"I summoned you knights because I require your power. While I can destroy my enemies alone, I cannot perform the Holy Selection. I need knights that will become my hands and feet. However, I understand that this act violates your beliefs. Will you obey me, or will you leave my side? Or, will you band together here to strike me down? I will hear your answers at sundown. I can wait no longer than that."
Those words rang hollow in Gareth's ears.
*THUNK*
*SPLATTER*
Especially now, when her lance was stained red with the blood of her comrades. With the blood of her allies and friends that…
Her mind blanked out, her breath grew shallow. All of existence seemed to have transformed into a tiny speck of dust. Into a point in space, that ate at her soul and staggered her mind.
The following ceremony and the bestowal of gifts went past her, as if in a dream, however, her mind managed to latch on one thing.
"Gareth, my dear Knight," the two orbs of clear emerald zoned down on her, scrutinizing, seeing through her very soul, acknowledging her plight and suffering "You shall stain your spear no longer. For nothing shall remain of your enemies when it strikes them. This purity, I grant thee."
Never, had the words of anyone seemed so damning in Gareth's mind.
And never had she felt so defiled.
"I thank you, my king."
Her voice lacked soul and tenderness and levity it usually had. Her eyes reflected the state of her soul: crushed by her own doing. Her fingers were pricked by a constant, neverending fire that engulfed them. But it was all in her mind. It was a fire of guilt that burnt her, after all.
'Ah,' her own voice rang hollow inside of her mind, 'it was not others I had killed, but myself'.
She realized. But what use is a realization, when the deed is already done?
*****
"Are we doing it?" passed the murmur at the back of the uneven lines of soldiers all staring forwards, towards their commanders in the tent. And there were quite a few of these men, all clad in armor, which had certainly seen better days. All worn-down, with grime and dust almost like a second skin, not to mention - sand getting everywhere.
Truly, no worse getup to wear in a desert.
"How many men do we have left?" tapped one of his fingers the man in charge, wearing some of the Royal regalias - the man was Edward of England, the Duke of Gascony and also - the leader of this expedition to the holy land.
An expedition that would have ended in failure, was it not for the thing in the man's hands.
A man, of forty or so years burst into the tent, his gait purposeful and eyes only momentarily staying on the chalice of gold.
"We have eight hundred men left," said the commander
Edward nodded
"Is this truly what I think it is?" asked one of his associates.
"'Tis truly it, my friend - the Holy Grail."
"When, if what we had heard is true…" someone muttered.
"Then we might have got our way out of here alive," Edward declared, cutting off any kind of foolish ideas.
The way here, as well as the many battles had worn down both his body and mind. It was high time they had departed.
First the attempted assassination by the Hashshashin, now this…
With the grail, they might have the possibility to push and reclaim the Holy Land.
Maybe in another reality, they could have let their hubris get to them. But not in this one.
Edward had thought better of any advances. Despite his burning desire to get credit, it was a fool's errand not to cover their backs. Especially, when the news from home was not at all well.
So Edward took the Chalice, and wished for one thing:
"I wish for safety for me and my men," he said, his voice resolute.
But what you need to know is that the Grail had a very interesting way of fulfilling the wishes asked.
The Chalice reached out to the Throne of Heroes, searching for the one to keep these people protected, to grant them safety.
And it found just the suitable candidate.
With a burst of formless, ethereal wind, the tent flattered and the device brightened.
The next second, a figure formed. Clad in leather armor of impressive make, dyed in deep-red colors, a man with lush, shoulder-length hair and a cape appeared before the group.
The first thing he did is to inspect his surroundings and the men that all looked at him, clearly on edge.
Then, he gave a small bow, which could probably only be compared to a nod - showing both his station and status, but acknowledging the worth of the people surrounding him.
He knew, of course, where he was and in the presence of whom he was. His conflicting feelings on the manner did not show, however - Crusaders that once plundered his City they may be - he would not judge them, for he also knew the purpose of his summoning.
"Emperor Constantine the XI of the Byzantine Empire. I come as per your summon."
You could hear a pin drop. Even the ever incessant howling of the wind outside seemed to have ceased.
"..." The men exchanged glances amongst each other, not sure how to react, however, Edward decided to speak up.
"My name is Edward of England. We greet the Emperor of the Byzantine empire," and no, as far as Edward knew, right now another held the seat of the Emperor, however, a god's providence was not to be ridiculed or disregarded.
Within the next hours, many pleasantries were exchanged. Throughout it all, Constantine observed. He noted the attires, the visible weariness of the men in front of him. He saw the desperate need for respite.
…To think that he would appear in the same century when his Empire was dealt a devastating blow. The consequences of the fourth crusade lived until even his day, but here he was - asked to assist these men in their endeavor…
Yet he was above the petty squabble or a grudge. He was an Emperor and that title carried weight and honor and dignity. But even more than that, he was a god's follower, and to help those in need, would not only be right, but also - abiding by His teachings.
Besides, they were brothers of the same faith.
He asked for the grail from the men, and mere seconds later…
A river started to flow. The greenery formed on the barren wasteland. And a brilliant city bloomed in spite of the hardships, breathing life into a barren land. With its walls mounted high, conquered but never broken.
A second Constantinople, at the twilight of its brilliance, was nevertheless proudly standing despite the scorching sun.
*****
Constantine XI would not lie. Today might have been one of the most horrifying days of his mortal existence.
His Constantinople almost being burnt from the face of earth had much to play in that.
The Knights of the Round Table, as they had proclaimed themselves, were only the beginning of their many worries. Or maybe it was the outrageous demands that they had put forth?
For every single refugee to be relocated and put through the holy selection… But this selection was most unholy, vile thing.
A slaughter, that's what it was. And these knights demanded of him to hand over the ones he gave shelter to?
The prospect was laughable. As much as it was maddening and downright revolting for him.
So, after stalling for as much time as he could, trying to mount every bit of defenses, he put the holy grail to its utmost use, reinforcing the walls and giving every and all of its defenders the power to withstand the trial the Lord had sent them.
And withstand it they did. Not without the help of a similarly great miracle.
A man of bestial skill and bloodlust to match it, burst into the rear of the enemy come the second hour of the siege. Single-handedly (!) he managed to strangle the enemy offensive, allowing Constantine the one and only opportunity to push back at the foe.
The knights were forced to retreat at their collective might… Or so Constantine thought, until a lance of truly biblical proportions evaporated the clouds above.
It was not from them that the Knights were retreating. It was this… calamity that they were running from.
As memories were flashing in his mind, a certain one came to the forefront.
A truly… unique woman approached him a day prior to the assault, trying to feed him a pleasantly smelling concoction, but he had better things to do and discuss… But they had a chat and the Servant (and the woman was one) offered to add some protections to the City. The arial type.
The last emperor was fond of the idea and the woman was given all the necessary resources to make her vision come true, enforcing the already daunting defenses and tying them together.
It just so happened, that in the moment he most needed, this seemingly uneventful discussion made the decisive difference in the survival of many people.
And as the barrier, held up by both the legend of his own phantasm and the holy grail… it withstood the onslaught of light.
Oh, the moment that happened, he had set himself to confess to the magus his most tender and genuine of thanks.
But that would have to come later. For now he had this red haired swordsman to appease and then, surely, his thanks could be delivered.
*****
A pair of people walked through the crowd parting before them.
And not because of their infamy, no. They were the two most respected people of Constantinople - the Emperor Constantine and his Court Magician Circe.
The Magus wore a light, white tunic, however, most would only see the wings that covered her upper body, and the golden tiara that adorned her head.
She stepped lightly, not betraying the urgency or the seriousness of the task that had befallen her and her… piglet-in-the-making.
Almost instinctively, she itched ever closer to Constantine - a man, she had found to hold not only warmth towards her, but also… genuine affection.
Despite her attempts to turn him into a pig, which he masterfully (and perhaps, unknowingly) avoided. That plan wasn't off the table yet, but if all was well, it would get shelved and then…
The voice of the emperor managed to pierce through her daydreams.
"Circe," it was filled with care, "We are almost there, are you ready?"
Was she ready?
Her eyes looked up at the monumental building of Hagia Sofia - the biggest church of the city - Orthodox turned Catholic.
Although right now - none of it mattered.
"Yes-yes, I'm quite ready, let's go, let's go!" she added energy to her speech, stepping forward, but not too forward, making the owner of the city make way.
However as they entered… Something unlike what she had ever felt filled the Cathedral.
Divine in nature, she couldn't point to the exact origin of said divinity.
But it was so overwhelmingly oppressive, that it felt like a thousand spears were pointed at her at the same time, along with twice as many scrutinizing eyes…
Except, the entire thing was empty, but for one thing, hovering at the furthest corner of the room.
Constantine too tensed, but said tension left him just as soon, as his eyes perceived… that.
Their gait steady, but almost silent, the two made their way to the middle of the room.
And Constantine stood in full attention, openly staring at a Skull, floating above the altar, its head wearing the crown of thorns, a crest attached to the… Abnormality.
Suddenly, an urge, almost instinctual, that Constantine did not dare resist overtook him and he kneeled.
Circe looked at him, confused, her head tilting sideways.
She felt no such urge.
"My name is Constantine, a faithful servant to the Lord," he introduced himself and the Skull… nodded.
Constantine's eyes widened.
"I see," he replied to the speech she could not hear. "What is your purpose here?" he asked humbly.
Another second, and the jaw of the skull opened, ever so slightly.
The entire situation was starting to unnerve her, but her divine senses were whispering of an ever-present danger. But it was not the kind that screamed trouble. It felt more like a knife of a trained assassin being put to your throat.
Very tangible, but avoidable.
Another unspoken conversation passed and Constantine nodded, standing up. His head turned to Circe.
"Circe, can you do it so that no one can hear what another person speaks of, while in this Cathedral?"
The question puzzled her, but she could do that.
"I could, but why…" she couldn't continue, Constantine turning around.
She rushed to follow. Circe examined his features, recognizing the work of thought, a silent and heavy pondering.
But he replied simply.
"It wants a confessional."
The walk back was made in total silence.
*****
He trod on through the City's streets.
It rained.
The platter of the rain, soft and gentle, was left unheard by him. Because, at the back of his mind, a string of numbers. Never stopping. Not even for a second were being counted.
'17719 518…'
And it went on and on and on.
The numbers. The prescript said to count them. Now, he was no longer certain why he should be counting.
After all, he had long since forgotten what the prescript was supposed to lead into. What reward awaited him at the end of this arduous, neverending line of meaningless numbers.
But the prescript never said to stop. So he won't.
And he kept doing it. Stumbling and starting to count it all over again.
And the feeling of longing, for when these digits end? It was nowhere to be found.
His reflection glided through the murky waters of the gutter. Fighting through the foggy sky, the stars, ever bright, could not break through the light pollution.
Not that he would look at them. He had no need to look at the sky anymore. The sky and the gutter were no different, after all. Murky. Muddy. Bloody.
He passed the street. Not caring if he was even going in the right direction. He knew that he was. The City's will guided him. So he could never go wrong.
At last - a building. Decrepit, barely standing. A broken telepole with a capital letter G sprayed on the very bottom told him all he needed to know.
This was the place.
Carefully stepping only on the tiles on the right side of the pavement, he knocked twice on the nameplate, hanging on the door.
No one answered. As it should have happened.
He opened the door, ducking a little and going like that till the kitchen to the left, where one of his hands, with its iron grip, broke the fridge. In there was meat. Human meat, maybe?
It did not matter. Only the smear of it was left on his hand anyway. And the trickle of blood, traveling through the wooden planks.
A small vibration traveled to him through the floor. A sound, a barely perceptible click resounded through the empty house.
Something opened underneath the stairs to the second floor.
He went there, not forgetting to loudly stomp his feet on the rightmost plank of wood in the hallway.
A stairway down was revealed for him to follow. He did that without a second thought. All was going as it should.
A flight of stairs. Another. Then, ten repetitions later, a door - open, with the control panel flickering on and off.
Though it was pitch black, he could see quite well how small droplets of red liquid dropped onto the wires hanging just below the ceiling.
In his mind, he keep counting.
'56433 4129…'
After being short-circuited, the door opened by itself.
It was a branch of Lobotomy corporation, and the logo on the wall was there to attest to that idea.
He cares little for it, though, stepping further and further into the dark recesses of previous L. Corp.
Attracted by the scent of meat and roused from their semi-sleep by the noise up above, creatures appeared, running out of the door to the right.
They were dealt with, swiftly. His hands now bearing the remains of not just human meat, but abnormalities too.
The door, opened by them, also just happened to be the one place he needed.
Stepping in, he found himself in the room. Spacious but not quite. Dark and stinky, the dark slime crept up the walls.
This was "the well" he was led to.
What was left to do is simple.
A small piece of paper fell out of his hand as he purposely strode to the pool of black.
"Step into the Well" it read.
And so, Yan, or what was once Yan, did just that.
And as the liquid boiled and stretched and slowly ate him whole, he kept counting.
'34660 61666 98042 18267 72456 053… Ah, I stumbled. I'll have to count again from the start.' was the last thought that went through his mind as the black goo left no trace of him in the world.
He was set to appear in the other place, however. In another time. With another prescript to fulfill and a purpose, so much larger than him to undertake.
*****
"Uwaaaah," a woman clad in a brown cloak yawned and stretched as she trekked through treacherous mountains.
The warm winds howled through the rocky valleys, threatening to throw the hood off her head.
All while making no noise at all.
Her gloved hand hastily pulled it back down.
Though, this whole thing was a drag and a half, to be honest. Wearing all black with a brown cloak was turning out to be surprisingly stuffy. They were being too overly cautious in her opinion but what could she do? Once that Old Geezer took notice of her he made it a point to pressure her into all sorts of things. Training with other Hassans to make her 'realize thy potential' or whatnot, defending the villages (not that she minded much - she had nothing better to do anyway), going out on missions and all that jazz.
Maybe if those negotiations with that Byzantine city didn't fall through things might have been different. But oh well, running around it was.
"Haaa, what I'd give for a bed right about now…" she said as the sun was starting to hide behind the mountaintops. "Oh well, maybe they have some hay I can lay down on in that village? Would be nice." She had never slept on hay before appearing in this time period. Couldn't find much of that in the City and she was the Backstreets kind of girl.
'Hm, village life sounds nice, now that I think about it. Maybe we really should've picked somewhere else to live… I'm sure hubby would've loved it,' her gait grew a slight bit heavier as thoughts, bleak and uninvited, reflected on her face in a slight frown.
"Meh, whatever. What's done is done," she shrugged the negative away and walked on, speeding up just a little to arrive at her destination before the biting cold winds came for her.
A servant's body can take many things, but cold… she didn't like the cold. It reminded her of those cold chambers so much.
She shook her head. No thoughts, more actions. Just like how hubby would've done.
The setting sun took one last look at her retreating back and settled down beneath the rocky horizon.
*****
He walked in silence. Alone, to a destination he had heard only in passing about.
Yet, he still needed to reach it.
His cape flattered with the violent dust filled gusts. It caused no discomfort to him. The small grains fell into his shoes, but were trivial to him as well.
It could be said, even, that his body was of very little interest to him. But his mind. It blazed with thoughts. Ideas. Plans. Schemes.
And a voice.
Only as a barely perceptible echo, but he could hear her, whispering the same plan he had heard so long ago.
She whispered of tragedy that had befallen humanity. Of a catastrophe that wiped it from the face of Earth.
And now he was in a place so alien to him. With no support or followers. Yet a goal remained. His guiding light was still there to lead him through the trying mission. To avert the destruction of humanity and remake it anew. Unbound by flesh, free in spirit. Honest with themselves and their desires.
Yes, that was the world he wanted to create. And now that another chance had fallen into his lap…
He had no reason to refuse it.
"Let us remake the world, Miss Carmen," he smiled, his silky voice reverberating through the endless sands.
A new city awaited him. New people to take control over, new plots to orchestrate.
Ah, the feeling of the unknown. A new challenge. It was quite welcome, actually.
He trudged closer to Constantinople. People there did not know it, but their destruction was set in stone. And it would not be by the lance of golden light or by invasion from mighty knights.
But by a poisonous dagger and a song.