Chapter 15: The Weight of a Soul
I created a life.
The thought echoed in Gordolf Musik's head, a hollow, reverberating gong that drowned out everything else. He sat slumped in a heavy wooden chair in his private quarters, elbows on his knees, staring at the bed opposite him.
On it, unmoving, lay the silver-haired homunculus. Its—no, his—chest rose and fell in a shallow, slow rhythm. Gordolf had cleaned him up, patched the worst of the external damage from his panicked flight and the rough handling. The boy looked almost peaceful in sleep, but the pallor of his skin and the faint blue tinge to his lips told a different story. He was a flickering candle in a draft.
A long, strained silence stretched out, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace and the homunculus's weak breathing.
Then Gordolf exploded.
"AAAAARGH! DAMN IT ALL! WHAT THE HELL DID I DO?!"
He surged to his feet, his large frame trembling. He grabbed fistfuls of his own meticulously styled hair and pulled, a growl of pure, unadulterated frustration tearing from his throat. He paced the room like a caged bear, kicking a footstool aside with a loud crash. Finally, the storm of anger spent itself, leaving only a profound exhaustion. He collapsed back into the chair, his head hanging low, fingers digging into his scalp.
It's just a homunculus. Not a human. They're biological automata. Cultivated from reagents and magical blueprints. Tools. They'd slit their own throats with a blank expression if you ordered it. That's what I create. That's ALL I've ever created.
The rationalization, the bedrock of his worldview as a magus of the Musik family, crumbled under the memory of two whispered words.
Help me.
It had never happened before. Homunculi didn't understand death, let alone articulate a plea against it. But this one had. Those eyes, in that moment of terror, hadn't been glassy or empty. They'd been human. Maybe this one was a fluke, a statistical anomaly in the production line. But a fluke meant possibility. It meant that all the others, the ones he'd coldly recycled or sent to die as mana batteries, might have been on the cusp of that same spark. They just hadn't reached it, or hadn't been given the chance to realize what they were.
He could never look at a homunculus the same way again. Never see them as just fuel or fodder.
Cowardly. Hesitant. A blustering bully. He was a pathetic sight.
"Saber," Gordolf's voice was a ragged scrape. "I must look utterly ridiculous right now."
A swirl of blue light coalesced beside him. Siegfried materialized, his massive form somehow quiet and unobtrusive in the cozy room. The dragon-slayer looked down at his Master, and a small, genuine smile touched his usually solemn lips. "No, Master. At this moment, you look… noble."
"Noble?" Gordolf let out a bitter, choked laugh. "Don't mock me, Saber. What's your wish, anyway? Your real one."
"I have no wish," Siegfried answered without hesitation, his blue eyes meeting Gordolf's directly. There was no deception there, only calm certainty. "I was summoned to fulfill the wish of my Master. That is my purpose."
"Tch." Gordolf couldn't hold that sincere gaze. He looked away, a flush of shame and anger heating his face. "That's why I can't stand you. You don't even trust me enough to have a wish of your own."
Siegfried's eyes widened slightly. A sudden understanding clicked into place. The constant verbal barbs, the dismissive attitude—it wasn't just arrogance. It was the frustration of a man who felt he was being humored by a saint, not trusted by a partner.
"Master," Siegfried said softly. Then, with a fluid motion that was both humble and deeply formal, he went down on one knee. He placed his right fist over his heart, the gesture of a knight pledging fealty. "I have a wish now."
"What?" Gordolf blinked, thrown off balance.
"To see your wish fulfilled." Siegfried's voice was low and steady. "In my life, I lived to grant the wishes of others. Good or evil, it did not matter. If they prayed to me, I would answer. Even…" he paused, "even when the wish was for my own death."
"Are you an idiot?" Gordolf hissed, leaning forward. "Didn't you have any purpose of your own? Any desire?"
"No. But I do now." Siegfried lifted his head, his gaze shifting to the sleeping homunculus on the bed. "If your wish is to save him, then I will become the sword that cuts down every obstacle in your path. You need only decide the direction, Master. Walk forward with your head held high. I will clear the way."
"Who… who said anything about saving him?!" Gordolf spluttered, his face turning a deeper shade of red. "This is purely tactical! If Caster completes his Noble Phantasm with a suitable core, he becomes a massive problem for us! I'm just… securing assets and denying the enemy!"
"I understand," Siegfried said. And he smiled again, a broader, warmer smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"STOP SMILING!"
---
"If you'd snatched that homunculus by force, you'd have just signed his death warrant faster," Cyd said, leaning against the cold stone wall of the corridor outside Gordolf's room. He reached over and gave Jeanne's head a light, almost brotherly tap. "Handing him to that guy? That gives him a fighting chance. If he can survive until the war ends, he might just get to walk out of here a free… well, a free person. Sometimes blind goodwill is more poisonous than the problem it tries to fix."
A radiant, breathtaking smile spread across Jeanne's face. She clasped her hands together under her chin, her blue eyes shining with relief. "It's truly wonderful… that child will live. May the Lord watch over him."
"Are you for real?" Cyd groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exaggerated exasperation. "How about a little self-reflection? You nearly breached your Ruler duties and got that kid killed not an hour ago."
"I am sorry!" Jeanne bowed her head, the apology swift and utterly sincere.
Cyd felt his frustration evaporate, replaced by the familiar sensation of trying to argue with a particularly saintly brick wall. "Right. Of course you are. Look, I'm going to go tell Rider the good news so he stops trying to tear the castle down with his teeth."
"Wait!" Jeanne reached out, then pulled her hand back. "That's a wonderful idea! He will be so relieved!"
"Hold on." Cyd snagged her wrist before she could dart off. "Think for two seconds. The guy has Madness Enhancement. You tell him his secret project is safe, and he'll be doing cartwheels of joy in the throne room within five minutes. He has the subtlety of a fireworks display."
"Please release me… that hurts…" Jeanne winced, trying to pry his fingers loose. "And Rider would never…"
"A guy who's been moping and furious suddenly turns sunshine and rainbows? Even Vlad would get suspicious." Cyd let her go. "He'd blab, Gordolf would panic, and the whole house of cards comes down. The kid ends up on Avicebron's slab for real this time."
Jeanne's hopeful expression fell. She touched her reddened cheek gently. "But… Rider will continue to suffer. To think he failed."
"I think he'd be willing to suffer a bit longer if it meant that kid had a real shot," Cyd said, his tone softening. "Look, if it bothers you that much, I'll go down to the dungeon. Check on him. Drop a hint so cryptic even he might not get it."
"Then, I leave it in your hands." Jeanne bowed formally.
"But!" Cyd held up a finger. "You need to drop the saint act. You're not Joan of Arc, savior of France, right now. You're not even a particularly devout Christian at this moment. You are Ruler. An impartial referee. That's it." He leaned in and flicked her forehead with his thumb and middle finger.
Tok.
"Ow!" Jeanne yelped, clapping a hand over the spot. But she nodded, her expression serious. "I understand."
No, you don't. Not even a little bit, Cyd thought as he turned and headed for the dungeon stairs. That was the problem.
People didn't change. Not really. Their methods might adapt, their tactics might shift, but their core nature was fixed. A villain would always find a way to be selfish. A person with a good heart would always find a way to care, even when it was inconvenient or dangerous.
Jeanne was Ruler. She would, he believed, strive for fairness. That wasn't a lie—his Blessing of Hermes would have caught it if it was. But her heart, as everyone sensed, was like a clear mountain spring. Pure. Admirable. And in the context of a Holy Grail War, utterly misplaced.
Faced with a homunculus begging for life, her instinct was to save it. Faced with Astolfo's desperate plea, her instinct was to help. It didn't matter that the homunculus was "property" of the Black faction. It didn't matter that Astolfo was an enemy Servant she claimed she wouldn't aid. In her mind, she wasn't doing anything wrong. Her earlier apology was only because her actions might have gotten the homunculus killed. She didn't see helping Astolfo spirit away the core of another Servant's Noble Phantasm as a violation of the rules.
Her innate goodness sat above the rules of the Grail War.
That's why Jeanne shouldn't have been a Ruler. A heart that stubbornly clung to its own benevolent compass was the true anomaly here, the thing that threatened to tilt the scales.
Jeanne's goodness unbalanced the scale. To counter it, something else was needed.
---
The dungeon air was thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and a cloying, heavy perfume. Cyd stood in the shadows of the archway, watching.
Astolfo was no longer spiked to the wall. He was on the floor, chained by his wrists to a heavy iron ring bolted to the stone. He was shirtless, his pale skin a canvas of fresh bruises, whip marks, and bite marks. His Master, Celenike Icecolle Yggdmillennia, knelt over him. She was tracing a long, painted nail down a lash mark on his back, her eyes half-lidded with a dark, possessive pleasure.
Astolfo's face was turned to the side, pressed against the cold straw. His expression was blank, a practiced emptiness, but a fierce, undefeated light still burned deep in his mismatched eyes.
"Well, well. If it isn't the Ruler," Celenike purred without looking up. She slowly licked her blood-red lips, her gaze finally lifting to rake over Cyd. "Come to join our little game? I would love to paint my colors on such pure, white canvas. The thought alone is… exhilarating."
"Hey, looks like you're on the menu too," Astolfo said, his voice rough but carrying a thread of his usual irreverent humor. He managed a pained grin.
"We're leaving. Just passing through," Cyd said, his voice flat and cold as the dungeon stones. He turned to go.
That's when Astolfo's eyes focused on him. Really focused. The blankness shattered.
"You're lying!" The words were a raw, animal snarl. Astolfo strained against his chains, the metal biting into his wrists. "YOU'RE LYING! You're the hero who brought hope! I heard the stories! Why won't you help him?! Is it because he's a homunculus?!"
"This look…" Celenike breathed, her voice shuddering with ecstasy. She cupped Astolfo's cheek, forcing his furious, despairing gaze toward her. "Yes! This is the look I wanted to see! This delicious despair!"
"WHY?!" Astolfo screamed, ignoring her, his voice cracking. "Your legend! You went to Tartarus itself for people you didn't even know! Why turn your back on one child now?!"
"BECAUSE!" Celenike threw her head back and laughed, a high, manic sound. She pressed her ear to Astolfo's chest, as if listening to the frantic beat of his heart. "The pure-white hero is already dead!"
Cyd didn't look back. He simply walked away, the sound of Celenike's laughter and Astolfo's ragged breathing fading behind him. His expression, unseen in the dark corridor, was unreadable.
Sometimes, to maintain a terrible balance, you had to let one side believe the weight was gone forever.