him.
It takes twenty.
Too bad for you, Saber, that I know who you are, that my Master knows who you are and that we both know how to defeat you.
The grim knight advances, cuirass smeared with the blood of a thousand men, arms dripping with their gore up to his shoulders.
Thirteen.
"My arrows will never stop as long as I live. This is my will. This is my power."
Fourteen.
"I have faced death and overcome it once, in life. I shall do so again."
Fifteen.
"I will live again, flesh and blood and bone."
Sixteen.
"I shall claim my heart's desire."
Seventeen.
"I will fight, and lie, and cheat, and never stop."
Eighteen.
"For I crave the world of the living."
Nineteen.
"I will claim what is mine by right of might! I WILL LIVE AGAIN, SABER!"
Twenty.
"BEHOLD, YOU FOOL, THE FALL OF TROY!"
And then I stab him from behind. Works like a charm, every time. They never question why I, Odysseus, would just stand there and snipe them (although I did) while they advance on me.
I am more than the other servants are, I am more than just a killing machine.
I am smart.
For I am Odysseus, and soon, I will live again.
-----
The pain in my back reminds me of the pain in my heart when Olivier fell... both the first time, and today. It snaps me out of the blood-rage that claimed me, the rage that makes me re-live my last battle in life.
Why does it have to hurt so much to lose your best friend?
I am wounded unto death. Twenty times, by the hand of a master.
Just like last time.
But there is more to me than Durandal.
I backhand Archer away from me, feeling his blade grate against my insides as I do. Irrelevant. Pain of the flesh is nothing compared to pain of the heart.
There is more to me than my fellow Counts, the heroes of Charlemagne.
He rises, shocked. Did he really think that all it takes to kill me now is to re-enact my death of legend? Fool.
There is more to me than foolhardy bravery and furious rage.
And the way his eyes widen with shock as I raise my horn to my lips is priceless. I am already dead, but so is he.
And then I blow, with all my might, the deep note magically reverberating in the air as though we were back on the field of Roncesvaux.
Oliphant, oh Oliphant, Horn of Victory Beyond Death, how it hurts me to use you.
But still, I blow with all my might, the veins in my temples bursting, and blood flowing freely from mouth and head.
But this is what I was made for.
Roland, paladin of Charlemagne, wielder of Durandal, carrier of Oliphant, Servant Saber.
My Master will understand what I did, and I am sure she will find a way to turn this situation to her advantage.
Ahhh, I can hear it now, the clarion calls of the Frankish army as they approach, always just a moment too late. But such is Fate.
I write my death upon this world as I have done before, Durandal unstopped by mere stone. But Archer has won our duel, has exhausted me against an army without number and the greatest hero of the War for Troy.
But it will not save him.
"I am sorry, Archer, to deny you your wish... but now it is time ..."
I drop to my knees, coughing blood, the vast array of injuries inflicted upon my body finally registering as my last stand has played out.
"... time for the legends of yore to..."
Funny. Dying hurts less than seeing your friends die for you, to see them die because of your own foolishness.
"... return to.... the past."
And as my consciousness slips away, I hear the rage-filled screams of Archer as Charlemagne himself descends upon him.
'tis too bad, my lord, that I shan't fight by your side again.
---
Dramatis Personae:
Servant Saber, ROLAND, also known as ORLANDO: Set upon in a war for the Holy Grail by two servants, ROLAND defends himself, re-living in a haze of rage his last stand, only snapping out towards the end, when he is struck a mortal blow.
ROLAND's weapons are threefold:
First, Durandal, the blade that cannot be destroyed (and, thus, not be stopped), wielded by the man it belongs to (see: GILGAMESH, and how to fail at using Durandal))
Second, the Counts, the men who fought and died with him holding the Roncesvaux pass. First and foremost amongst them his brother-in-law-to-be, Olivier, himself a mighty hero.
Third, Oliphant, the Horn of Roland, which grants vengeance against the one who struck ROLAND a deathblow, though using it makes ROLAND's death inevitable.
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Servant Lancer, ACHILLES, the mightiest hero of the war for Troy: Part of the ambush, tries to kill ROLAND, and exults in the carnage.
ACHILLES' wargear are these:
First, the Myrmidons, an endless army of perfectly coordinated superhuman warriors.
Second, the Lance of Achilles, fated to always return to his hand so that ACHILLES may throw it once more against a worthy foe.
Thrid, the Armor of Hephaestus, complete with shield, nigh-impenetrable by almost all weapons known to man. Unfortunately, only nigh-impenetrable, and only against almost all weapons.
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Servant Archer, ODYSSEUS, the man who brought down the invulnerable fortress of Troy: Part of the ambush, attempts to kill ROLAND and ACHILLES, tries to survive.
ODYSSEUS' Wargear:
First, the Axe-Head Shot and the Bow of Odysseus. Odysseus can, at will, rearrange the twelve axe-heads of legend and redirect any arrows he fires with his bow from any of the axe-head holes. This allows for up to twelve arrows per shot fired, from multiple angles. (And if you wonder where an axe head has a hole, try removing the axe handle - thanks to Ladegard for FINALLY pointing that one out to me >_<)
Second, the Ploy of Troy - Odysseus can, if his enemy is sufficiently distracted (for instance by parrying an attack, such as a hail of arrows), create a perfect double of himself, invisible to the target of the Ploy of Troy. This double then executes one perfect attack against the target, automatically resulting in a mortal wound (though not immediately fatal).
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Not proofread, full of germanisms, but I don't care, it'S the first time I wrote a fanfic since the last real Iron Fic contest.
