The Lion Without Pride

...

"Go!"

Heracles's booming voice echoed across the empty plains, inspiring fear even when the words were meant to bring comfort. Geryon's heart rattled, his mind threatened to tear apart, but was brought back together by the flick of Caster's wrist.

Saber dashed in a blur of white light, barely escaping the vines that had appeared to entrap him, his wings and feet both moving as fast as they could go while his mana propelled him even further, his speed bringing him off the ground in a take-off as another arrow collided into the place where he had just been standing.

He sped off towards the city, a flurry of dark-fire-ravens chasing after him, leaving the demigod half-brothers alone, Heracles drunk on poison and bound with vines, and Dionysus finally touching the ground to look his victim in the eye.

"Fufufu... My, oh my, how the mighty have fallen, brother."

Heracles spat on the ground, "I knew you hated me, but I never expected you to be so petty."

"There's nothing pettier than a god. I thought of all people you would understand that."

"What did I do then? What small slight merits such hatred as this?"

"Ha! Unfortunately I was already a god when we met, so if you ever pissed me off, I wouldn't even remember. No-" He gripped the Adonis by his perfect chin, "I hate you because they love you. You! Caenus! Ganymede! Psyche! I had to scrounge and scheme all my life, and even then only achieved godhood by a hair. But you- they- were handed it over on a silver platter!"

He struggled to breathe, "If you think my path was easy... I'm afraid you're sorely mistaken. I was everyone's enemy. Monsters, the gods, and my fellow men-"

He struck the mighty hero across the face with his staff- his thyrsus- but it made no clear impact, "What 'fellow men'!? You were a monster yourself! To be human is to be weak, to be a victim to the movements of the world! You complain of mere creatures, but I, from my very conception, was at odds with the whole universe!"

He took a deep breath, and composed himself with a wicked grin, "Tell me, have you ever considered what it was like to be truly human? To be weak? To kneel before the mercy of the gods?"

Heracles went to respond, but all that came from his throat was a pained gasp.

"You're about to find out."

There in his chest, piercing his heart, was a blade which held its own wielder by the hand with a slate hilt that was neither stone nor metal. Its edge was made of bone, with the flat made from a spine, and one could make out red and violet veins etched into it, pulsing with horror. Caster- Dionysus- twisted the blade with a malicious satisfaction, watching with glee as the greatest hero his homeland had ever known squirmed and gasped under his thumb- under a weapon made by a mage- a mere human.

The hide of the Nemean Lion could expel the attacks of any weapon made by man, so how could this simple shortsword pierce his iron skin? It didn't. Like oil poured into water, the spiritrons, the energy, that made up the poor Servant's body were displaced and pushed aside, forming a hole where his heart should've been. A Servant's body was information. Disrupting the flow of information was fatal, especially where the heart and the head, the energy's core and processor, were concerned.

This hero had half-a-dozen skills, not including his Noble Phantasm, that he could employ to survive fatal wounds. Each of them, of their own accord, responded to his pain and the hole in his core, rushing to restore him, to heal him, but none could. The blade remained in his chest, unable to be touched by any of his defenses. The mighty Heracles- the monstrous Berserker- was trapped in a state between life and death; his heart cleaved in two, and his many heroic exploits keeping him alive regardless. He grit his teeth. More than the pain of the wound in his chest was the adrenaline running through his body, the Monstrous Strength, the Battle Continuation, the Valor, all of them running through his muscles, searing his skin and blood with such intensity that his veins bulged through even his seemingly immovable, metallic skin, and steam- real steam- rose from his body as his sweat evaporated through his pores. He felt that he had the strength of a hundred-thousand men, of a true monster, a true god, enough to smite the one in front of him like an ant, and yet he couldn't, even as the vines which bound him threatened to snap. This strength was not being drawn out of him by his own will, it was his body's natural response, and he couldn't control it. Whether it was the divine wine, designed to bring even the great and mighty king of the gods into an impossible stupor, or the disruption of his own spiritrons, it took everything he had just to hold himself together; to keep his whole existence from self-destruction either by burning in a flash of what was left of his mana, or by physically tearing his sinews apart from his bone. 

A roar, a great and mighty roar, built in his stomach. He knew that the moment he released it, he would die, but what was left of the rationality in his mind told him that was for the best. Maybe- just maybe- he could manage a final act of vengeance before he tore himself apart. He opened his mouth, allowing the shout to rise up his throat-

"The great god Pan is dead."

What was supposed to be a great release turned into a gasp of relief, the force building in his body suddenly beginning to drain, as if the dam had been released. That power left his body and pooled at his feet, then flew up to surround its new host. The moment the ecstasy passed, he recognized the intensity of the mana around him:

A Noble Phantasm was being released.

Violet light glowed from deep within Dionysus's eyes, rising like purple flame to scorch his hair and horns, a similar light glowed from the wound in Heracles's chest. That was when the chanting began:

"Phlegmoui mo tosuch, magtoc tron'sigtua hro laadrotyg myrgolfa-"

It was a language known by no man who had ever lived. Words alien to all intelligent life, to all the gods, to all the demons, to all the universe. If they had ever been spoken before, they had never been understood. It was as if they were leaking in to our reality from an impossible elsewhere, dripping from his lips like the formless nightmares of a child in the womb: unknown and unknowable; the purely corrupt excess of a mind who knows nothing of the world around him, and who is unknown in return.

"Klorgustu mo yr'twn, groultun strat'ugeum hro mac drolsyr myrgolfa-"

Violet flame coursed out from the hero's wound, circling the blade and swirling around Dionysus, the flares scorching his skin black as he grew larger, and his presence more powerful. The once mighty hero shrank beneath him, his skin becoming paler, and his armored claws burning to cinders and falling away. As weakness washed over him, Heracles could feel plainly that it wasn't merely his 'power' being taken, but his Divinity. That which he had all his life, as well as that which he gained by virtue of being summoned as a Divine Spirit, was being drawn from his body. His connection to his father, his connection to thunder, to lightning, to the sky, his connection to himself and his heritage was being robbed. As if to salt the wound, his final declaration was given in a language they both understood-

"O Megálos Theós Eínai Nekrós!"

Like the end of a knotted rope, the final piece of divine power was yanked out of him, and Heracles slumped forward, unable to move, or even to think. Over him, Dionysus returned the sword to the pocket dimension that he had drawn it from and raised his thyrsus, cackling maniacally, letting the newfound strength within him draw him into a high like no other.

"HAHAHAHA! YES! YES! I feel it! The power!"

He looked like a demon out of hell. His goat-like horns, which had before ended about a centimeter from his forehead, now curled into a full U-shape, pointed up towards the sky and adding over a foot to his height. His skin was obsidian black, like the hero's had been, and from his electric gold eyes came equally luminescent etchings into his skin like vines or lightning bolts that crossed his body like broken porcelain. His legs were a similar hue, but totally transformed, bending backwards at the knees and ending in hooves; his leopard-skin skirt remained. From his backside came a tangled web of long tails, somewhere between a cat's and an ox's, that ended in bristles like the leaves of an ivy vine.

At his feet, the once-monstrous titan was reduced to a mere man. With the sword removed, the skills he had, the remnants of his human endeavors, did revive him, but he was unable to move or struggle, his olive skin flush with the effort he had given just a moment ago, his long, raven hair, once like metal wire, fallen limply over his face like veil of mourning.

As Caster's elation fell, so too did his gaze fall to the pathetic state of the once-godlike hero.

"And look at you. To see the great Heracles brought low, it almost makes me feel guilty," He smiled devilishly with a row of sharp teeth, "The Grail's granted TWO of my wishes."

The weakened hero lifted his chin to face his tormentor, but the demon raised his staff and struck him across the cheek. The jagged edge of the pinecone-shaped head scratched into his face, and a streak of crimson blood littered the ground as a purple welt disfigured his perfect jaw.

Caster seized him by the hair, raising his face to be clearly seen, unobscured by the veil that had fallen over it. Seeing the defaced Adonis, his smile grew from one ear to the other, and he held the point of his thyrsus against the hero's bare chest.

"It's been fun, brother. Any last words before I send you to dear old uncle Hades?"

Caster waited. He watched the weakness dance in the hero's eyes. His fatigue and his confidence, his mind and his weariness fought desperately, struggling to allow him the dignity of a final rebellion: words that would live beyond him and torment his tormentor for the rest of his days. It took everything he had to move his lips, his tongue and his throat, even more so to move them in tandem, to transform them into the vessels of his final will. But he would. He found his voice and, pushing through his dying body and fading mind, he opened his mouth to speak-

The points of the thyrsus shot forward in a blur of black and violet, forming into metal stakes that pierced his heart so completely that his chest was more iron than blood. The words in his throat turned to gore and were vomited onto the ground in front of him; splashes of red staining Caster's arms and legs.

"Fooled you twice, brother. As if I would actually care about what you had to say. You really ought to be more clever than that."

Malicious joy shone like spotlights from Caster's wide eyes, the glee of seeing one dream come true and another destroyed before his eyes. Killing the beloved son of Zeus. Forcing his submission, and humiliating him utterly even to his final moments. The points of his staff retracted with the sound of metal scraping metal and he took a single step back, allowing the vines which bound the dead hero to come loose and drop the desecrated corpse face-first at his feet.

Heracles's Noble Phantasm, Twelve Labors, went to revive him another time, but it was too late. With his mind scattered amongst pain and drunkenness, his body forced to undergo inconceivable stress, and all without a drop of mana from his dead Master, he lacked the energy to restore his Spirit Origin, and there, on the ground, with his face and his shame buried in the scorched earth, he dissolved into blue mana.

Through the war, he had died four times. First to Rider's Gae Assail, empowered by his own lightning, which would have killed him again if his Noble Phantasm hadn't immunized him to the attack. Second to Archer's Noble Phantasm, which burned him with the heat of ten suns before freezing him in the coldest depths of space. If not for his immunity after the first death, this attack would have killed him repeatedly, shaving through all eleven of his remaining revivals. He was pierced through the heart by Caster with the sword of his Master, the anti-Spirit weapon "Deathgrip", then once more, for a final time, by his staff. With the fourth death, despite his nine lives remaining, the mighty Berserker, the great hero Heracles, the monster, the god, the Divine Spirit who had haunted this war from its inception, was reduced to a mere man, and withered away like so much dust in the wind.

Pride rose in Caster's chest. He had gone to such lengths to keep Archer and Rider from killing one another, to move all the war's players into this singular moment, when he would seize the power and Divinity of Heracles, who himself had held more Divinity than all the other Servants put together; offering him and everyone else as a sacrifice to himself as the singular god of the new world.

With Archer already under his control, only two pests remained. And yet, thanks to the foolish genius of Yanni Iole, who created the perfect conditions to summon what could be rightly considered a god, "pests" were all they were. In his hands, the Divinity of himself, Archer, and Berserker had already been collected. Combined with the Divinities of Rider and Assassin, held post-mortem by the Grail, the Ichor Chalice, that cup would overflow, and pour all its contents into him. All that was left to do was to collect his prize.

Behind him, a shadow like an ink blot on the surface of the world fell from the sky and onto his knees.

"Caster. Saber and his Master escaped into the city. Should I pursue them?"

His once-maniacal grin faded into a shallow smile of whole-hearted contentment, "No. Don't bother. We will draw them like moths to a flame, to a place where we hold the high ground."

"You mean-"

"Yes, Lord Archer. The war is won. The remaining Servants may either contest my victory and die, or surrender. Either way, the city is my domain: they can't expect to hide underneath my nose." His eyes flashed with a tangible glow, "In fact, I see them now, but as much as I would like to enjoy their screams and anguish, we have work to do."

"Yes, about that-"

Caster turned around with a brief fear of disappointment, but found only the corpse of Xander Haq. Unfortunately, it was not the only toy of his that had been broken by the war. Fortunately, it was easily replaced.

"Oh. Your Master. A shame, sure, but nothing significant."

He walked over to the mercenary's body, the blood flow now staunched, but not before caking most of his skin and clothing. Even the gold of his wedding ring was tarnished, and no one had yet had the decency to close his eyes.

Caster was no exception.

He lifted the dead man's arm, not yet stiff with rigor mortis, and placed a thumb on the bracelet-like tattoos on his wrist. They dissolved, as if being washed away and, somewhere, in some way, Archer felt a new tether attach itself to him, a new lifeline, and yet somehow the same.

"There we are. His remaining companion has now taken responsibility for you in his stead. Now, no more waiting."

He set off towards the city, but found that Archer was not following.

He spoke without turning around, "Archer. What are you thinking?"

"When you win, you promised to bring her back, didn't you? You'll keep your word?"

"Of course. Why do you doubt me now, when we're so close to victory?"

"Because that man had the same dream as me, and yet, you toss him away like he's nothing. My dream is not nothing- it's everything to me! If you can't respect that, if you can't answer that prayer, then I have no reason to take even a single step forward."

"He may be dead, but his dream is not."

"A dream dies when the dreamer does."

"No, a dream dies when it's forgotten."

"A dead man does not remember."

"But you do."

Caster looked at Archer with a sincere glow, contrary to the cruelty he'd shown his half-brother before, "Would you like to see the world I plan to create? The world I showed him? The one he gave his life for?"

"That's why I gave my loyalty to you."

"Then let me show you."

Caster reached out a hand. Archer eyed it suspiciously. Words of caution echoed in his mind, but rammed against the immovable wall of his desire. His desire to see his wife again. His desire to be vindicated. And finally, more than anything, the desire to avoid making all his sacrifices to this point be in vain. He had already sacrificed his own strength to Caster, and, with the power of Berserker surging within him, his only hope of victory was in the 'new god' before him.

He took the hand.

Behind Caster, the moon shimmered with a newfound light, and from it, he saw with his own eyes, for the first time in eternity, the face of his wife. Her pale skin which glowed like a star, her dark hair which poured out like the night. Skin as smooth as the heavens, and a bosom as full as the bodies which inhabited it, reaching out to embrace him. In shock, he let go of the hand and found that the visage had slipped away. And though it faded away, just like the violet hue that had inhabited his eyes for that moment, he was filled with an unshakable conviction that what he saw was real. As real as anything else.

"Do you see now? A world without death. A world where dreams come true. And not just yours either, friend. If your wish is for another's to be granted, then that too will be made manifest. See, this is why I don't mourn him. So long as you remember him, and his wish, all that was lost will be found- and soon."

Archer found his dignity and seized himself, ending his shaking, bringing focus to his gaze and dropping to a knee once more.

"Lord Dionysus. So long as you continue to pledge my dream to me, I pledge my loyalty to you. Undying. Unwavering. The faith I keep for my wife, I will keep for you, until the day you return her to me."

The corners of his smile creeped along his cheeks, "Very good, Archer, although I must correct you on one thing."

"As you wish."

"From henceforth, Dionysus, even the Servant 'Caster', is no more. The man who stands before you is none other than Bromios, the Thunderer. Remember that, and spread my name wherever you go."

"As you wish."

"Now, stand. The end is near. Let us begin the curtain call."

Archer did as he was told, and together, the two set off towards Athens, set towards the Acropolis.

...