Lancer Vs Lancer
In a sense, Servants are dreams. They are copies made from the true forms of the heroic spirits, which are enshrined in the Throne of Heroes. Once these copies have fulfilled their function, they vanish, and all they learned and experience is lost, as though it never happened at all. The nature of the heroic spirit remains unchanged, no matter what its copies may do. It is therefore this nature that makes you a perfect guardian, because no matter what, there is a core of you that is unchanging...
“Gae Dearg!” he roared, the red blade slicing through delicate throat muscle. The man gasped, clutching at the sodden throat, and keeled over, sword dropping to embed into the ground.
Behind Diarmuid, sigils and charms floated around Watanuki, a magic circle glimmering in the earth beneath bare feet as Watanuki continued to chant in a strange, fluid tongue. The trees surrounding the clearing rustled, creatures baring tooth and claw at the pair. One leapt towards the circle.
“No!” Gae Dearg made short work of it, Gae Buidhe handling the other jumper on record time. At the same time, the circle gave a final, dying burst of light, shattering as glitter shone over the forest in a violet iridescence.
“Very good, Diarmuid,” Watanuki held out a hand, Diarmuid quickly taking it as the seer collapsed, gasping. “Now, take us back. Back to the shop...”
“Very well, my lord.”
His golden eyes closed, before they opened again to regard the plain ceiling of the room, again sparsely furnished by Japanese aesthetics. He quickly sat up, spying Watanuki's slight form beginning to stir.
“Again, it appears that we have found our own way back once more,” Watanuki mopped the sweat off his brow.
“Wa-ta-nu-ki!” Maru and Moro complained, hounding the two men. “We have a customer!”
“Customer!” Mokona helpfully echoed.
“Is that so...” Watanuki nodded. “Diarmuid, come with me. We must have a look at this job.” the last word was murmured with a caress.
The customer was awaiting them when they entered the room. With a Victorian dress of light blue edged with a mass of white frills and a looped skirt, she looked like a child's doll come to life due to her porcelain-white skin. There was no semblance of life in her eyes when she regarded the two men taking their places, eyes full of sadness like a doll or a corpse.
“What's wrong? You look sad.” Watanuki mused. “Welcome, honoured Master and customer.”
“I am Alice,” the girl stoically answered. “Are you the shopkeeper?”
“I am.” Watanuki held up the teapot. “Would you like a cup? The biscuits are delicious.”
The girl gave a small smile. “Thank you very much.”
“Of course.” Watanuki set out the steaming cup, a plate of biscuits and a warm gaze. Waiting, waiting. “You know the purpose of this shop. Therefore, you have a wish?”
“Caster said that you could help us.”
Diarmuid twitched slightly at this news.
“And what may I help you with?” Watanuki gave an enigmatic smile.
“Caster has no form.” Alice answered. “I cannot see her. I wish that Caster would have a form.”
“And what is Caster's name?”
Alice looked discomfited. “Well... Nursery Rhyme.”
Watanuki nodded, smiling. “A wonderful name, Nursery Rhyme:
A nursery rhyme is a children's refrain,
Tom Thumb's charming picture book,
The first glimpse of Mother Goose's awakening,
The sorrowful me to the lonely you,
Your final wish, let's make it true.
In short, a crystallisation of old stories. And you would give it form.”
There was an awkward pause. A strong wind paused by, sending a tree falling down. Thunder and lightning cracked through the skies. It began raining.
Still, no response... Watanuki blew another plume of smoke. “There will be a price for it. For every wish I grant there must be a price paid of equal value. In this case, you will see Nursery Rhyme, but you will not see her true form. That is the price.”
“I accept.” Alice immediately answered.
“Then, think,” Watanuki smiled. “Nursery Rhyme is not a hero in the traditional sense. Rather, it is a general term for any picture book that has managed to manifest itself into a corporeal existence. The genre itself, deeply loved by the children of England, came into being as a reaction to the half-voiced dreams of the young and eventually emerged as a Servant who came a champion of the innocent. It formed the basis for one of the most beloved of children's tales... in that case, then it should take the form of that it embodies, right?”
Alice eyes widened as shadows gathered beside her, the mirrored Alice draped in black and purple instead. “We thank you for this form, shopkeeper.” Caster spoke, rising. “Alice.”
“Very well, Caster.” Alice nodded, getting up as well. “Thank you, Shop-keeper. We'll come again for tea.”
Watanuki smiled.
“Beyond beyond the rainbow plains,
Black and white squares, the King of Games
Run, run, the maze of mirrors,
Farewell, oh pitiable rabbit...”
“Diarmuid, I need you to do something.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, it's a very simple delivery, you see...”
Diarmuid flipped over, the parcel tucked under one arm as the red lance buried itself in the cement previously beneath his feet. “It is an unbelievable honour to face the Child of Light.”
“Oh, you can tell all of that from a single lance?” the blue-haired man mockingly said. “It'll be fun to fight you.”
“I am fortunate, that my master has allowed thus.” The parcel was relegated down to a corner. “I carry a present and a message from my master to Master and Servant Lancer of this war.”
“And do you think you can just deliver it and expect to run?” the lance was dug out.
“Of course not.” Diarmuid hefted both of his spears. “To do so would be unbecoming, Hound of Chulainn.”
“Woohoo, now don't die on me!” Lancer grinned, before it faded. “But... I don't know your name, and you know mine.”
“I would be honoured, but I cannot tell you,” Diarmuid easily replied. “So my master says. You would merely have to guess.”
“Gee, a guy who uses two lances,” Lancer dead-panned, hefting his spear.
There was an exchange of smirks, before red clashed against red and the two moved. There was no way a kata might have been involved; both Servants moved too fast for that to happen.
“Charm magic?” the blue spearman of the wind picked up. “Lucky for Magic Resistance.”
“You need not concern yourself with it.” Diarmuid automatically replied as he used the wrapped yellow lance to block Gae Bolg. “For one thing, it entirely does not affect someone of your status.”
“Okay, now I'm interested. Too bad it's over.” Lancer jeered as he jumped back, spear in hand. “Gae... Bolg!”
There was no way to dodge the spear of death, and in any case both were Lancers and therefore prone to speedy attacks. Diarmuid planted himself, dropping the yellow spear to take Gae Dearg with both hands and clap the spear down, pinning a crater of concrete between the spear about to move for his heart to the red spear of exorcism he held. Fine control gotten, he kicked the yellow spear up to do a one-armed throw at the dumbstruck Hound of Ulster.
The other Lancer of the Fifth Holy Grail War rolled, one hand scratched. Then Diarmuid had to jump back, summoning the yellow spear to show Gae Buidhe in all its glory.
Lancer glanced at his bleeding hand. “A red spear that can nullify prana... a yellow spear that inflicts unhealing wounds. And a beauty spot with a curse that attracts all women... kinsman.”
“So we are, Son of Light.”
“Nice, Loyal Knight of the Fianna,” Cu Chulainn remarked as he summoned his spear back. “How did you reverse the Gae Bolg? No, don't tell me. It's the spear.”
“It's the spear,” Diarmuid confirmed. “But it does not matter, does it?”
“You're right. No, it doesn't.” Lancer confirmed. “A war can't have two Lancers.”
“You assume that I am a part of this war.”
“You're not?”
“I was, once. My Master bade me to commit suicide.”
Cu Chulainn winced. “That sucks.”
“I supposed it is the luck of the Irish we share.”
“Yeah, that- hang on.” The Hound of Ulster stopped. “If you committed suicide, then... how are you here?”
“The circumstances are forbidden to be revealed.”
“Right...” the other Irishman drawled. “Doesn't matter. Now that we know who's who, let's finish this!”
“A honourable Duel between fellow Irishmen would be my pleasure.”
Truth to be told, Lancer felt conflicted. If this was the desire to tell someone of their fate should he know it, it was uncomfortable. That at the three different fates that the last war could lead to, the Hound would die, and die in battle he would. Then again... it was their shared luck. They could not control it as they would control fate. And so, perhaps it would be better that he never knew.
So the sun rose on the last few moments, before the shop would leave, and both Lancers were exhausted to the point of unleashing the full power of their Noble Phantasms, and Diarmuid never said a word.
Cu Chulainn swore a blue streak in Gaelic that frankly stunned Diarmuid. Then again, Cu Chulainn probably cursed his divine father on a regular basis. “Shit, the fake priest is calling. Damn, I wish Bazett was here, she'll love you. Next time, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne. Your heart. Stab.”
“Next time, Setenta, Cu Chulainn.” Diarmuid grinned. “Who knows what the future holds. We have extraordinarily bad luck.”
Lancer narrowed his eyes, groaning at the blood spattered from his throat. “Damn, annoying. So what's the message?”
“To the fake priest?” Diarmuid smirked. “Only darkness awaits you. To you? The Morrigan still holds her grudge.”
Cu Chulainn scowled. “Damned bitch. So I'll die, huh?”
“Do as you wish.” Diarmuid murmured. “The package is mapo tofu, by the way.”
“Huh?” Cu Chulainn scowled as first spear of the Fianna jumped to the skies, scowling, already aware of the grudge held. “Must suck, to be him... I'll die, huh?”
Teeth were bared. “Right then. I'll make sure the fake priest goes first.”