CATHARSIS is a non-canon OC fate/series site, loosely based off of fate/apocrypha. Knowledge of the fate/series canon is helpful, but knowledge of fate/apocrypha isn't needed!
Post by Hector of Troy on Jul 30, 2014 2:27:45 GMT
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He knew that he had sputtered his last in the dirt, drowning on his own blood and choking on the spear of Achilles, though his awareness after the fact was lacking. Thousands of years passed in a single breath, a sudden blink in the dark as the ages rushed past, the sands of time flowing without pause even for those who had been hailed as heroes in life.
The first call brought him back, whispering words that tugged and pulled him towards what he could only assume to be his purpose. The Grail filled his mind with knowledge of the ages he had not lived to see, and Hector began to feel his body again. But the connection was severed in an instant, the voice going silent and the force of the binding phrases gone. Once again, infinity stretched.
Hector did not have time to wonder at this anomaly before a second voice roused him, dragging him towards light and physicality once more. All at once, the world came into focus and he found himself attached to a living body once again, the vessel called “Rider.” The stolen armor of Achilles resounded with a metallic clank as he shifted the grip on his spear, taking in the scene he was summoned to. The air was alive with magical energy, prana that fed him and steadily solidified his corporeal form.
Something was wrong, that much he could feel. The stench of death was not easily mistaken, not when he had spent years stomping through battlefields. His eyes darted to the corpse at the edge of the magic circle, then back to his summoner. In a voice that had not been heard in the world for centuries, he spoke in the formalities expected.
Post by Altai-Erdene Nergülgiin on Aug 2, 2014 14:35:02 GMT
Days from now, Altai wouldn't be able to recall the summoning in any detail, neither the parts before nor during. He'll remember the sound of his brother's body falling to the ground. He'll remember a voice, high and breaking (his own or his mother's, he'll never know for sure), and then silence.
He used the spoke of an ancient wheel as catalyst, preserved for so long that it seemed like it was made more of stone than wood. His brother's body lied covered by a white cloth behind him, a grim reminder of what Altai might become. He remembered the incantation, but he stumbled over it, pausing when the pain through his magic circuits became too much and repeating a line when his nerves garbled the words.
Let silver and steel be the essence. Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation. Let red be the color I pay tribute to. Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall. Let the four cardinal gates close. Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate.
Let it be filled. Again. Again. Again. Again. Let it be filled fivefold for every turn. Let it simply break asunder once filled.
I declare now-- Your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword. In accordance to the arrival of the Holy Grail, If you would submit to this will, this reason, this truth, then answer.
This is my oath-- I shall attain all virtues of Heaven; I shall hold dominion over all evils of Hell.
You, from the seventh heaven, clad in the three words of power, come forth of restraint, protector of the holy balance!
He'd heard before that fear was paralyzing. Altai supposed this wasn't true, at least not for him. It was harder to find the will to stay through the ritual than it was to run away forever.
The man before him was a hero, Altai was sure of it. He would probably die due to some human error on Altai's part throughout the course of this war. Altai couldn't be sure of that, but it was by far the most likely outcome.
Altai started to say no, let someone else shoulder that burden, find some other master willing to battle to the death over some silly wish--but the Holy Grail had chosen appropriately, it seemed, even if Altai couldn't fathom why it had chosen him. "I am," he said. "Who are you?"
Then he shrugged, because it didn't matter. Nothing in this war mattered--yet somehow, it made him furious all while not mattering at all. As if it were just an aside, Altai said, "You're going to die miserably."
He should've put a probably in there if he wanted to be perfectly accurate, but he was certain enough of it that Altai considered the words prophecy.
Hector nodded at his Master’s confirmation. Everyone else in the room remained irrelevant; he answered the question addressing only the magus before him.
“In life, I was Hector, Prince of Troy, and now in death, I am the Rider of Black. My spear is yours to command.” And with those words, he planted the weapon tip-deep into the floor with ease, bowing his head as a show of courtesy. “Now will you tell me the name of the Master I fight for?” He rose again to his full height, analyzing the magus before him with a practiced eye. Perhaps looks could be deceiving, but his Master looked no more than a boy. If his Master’s prana had not been feeding his material existence at that very moment, he might not have believed the boy was a magus at all. And then his words.
Hector blinked slowly, contemplating the blunt statement with obvious surprise. It was unthinkable to concede to death while still alive, while he was still able to fight, and lived without a certain fate to die. He wrote off the boy’s pessimism as initial fear, which was normal for those not versed in the art of war. Hector did not want to consider the alternative: that his master was without hope for victory. The boy had managed to summon the Hector of Troy after all, and that was certainly not a feat to be taken lightly.
“There is not a chance in Hades that I will die more miserably here than I did the first time,” he assured, expression fierce. “Though I would prefer not to repeat the experience for some time, at least.”
It was hard not to glance at the dead body as he said it. Curiosity nagged his thoughts, and Hector decided that he might as well ask instead of simply drawing conclusions from his initial, failed summoning. He looked from the body back to his Master pointedly, the question in his eyes before it reached his lips. “Before I explain more about myself, I would like to know the significance of the corpse. If I am not too bold to ask.”
Post by Altai-Erdene Nergülgiin on Aug 4, 2014 16:11:09 GMT
He should introduce himself. He could nod or bow or do something, anything, to indicate some amount of respect for the servant that was clearly ready to serve, who was about twice his size and could probably cut him down with ease. He should've been scared or awed--he was scared earlier, but that had somehow faded away. The time for fear was when he could still turn back. Now, he couldn't even begin to fathom why he'd gone forward.
This was stupid. This was downright comedic, or it would be, if he weren't the one shrinkwrapped in certain doom.
Altai didn't see why his name mattered. "You'll have better luck fighting for yourself."
He had read the Iliad. It had never been assigned for school, but when his brother had received his catalyst, Altai had found an old copy of the book at the library and read it front to back. Altai knew who Hector was. He also knew who Hector wasn't. More importantly, he knew how Hector died.
He laughed, but it was a sound without mirth. It sounded like someone who already knew they wouldn't have the last laugh. "Not a chance? Did you ever think you would die that miserably while you were alive?" Altai asked, with venom.
"The catalyst might've summoned Achilles. Instead, I summoned you, the hero that's most famous for being dead." If he were a coarser person, he would've spat. He wasn't, so Altai settled for a scowl, which was barely more of a pout on his young face. "How poetic."
He was quiet when it came to his brother, his expression going soft--lost, mournful and a little wounded.
"My brother, Batu-Erdene, son of Nergül, the heir." Except dead men weren't heirs. Altai was the only heir to the family crests now. "The summoning killed him. His crests passed down to me."
Post by Hector of Troy on Aug 8, 2014 15:42:55 GMT
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The more his Master spoke, the more Hector’s high hopes faded. The boy was disagreeable at best, purely offensive at worst. Still, he kept a cool head and manners befitting a prince of Troy.
“If I fall here, my city will not follow me to dust. Now is different, as I fight for the ghost of a chance that I will right the wrongs I left for my family. It is impossible for the misery of my life to follow me here.” Regardless of who else would be summoned, Hector would not be fighting with the lives of his family and comrades on the line. Comparatively, the stakes of the Grail War were a lot less risky, and he was not concerned. Half the bitterness of his death had been leaving his family and city vulnerable.
The name of Achilles reopened stinging wounds better left sealed, and Hector could not keep the edge out of his voice. “You are disappointed then? Frustrated that you did not manage to summon that sniveling, prideful bastard? If you wanted Achilles, you might have tried a different catalyst, as his chariot is forever bound to me.”
Hector sighed, expelling his anger with his breath. It would do him no good to get angry at his Master for wanting to summon the most famous hero from the Trojan War. The only thing he could do now was try to ease the boy’s worries. “It does not matter what I am known for, you do not have to doubt my ability to win the Grail. Do not forget that I killed thousands of heroes before my demise, Master.”
Silence followed the revelation of Batu’s death. It made sense; part of Hector had known the truth even before his Master’s confirmation. That still did not make it any better. At that point, Hector suspended all previous judgments he had made of his Master’s character. The boy’s brother had just died, and Hector was convinced that Altai blamed him, which made his hostile attitude a lot easier to forgive. The Spirit’s expression softened slightly, and his voice was encouraging. “Death cannot be reversed. This is your opportunity, then, to fight and bring honor to your family and your brother’s memory. You will prove yourself a worthy heir if you do this.”
Post by Altai-Erdene Nergülgiin on Aug 9, 2014 5:53:47 GMT
He listened, although it was a wonder that he did. Hector could've saved his breath.
"Disappointed? Naturally. Frustrated? Of course." Achilles' chariot was nevertheless Achilles' chariot; the servant best suited to the master would answer the ritual. That had been explained more to Batu than it had been to Altai, and the family had understood that either result would be perfectly satisfactory.
Yet, somehow, it felt like he'd fallen dramatically short. Disappointed with whom, frustrated at whom--neither emotion could be rightfully directed at Hector. It was easier that way though. "No misery for you if you drop dead, sure. I'm the one that gets to die after you this time, which will be fan-fucking-tastic. I can't imagine wanting to do something else with my life other than following a guy thousands of years dead to the grave."
Nor was it Hector's ability that he doubted. Only one between the two of them was likely to fall short in that regard. "How the hell does it matter how many heroes you killed if you lost the only war that mattered?"
He let the silence linger, and Altai turned to leave, not for the sake of finding time to cool down or to put an end to a conversation that was clearly not going well. He just had little interest in conversation with a servant he didn't much like about a war that he deserved no part of. Nevertheless, he paused when Hector spoke again, and he knew the servant's words were good and true.
"I don't want to be a worthy heir," he snapped, as if correcting a simple error. Altai glanced back over his shoulder but briefly, not at Hector but at his brother. For all the power that the Grail had, reversing death should be a simple task. "I want him to be a worthy heir."
Post by Hector of Troy on Aug 22, 2014 4:26:39 GMT
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Quite frankly, Hector had never before dealt with such animosity from a person that was supposed to be on his side. And obviously, his words were not helping the situation. No matter what he said, he knew that he would not change Altai’s opinion here. Rider took the criticism silently, his jaw set, his iron gaze never wavering.
In his past life, he might have taken offense to someone walking away in the middle of a conversation. But his sympathies remained, in spite of the hostility, in spite of the bitterness. Even when the boy tried to move away, he followed like a hulking, armor-clad shadow. Hector was honor-bound to serve his summoner, and he felt as though he had something to prove, and something to atone for.
Choosing his words carefully, Hector spoke again in a firm voice.“Master, it is as you said. I lost my war and my life,” Rider grit his teeth in between his words; he did not need Altai to remind him of his own shortcomings. Still, reassurances were in order. “I will not lose here. The Grail will be yours, and I will send anyone who gets in your way to Hades.”
The boy’s wish, perhaps he could understand, though he questioned the motivation behind it. Could he really not handle being the heir to his family? Or did he truly love his brother? Hector could not tell either way. At least they had similar wishes. “We both intend cheat Thanatos of the souls robbed from this world, then. Let us hope that the power of the Grail is enough,” Hector mused. “In the meantime, you must prove to be a strong enough heir to win your wish. If you are to reap the reward, you must take on a great deal of hardship.”
