Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Where the soul and heart beats, where the epicenter of human thought and spirit lies, there will be a slumbering grail.

It is not endemic to any one world, it is something that comes when it's called, when humanity gets too bold with its desires, when the heart and mind of the masses sway in unison to the beat of one particular drum. Humanity takes many shapes and forms, and the cross of worlds connected to the Root does not hold bias for who gets its heroes when the Grail is called forth.

Seven servants and a holy grail.

And a set of Principles that knows it can be unmade if the willful seize it.

It’s best to keep wishes out of the hands of man; lest he wish for something that goes against order, against punishment, against the will of the divine.

And so gods fear nothing but that which puts humans above them.

And so, gods fear the grail, that which holds the blood of their kin and the power beyond gods.

And so, the gods will mobilize their soldiers to see it destroyed.

Mondstadt’s evening is as cool and soothing as it always is, as Venti controls the breeze that rolls through after a night of drinking and singing. It heals him, to feel the wind on his back when he feels just a tad sick from draining the stores of Angel Share’s wine stock. His tab has increased tenfold just tonight, it feels, and while he wanders back to the small apartment he calls home, he tries to think through the haze of alcohol.

He can instantly sober up, of course, but that’s defeating the point of alcohol altogether. He supposes he’ll try to, just a little, just to make it to his apartment without stumbling over the walkways. Usually, he’s quite proud of his ability to balance while drunk, but today, he really had a bit too much.

Ah, it’d be nice to drink with some old friends, but the only one around to share that kind of drink with is Morax, and Morax wouldn’t be any fun these days at all.

Eventually, his feet slow to a stop, and he wonders why.

… it’s as if he can’t move them. No, more accurately, it’s as if moving them will cause him great pain, and he’s hiding in the soothing spot of no motion at all. He lifts his hand to see teal, thorny veins crawling up his fingertips, as if someone has seized his nervous system and is coloring it with their influence.

His jaw sets.

He glances in a window nearby, seeking out his own reflection in the dark. The same veins crawl up his neck, seizing control of his jaw before they seep into his eyes, coloring the miniscule red lines there a verdant green, more prominent than ever.

He can’t move.

He can’t breathe.

He tries, to his credit. He tries taking one more step in the direction of his apartment, when he hears it .

That thing’s voice has always been nails on a chalkboard, making your fists clench and your teeth set on edge. Venti has been blessed not to hear it for five hundred years, though it speaks clearer than the bells of the church this time around. Venti knows he is not the only one privy to this speech, there are six other listeners, likely going through the same thing as him.

Find and destroy.

Find and destroy.

Find and destroy the grail and the servants it spits out from those bold enough to summon them.

A wave of information floods into his brain, prickling his head like a hand made of needles threading through his hair. He’s seeking a wish-granting object, hidden somewhere in an incorporeal form somewhere in Teyvat. He’ll get his mind and body back if he finds and gets rid of it— an order from above .

And really, nothing is stopping Venti from walking to his apartment and going to bed.

Nothing except the pain that will seize his nerves when he takes even one step that the Principles do not want him to take. The puppet is wrapped in string, a noose bound tightly around his neck if he makes one false move. And the worst part? His mind isn’t even completely bound by this request. He can still think. Even through the haze of alcohol, he can still feel the terror of control sinking into his veins. Completely aware, he steps behind a building in the vain hope it will eclipse sight of him from everyone when he frees his wings from his back and takes to the skies.

They have never done this before.

Never seized direct control of an archon through that which usually acts as just a means to commune. It’s unheard of, and Venti is terrified. To think they’ve always had this control, and it is only for this reason that they deign to use it.

What on earth is he supposed to even destroy? 

…

He hopes… he finds it soon. To free himself, if nothing else.

In the cold of the palace, her Majesty has written several letters.

It is completely against the will that controls her now, each letter scratched into parchment is another needle jammed into the heart or eye. But she must do it . This is a means to an end, even as the creeping ice blue veins start to obscure her vision in an effort to slow her down.

Unheard of.

She intended to use the Gnoses for an entirely different reason, and intended to seek them soon, but now they’ve assumed a new purpose. But she did know of one rumor, hidden within Teyvat’s lore, hidden deep in notes and frigid library books, footnotes in history that obscure the truth. The Holy Grail. A wish-granting device that has connections to any world where humans have evolved and settled. It can appear any time, any place, and so long as the wish made is clear and the one wishing can think of a method to complete it, that wish can be granted.

… it’s far easier than what she had planned.

… … but she will not be able to find it herself. She is going to play the role of the enemy, her senses arrested completely until she destroys the very thing she seeks.

As she finishes the final letter, her surroundings crackling with frigid cold as she sets her pen down, the one action to grant her relief since starting this self torture, she once again shoves the needles into her nerves by stacking the papers and offering them to a nearby, trusted individual.

“Deliver one to every Harbinger. Do not delay.”

If Venti found the act of walking to his apartment so painful, so terrorizing that he couldn’t take a single step, one couldn’t imagine the will and fortitude to write several letters that detail the process of summoning something in conjunction with the grail. Only her most trusted will get the reason for her absence, and as the person in front of her runs off to deliver the letters, the windows shatter behind her.

She stands up, finally caving to the feeling of self-soothing, even though it burns her soul to obey. They’ll require extra compulsion to make her comply. She knows it is only a matter of moments before her senses are arrested entirely.

“… do not… fail me. The high risk pays off with… a great reward… aah…”

She stands up, and steps through the shattered stained glass. Her mind is gone, and the guards who try to stop her are impaled upon ice.

Her only failing in this action was that the person she gave the letters to, one of her trusted couriers…

… was a spy, and not every letter will find its way into the hands of those she intended them for.

Though one will find its way first into the hands of Il Dottore, who will find it very fascinating indeed . He’s always been particular about new experiments, and the generosity of being given a new one for … work reasons is at least something to look into.

The summoning of a familiar with power beyond all reason, to seize a grail that can grant any wish… well, who wouldn’t want to see an experiment that exciting to the end? He should at least try the summoning process. See if this familiar can’t be persuaded to come out… she noted in her letter that the delusion he possesses will act in lieu of magic circuits— to make the process easier.

Magic circuits are already knowledge lost to time— the idea and art of doing magic without a vision or delusion is practically a fairytale in its own right. Nevertheless, he’ll take the letter’s word for it, thinking that if the mockery of one on his hip is capable of helping, he might as well put it to work.

The circle is drawn in short order, with the incantation in front of him. His letter, in particular, warns that it will draw a lot of energy from the air until the familiar in question is summoned… but that just makes the idea all the more captivating. The idea that something can chew on elemental energy to sustain its existence and power will at least be worth seeing once.

“Let silver and steel be the essence.”

He begins, and immediately, something is invoked within him. He feels the delusion on his belt reach inside of him, grab hold of his heart, and spread through his nervous system. He feels power course and devour through him… fascinating . He feels the eyes of a monster on him from nowhere in particular. He feels something staring at him from within the circle, ready for him to finish his words.

“Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.
Let gold 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.”

The feeling of his nervous system going up in flames only grows, as the circle drawn into the ground begins to emit eerie light. He understands now, that in the throes of a contract like this, if he stops or flinches, he’ll be killed. A predator stares at him, waiting to see if he’ll collar it or become its next meal.

“Let it be declared now;
your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword.
Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail.
Answer, if you would submit to this will and this truth.

An oath shall be sworn here.
I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven;
I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell.”

Fascinating… fascinating, fascinating! He feels something answering, something pull onto his soul and use it as the rope to climb out of whatever pit of Hell it came from. It’s so close, so near , almost corporeal when he moves onto the final phase of the summoning. He has to see it. He has to see this ancient, bizarre, intriguing ritual to the very end.

His delusion crackles with so much energy coursing through it, hot to the touch, that he almost feels it might crack with the surge of power. It holds steady in his palm, though, through the final phase of summoning. 

 

“From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power,
come forth from the ring of restraint, protector of the holy balance!“

It rises.

Many limbs, then four.

Many eyes, then two.

A long, winding body that morphs into a single person’s. It’s almost as if what he’s summoned must take her shape from an original form, though he can hardly see it through the glare of light that fills the room. It is… radiant, and terrifying. The power she commands feels bestial in nature, yet her form is as composed and elegant as any high-society woman. Yet he can tell, in the crackle of the air, that she could easily kill everyone in this room in the time it would take her to flutter her eyes.

Cascades of pink hair fall down her shoulders. A pink, fluffy tail at her back.

Golden eyes.

And a smile curved like a machete.

She is beautiful in the same way a steep cliff steals your breath away, or perhaps shares the same beauty as a fox whose maw is painted in the viscera of a rabbit. A pure and unrelenting example of why beautiful things often need to do nothing more than hold their jaws open for their prey to willingly fly into.

“… Aah, Master?” She asks, correctly directing her attention at Dottore. “… the mana in the air tastes different than normal… this must be a different kind of world, isn’t it? … Are the terms the same? … Am I to fight and kill for the Grail for you?”

“… We will get to that. First, though, I must ask— your name. The note said I would be expecting a Heroic Spirit, yet you do not resemble any heroes of the past— at least, that I am familiar with.”

“…” She chuckles with a sweet drawl.

“My name is… Koyanskaya. As head of the NFF, I’ll see to it that you have the artillery to turn your foes into nothing more than homes for bullets.”

He feels as though he has drawn a winning card here. The power commanded at his fingertips feels expansive, impressive, unending. But he needs to test her mettle and her ability to follow orders.

“Follow me.” He’ll direct his attention to a few assistants. “Clean up the mess.”

As the circle is dealt with, she’ll follow him out of the room, pink heels clicking against the tile floor.

“Let me clear some things up for you…”

He’ll tell her what has happened, then— that the leader and god of their nation, the Tsaritsa, vanished a few days prior and left behind only instructions for summoning something called a servant and finding something called a Holy Grail, with… details that are currently classified. It likely dawns on Koyanskaya that this is not even an offshoot of Earth, but something entirely new. How curious…

But interesting.

He’ll arrange for transport, and he tells her he wants to test her capabilities. If she really is as powerful of a familiar as he was told, and of course, he’ll want to run tests to see if he can get important data from her.

“Ah? How would you test me? … It’s a little insulting to be doubted so quickly.”

“As far as I’m aware, this is the first of its kind of ‘war’ on our soil. I merely wish to test your strength and see if you are as indeed capable as I was promised. It wouldn’t do to be caught unprepared if an enemy gets hold of the information to summon a servant as well.”

She hums… glancing out the window as they’re brought to a village south of Zapolyarny Palace.

“And what would you have me do here?”

“Show me your abilities. Burn this town to its foundation.”

“Oh…?” Her voice is curious, intrigued. “Are you not tasked with protecting the people of this nation?”

“We have reason to believe a resistance base is heavily integrated within this town. Getting rid of as many pests as we can is part of my job description. Show me what you can do.”

The carriage door for her is opened, and she clicks her tongue as she steps out, drawing the attention of onlookers going about their day through this town, completely materialized rather than hiding her appearance… she could just use her Noble Phantasm here. Gun the whole place down and set flame to the remains. And while that would be fun, it wouldn’t prove her competence. Any servant can lay waste to a town.

A good servant does so without lifting a finger.

And so, she’ll begin.

It starts with a cough.

A few people in the town drop dead, others get dragged to bed. No one is sure how contagious the illness is, so they hide in fear from their dying. Town halls are called, council meetings are had. They need to send for someone from the Capital, surely someone knows why this plague is tearing through their town so quickly . It has only been a day and a half, and the whole town is in an uproar. They’ve been quarantined, forbidden to leave under the order of a Harbinger. Everyone within its walls waits for death.

Until a stranger comes into town…

She correctly identifies various factions within the town. The merchants, the leaders, and those who try to hide their numbers within the resistance. She approaches the merchants first, and offers the cure by demonstrating its potency on the daughter of the lead merchant. She offers it to them and only them, and coyly implies that they should upcharge it, since everyone will pay a premium for their lives.

They take the idea and run with it.

Then, she waits for the desperate to surface. Those who can’t pay, those who wait to die. She convinces them they have nothing to lose. She gives them guns and grenades.

She watches as the desperate gun down the wealthy, as the wealthy retaliate, and as the innocent get caught in the crossfire, and join the fray with only the desire to make it out alive. The grenades she supplied help the buildings catch fire quickly in the cold, dry air. She sits in the town center, calmly sipping a flask of firewater in a dark, warm coat while bullets fly around her and the crackle of flames makes her feel cozy and warm .

Ah, it reminds her of the Yaga. Though she thinks she prefers them to humans.

She sees her Master in the distance, observing her progress, and with one leg crossed over the other, she waves cheerfully, as if she’s on vacation and she’s sitting at the edge of the beach, watching the waves lap the shore as blood stains the snow.

Humans are so easy, is what she means to convey.

Yes, she had the power to slaughter them all easily, but isn’t it more fun to watch them kill themselves?

That’s what she’s telling her Master. I am not to be messed with . I can kill as easily without my claws as I can with them.

…

In the distance, he smiles.

Oh—

They will work so well together.

Chapter Text

Night falls silent and still at Dawn Winery.

It’s been a while since anyone felt more than a subtle breeze roll through. It’s as if the winds of Mondstadt have grown still in their archon’s absence.

Diluc has just received word from a resistance member from the north; a confusing letter written in the pen of the Tsaritsa, detailing a ritual for her most trusted to carry out; seven servants for seven members of the Harbingers, in a bid to get something called a Holy Grail.

It sounds like fiction, but for her to have written it means it is anything but. They don’t play games like that in the Fatui, Diluc knows this well, and besides — something with the power to destroy the gods should not fall into Fatui hands.

But it’s ever clearer that in order to stop them, he must participate. He needs to steal one of the ‘entry tickets’ into this war to prevent another harbinger from taking it. He’s already delayed enough trying to research the damn thing.

So, with the papers in hand, Diluc draws a circle into the basement floor of the Winery, surrounded by wine casks from the last season. Only Adelinde bears witness to this, if only to make sure Diluc doesn’t kill himself doing this.

He recites the chant, the oath, and holds his vision in his palm as a conduit, the stand-in for magic circuits that the letter outlines. He feels it course through his veins, reach into his mind, seize his soul. The same foreboding feeling that if he speaks out of turn even once, he’ll die, comes to his mind. Yet, he’ll carry through, and demand that this … familiar, this spirit of great power bound to his will steps forth.

Marks inscribe themselves onto the back of his hand, the one holding his vision. It sears as if the mark is being branded into his skin, but by now, Diluc doesn’t flinch at the feeling of burning heat. He doesn’t move his hand until he sees light form in the center of the circle in the shape of a person.

It startles him that it worked.

He earnestly thought the letter was some kind of trick, one he couldn’t ignore until he tested it for himself. To see a tall man stand up, clad in resplendent, shining white armor, muscular and broad— this doesn’t feel like a spirit. This feels like a legend given life, like Diluc has committed an ultimate taboo in creating him. Even so, he looks to Diluc with a kind and warm smile, before his expression hardens into something more serious and resolute.

“…  Second seat of the Round Table, Knight Percival. I have been summoned into this world. With this other Holy Spear, I shall lend you my power, Master.”

Adelinde nearly faints.

Diluc asks Percival if he knows where he is.

The man blinks, looks at the architecture, and suggests, “… Germany?”

He also asks him if he knows what the Tsaritsa is planning.

Percival could not be more confused.

“… do you at least know of the Holy Grail war? I need to know more about what I’ve just entered myself into.”

Percival finally nods.

With his armor removed, Percival sits in the parlor, tea offered to him by the maids who crowd around the entryway and stare at him with awestruck gazes. Percival is handsome in an otherworldly way, as if he were blessed at birth to be the most eye-catching man in existence, and that’s a hard thing to upstage Diluc on.

“What exactly about it do you wish to know?”

Diluc pushes forward the letter detailing the summoning ritual he just used, and Percival looks it over. While the Grail has failed to inform him of the rules and customs of the world he’s just appeared in, he thankfully and rather easily grasps the language written in front of him. He wonders if appearing on a planet that isn’t Earth has something to do with his lack of knowledge on his surroundings… after all, he feels he’s always been summoned with prior knowledge of the era.

“I want to know it all.”

Percival pauses, looking to him with knitted brows before he begins.

“Seven servants. A Saber, Archer, Lancer— that’s me— Rider, Assassin, Caster, and Berserker. You can think of these classes as passports for long-deceased heroes to enter the living world. The Grail calls upon heroes from legends and history… though, in this instance, likely not your history… to fight to seize the grail for their master. That’s you.”

“… so… say, if someone tried to stack their deck by having seven servants be summoned for a single faction, would that simply hand the grail to them?”

“I—” Percival falters. “As far as I know, that’s never happened. But yes, theoretically, that would be a benefit if they had one united goal.”

… good, then. He managed to disrupt their plans, and while Percival certainly looks strong, he’s not sure if he’s the strongest.

“Is the purpose of the Grail to grant any wish? Truly?”

“… as long as the means to completing the wish can be visualized, the Grail will answer it. Money, power, fame— nothing is beyond its power… but I’m afraid I don’t know all of the details. To make things concise, you have summoned me, and together, we will fight to seize the grail for you. However, this war is bloody, and you have to be very okay with the concept of killing at least other servants. Most of the time, their masters too.”

Thankfully, Diluc doesn’t mind when the opposition is Fatui, but the fact that he’ll likely be going toe to toe with Harbingers, is…

“Are you strong?”

Percival chuckles a little, though it’s clear he’s a bit flustered. He’s not a braggart by any means, but he’ll rest his hand over his chest and bow his head.

“The knight classes— archer, lancer, and saber— are the strongest. I bear with me the holy spear Longinus. I have no doubt I can fell your foes if given the opportunity.”

He’s humble, yet he does not hide his strengths. Before him is the picture of a perfect knight, and Diluc doesn’t know if he likes the taste of irony on his tongue. Percival seems to sense something wrong, a distance in Diluc’s eyes, so he’ll pause and make a few educated guesses on what’s in front of him.

“Did you enter this Grail War to disrupt the plans of others? Was there truly another faction that intended to summon seven servants by themselves?”

He nods. “Though I don’t know how many were summoned just yet, the fact that I have you is proof they might not have summoned everyone, right? Or gotten word to every member of that faction?”

“Right… once seven are summoned, no more can follow.”

Diluc pauses… he needs to stack his own deck, though the allies he possesses who he would involve in this mess are few and far between. He doesn’t know how much time is ticking against him, so he needs to work fast. Kaeya and Jean are… out of the question, but maybe not all the knights are…

Taking the letter on the summoning ritual he was given, he drafts a note to Albedo with every detail he’s been told thus far. If there’s one person he knows he can count on for scientific curiosity and a desire to help, it’s him… without involving the two people he’d rather not catch up in a war .

Percival looks to Diluc, knowing that now he’s contracted in his name, soul, and service, he must uphold whatever request he makes of him. With or without command seals, that’s the most important thing for him to do.

“What would you have me do? Guard your home? … Seek out other servants?”

Diluc shakes his head, resting his hands on his knees in order to stand. “I don’t want to reveal the card in my hand just yet… if you could keep an eye out for other servants, please do. I have a letter to deliver.”

Percival stands up and begins to follow.

“Wait— a master and servant are rarely apart once the summonings have begun—”

“Stay here. That’s an order.”

It’s a kind one, if frustrating. He doesn’t want anything to happen to the workers here if someone comes and attacks. Percival purses his lips, then points to the seals on Diluc’s hands.

“If you need me, burn one of your command spells to summon me. I will be by your side in an instant, but only if it’s an emergency, okay? It’s… important that you conserve them.”

… Diluc will ask more about their nature, what they are, later. He’ll walk to the entryway and put on his coat, Percival following in step even though he feels somewhat anxious over the whole matter, but he won’t disobey his master. If he thinks there’s more risk to be had here, then he’ll obey.

He glances behind him, at the maids who have congregated in the hallway, staring in awe at the tall, handsome knight… it makes Percival a little sheepish, just a touch, to be stared at so openly, but it doesn’t daunt him in the slightest. Instead, he wears a charming smile, and if Koyanskaya’s smile is curved like the edge of a blade, Percival’s is warm and inviting, like the crescent of a summer moon.

“May I help with anything around the property while my master is gone? Please, don’t be afraid to put me to work. It’s the least I could do.”

The maids begin to bicker amongst themselves in short order, a few of them putting forth suggestions right away and arguing a little when one tries to steal his attention from the other with an obviously more important task. Adelinde sees what’s happening, and puts a stop to it immediately.

“Help me in the kitchen, Sir Percival.”

Percival nods.

“It would be my pleasure.”

Mondstadt’s weather patterns haven’t altered in five hundred years. The breeze that carries through is like clockwork, and Albedo adjusts his weather vane to see if it’s broken– but the truth is plain as day. The breeze has not passed through Mondstadt, and hasn’t for the past several days. It’s unusual, and the stillness in the air is foreboding to say the least.

What on earth is wrong…? Each nation is known for their weather patterns and respective environments, dictated by the archon that governs them. Lightning strikes Inazuma, vegetation grows big and strong in Sumeru. Fontaine is misty and rainy at times, and Mondstadt, of course, is not Mondstadt without the wind.

His attention is caught when the door to his lab opens, and a guest that he never would usually expect arrives.

“Diluc,” Albedo begins. “Jean’s office is that way. Or are you searching for Sir Kaeya?”

… it’s a bit insulting of a question, considering Diluc used to work here, but Albedo is nothing if not direct and to the point.

“I’m here to see you.”

“Oh…? … What for?”

“… Have you ever heard of something called a Holy Grail War?”

Recognition flickers in Albedo’s eyes, but he doesn’t speak of that.

“I haven’t. Rumors of a Holy Grail in Fontaine, sure, but those are more stories of myth and legend…” He pauses… “Why have you come to talk about it?”

“It’s a ritual that the Fatui are going to use to get some sort of all-powerful wish,” Diluc hums. “They’re stacking their deck by trying to be the only seven participants so the wish becomes theirs by default.”

“And why would you come to me with this, and not Jean?”

“… you’ve always been the scientific sort, and I don’t want Jean caught up in a war. Mondstadt needs her.”

“It doesn’t need me, then.” Albedo states calmly, though there is a slight arch to his brow.

“Not what I said,” Diluc huffs. “You know that. It would just be hard for her to manage both, and… you’re one of the smartest people I know. If there’s strategy to this, I bet you’d be able to figure it out.”

He passes the letters to Albedo, who reads them in short order.

“… you’re asking me to summon alongside you. To try and get one of these powerful familiars to keep one out of the Fatui’s hands.”

“…” Diluc doesn’t answer directly. “I know how to draw the circle, and how to—”

“Please,” Albedo begins, moving furniture aside in his office before he picks up a stick of deep red chalk. “Don’t deny me the ability to carry out a fascinating experiment.”

In half the time it took Diluc, the circle is drawn in perfect shape, and Albedo has his vision clutched in hand. He recites the words eloquently, as if the incantation was written to be spoken by the likes of him. If any of that fear that Diluc felt about messing up was ever on his face, it’s nowhere on Albedo’s. The circle reacts to him immediately— signaling that whatever happened with the Harbingers, they clearly did not act quickly.

Albedo’s eyes do light up the moment someone takes shape in the circle— and it takes all of his restraint not to mutter in awe and disrupt the whole process. He steps back as a tall man with dark skin and darker hair steps out of the ring of light, a flintlock pistol on his belt and clothes that resemble…

… a pirate. Diluc wonders if all the games played by this Grail War are meant to be ironic, but he doesn’t have time to ponder it while Bartholomew Roberts gives a gentlemanly bow.

“Fufu, quite fortunate. You are, that is. Bartholomew Roberts, at your service. I have come in response to your summons.”

Albedo tilts his head… before looking to Diluc.

“Hmm… wonder what Kaeya would think of him, don’t you?”

Diluc gives a dry, unamused snort, not paying any attention to that particular comment. He asks Bartholomew the same questions, interrogating him just as he did Percival, but Bartholomew chuckles and holds up a hand. He will not be answering just anyone’s questions.

Instead he looks to his Master, Albedo.

“Shall I answer? He is a rival Master, after all.”

“We’ll be working together, so do as you like.”

Bartholomew hums, and gives much the same answer as Percival, too. No idea where he is, only having a grasp on the local language, and not knowing any specifics about this particular grail war— it seems the knowledge they’re innately summoned with doesn’t cover any useful topics… they’re just as confused to be in a new world as these two are to host them.

“My, my… who’s the stranger? … I’ve never known you to invite people new to Mondstadt straight into your office.” A voice smooth as a riverbed stone asks behind them.

Diluc knows Kaeya’s voice instantly. Before Albedo can explain they’re both thwarting a Fatui plot and playing games with an otherworldly arcane force, Bartholomew steps towards Kaeya. At first, he seems dazed… his gaze sparkling at the man in front of him. Kaeya instinctively takes a step back. At first, Diluc hazards a guess that this might be a meeting of ‘pirates’… and that Bartholomew is mistaking him for one.

It couldn’t be further from the truth.

“… what’s this? To think I’d be summoned in front of a god like you… ah, what a gorgeous look in your eye. Would you run away with me? I have a glorious ship of my own, you see-”

Kaeya’s expression…

… says it all.

“No thanks.”

“Ah, I’ll just have to bend over backwards to win your heart. Surely, it can’t be that difficult… what sways your soul ? Treasure? Jewels? Handsome gentleman pirates? I’ll offer you the whole world on a platter if you want it, beautif—”

“Bartholomew, shut up.” Albedo throws down the order before Diluc kills one of their trump cards before it gets a chance to be played. “Or I’ll use one of my commands to make sure you never talk.”

Bartholomew puts up both hands, stepping back from Kaeya, ah, but the admiring look in his eyes does not fade. Kaeya does his best to ignore it, now.

“… what is going on here?” Kaeya’s rarely so direct, but with the stranger’s bizarre introduction, he’s slightly bereft of his usual charisma. It’s Albedo and Diluc in conjunction who explain what’s happening… and Kaeya almost doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. Even the presence of the strange pirate feels like a lie that is being told to prank him— to make up for the many pranks he’s pulled on them.

“You’re joking. This is—”

“— a way to protect the world, yes.”

“… it’s insane, is what it is. Do either of you know if there’s any reprecussions to this? Gods, what if you sold your soul to summon this weirdo?”

“I feel relatively intact,” Albedo shrugs. “But I believe the letter, and I believe Diluc. Will you help us?”

“… I’ll sit this one out,” Kaeya says firmly, waving a hand. This is too much nonsense that he won’t be giving overtime for. “I don’t want to get stuck with a guy worse than that… no offense.”

“None taken, gorgeous. ♡“

“I lied. I meant all the offense.”

Albedo rests his hand on his chin… they need to try and grab as many people who would be willing to do this strange ritual before they’re outnumbered by Fatui who did it— but who? He agrees, not Jean. But…

Who knows how many servant positions are even left?

For all he knows, someone is performing the ritual right now.

In Liyue, a man desperate to be healed is currently healing the sick. A courier who was injured on his way through Liyue accidentally leaves a messenger bag in his pharmacy, and Baizhu, seeing the Fatui logo on it, curiously leafs through a few of the pages…

… and finds something most interesting.

No doubt, it was addressed to Arlecchino, one of the harbingers. The courier was on his way to Fontaine… but the letter he reads, is…

… something that promises a wish that can be granted no matter what it is. Something that can change the fate of someone almost certainly destined to die…

…

He’s done many things in the pursuit of a path to immortality.

What’s one more?

Chapter Text

Asclepius never seems to be summoned gently.

He doesn’t know if it’s a quirk of his masters, or if he’s simply prone to inelegance— it would be a shame if that were the case, as if Zeus laughs from on high at his misfortune while being culpable for half of it. Instead of rising majestically in the midst of his summoning, proud and tall, Asclepius is…

In the warehouse of a pharmacy. He knows the smell of antiseptic and herbs intermingling far too well, a scent that’s practically like coming home, though this is far from home and far from where Asclepius would like to be. It is far from his place in the stars, where he was put after his death, and far from any place on Earth, which is familiar, at the very least. Far from any recognizable face or kin spirit.

Though… as a Heroic Spirit, it’s not like he gets a say in that anymore. He overhears the sound of voices from the other room, a sound that sounds like ‘I don’t understand, was this a prank…?’ and ‘I was so sure I felt something…’. Gods, it makes coming out of the room to reveal that the summoning was a success all the more awkward, but Asclepius, robbed of the ability to make an impactful entrance, opens the door.

Baizhu stares.

Asclepius stares back, his eyes drawn to the circle drawn on the wall. That’s why he was in another room entirely.

“Have you never performed magecraft in your life?” His voice is accusatory as he says it, a rude huff of a question that’s paired with a glare from green eyes boring into his master. “Honestly, you would think a potential master might realize that if someone was going to come out of a circle, it’d be best to draw it on the floor.”

… he’s awfully critical, yet he can’t help it. Asclepius has always been used to a certain level of professionalism, and while he’s happy to have been summoned into… some kind of medical facility, there’s a lot to be desired when he’s shoved into a storage room first thing. It means he can get to work doing what makes him fulfilled, at the very least.

Ah, but how to tell his Master, who is looking at him so quizzically, so expectantly…

… that he drew the weakest among weak cards.

“… Could you explain to me… exactly what is going on?”

… something like anger pinpricks in Asclepius’ heart. 

“Did you enter a war without knowing the consequences?”

“The letter was sparse…” He doesn’t know how much Asclepius knows, or what he doesn’t. Just that his summoning could guide him on the path that might lead him to the answer of immortality. A wish that can be granted if the means are provided…

“What letter? Let me see.”

Baizhu picks up the letter imprinted with the Fatui sigil and Asclepius gives it a once-over. His eyes quickly scan the pages as he puts two and two together. The person who wrote this letter did not provide every detail… or counted on her own to suss out the truth between the lines. He nearly crumples the paper in his grip. Of all the stupid things to do, entering a grail war without knowing what one truly is, is the worst.

“… Then let me guess, what enticed you was the mention of a wish, correct? One that can grant anything, with an unfathomable amount of power?”

Baizhu can sense that he’s messed up in some important way, but he’ll still be honest about his intentions.

“That’s correct. What I seek can’t be done by human means, and I would achieve it by any mean’s necessary.”

“Well then, tell me. What is your wish?”

“… immortality,” He says, resolute. “I seek to know the means to immortality.”

…

Great.

“… well, you don’t need the Grail for that. You summoned the one and only servant who spited the gods by making a medicine that cured all illness and prevented the inevitability of death.” Asclepius answers, clicking his tongue as he casts the pages back onto the table in front of him.

“… Really? You mean you can—”

“If you seek to evade death, no one is more qualified than me to help you. Even outside of the Age of Gods, my ability can still cure anyone, even if it’s less potent than usual.”

The snake wrapped around Baizhu’s shoulders, who has been listening quietly and intently this entire time, speaks.

“… There’s a catch though, isn’t there?” Changsheng asks.

“My medicine doesn’t come with a catch. Your actions, however, have.”

Asclepius, without really saying much at all, walks outside of the room and looks around the pharmacy… he’s pleased by how sterile and clean it is, (up to his standards, anyway), but ‘pleased’ doesn’t mean ‘impressed’. He glances to the window, overlooking Liyue Harbor…

“Summoning me is punching a ticket to a war, you know. Whether you like it or not, it will only end when one servant remains, and typically, their master as well.”

“You mean to say…”

“That’s right. You will be hunted down by other servants and masters for the sake of attaining their own wishes… and furthermore, you have drawn the weakest card possible. A caster of no combat renown whatsoever. Only a healer. Your violent death is almost certain.”

“But you just said you could—”

“Conditionally. My power would not be the same as it is in the Age of Gods. It will prevent you from dying from illness or curses, sure… not so much if a stronger servant decapitates you.”

…

The world’s cruelest joke, to give an unbelievable amount of hope and just snatch it away. To be told that ‘I can cure you, but you’ve signed your death warrant just by bringing me here’. It has Baizhu reeling at the magnitude of his mistake.

— Yet, Asclepius does not seem bothered.

In fact, he looks to the front of the pharmacy and sees patients waiting outside. One has a persistent cough, another looks weak and frail… and immediately, he sets to work.

“What are you waiting for? There are patients to treat. You are a doctor, aren’t you?”

… they’re barely even introduced, so even that is a guess.

“— can you give me a minute.” Baizhu snaps.

Asclepius doesn’t. If he’s content to mope about his mistake, he’s not about to sit here and let the other patients get worse while he does. He’ll bring them in for examinations, and while there is a learning curve to the new herbs of this world, he finds a book to double check the medications stocked and what their purpose is; what the herbs within them do. A few patients get confused when he suggests medicine from beyond this world, and Baizhu stops him there.

“… you are not authorized to treat people here,” He says, somewhat tiredly, “Allow me.”

Asclepius takes a step back to watch Baizhu work… hand resting on his chin as he observes how he treats his patients, the medication he uses, his gentle tone that currently masks all the stress in the world… he carries himself with a certain competence that Asclepius respects, despite his awful decision earlier. It makes him pause… though he cannot square up against even a Lancer, let alone a Saber, maybe writing him off entirely as a dead man walking on behalf of his own competence as a servant is a bad idea.

After all, Asclepius may be only a healer, but there’s more than one way to win a war.

He helps without asking or being asked. Gets the medicines that Baizhu requires before he even requests them. Helps diagnose things wrong in joints and bones, because at least that is consistent so long as there’s a human body to physically observe…

When the last patient leaves, Asclepius pauses.

“My name is Asclepius, and though I loathe to use my title, I’m a god of medicine. There is no one more capable at keeping someone alive than me… and so, I promise to keep you alive. I may not be as good in a fight, but I’ll be damned if I let my own Master die on my watch.”

… it’s what the doctor ordered, as they say. Baizhu sighs with some relief, although after Asclepius’ bluntness earlier, he’s unsure if he believes it. Yet, through his help earlier, Baizhu can at least tell that Asclepius means his words, regardless of his ability to capably carry it out.

“My name is Baizhu. You needn’t call me your Master.”

“That is what you are, and that’s what you’ll be called. I was blunt earlier. I had to be. You do need to know the consequences of your actions…”

He helps sterilize the exam table where a patient just sat, talking while he does.

“… but I think I’m among the first to be summoned… I don’t sense any other servants around this area. That means we’ll be safe for at least a while. If that changes, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I have some questions for you.”

“Yes…?”

“This world isn’t my home world… the plants and fauna used to make medicine are foreign to me. I require a full rundown of all the pharmaceuticals you use and their applications, as well as how to make more of them.”

“… isn’t that a bit excessive?”

“It’s completely necessary— let’s begin.” He takes a bottle off the shelf and reads out loud. “Violetgrass stem— what’s its practical use and what conditions does it treat? Side effects? Toxicity…?”

…

It will be a long night ahead of the two of them, but at the very least, there is such a thing as caffeine.

It starts with a mystery.

A document intercepted from a Fatui scout while a detective is on the mainland. Curiosity is usually its own reward, but when he opens the letter, Shikanoin Heizou is surprised not to find intel, or some kind of scheme, but a ritual.

The supernatural and detectives are natural enemies; at least books would have you believe so. In no great mystery is there a place for a witch or wizard to interfere with a closed room, but this is hardly from the pages of a novel. It… looks serious, and Heizou seriously contemplates the information he’s been given. He has no wish, and therefore, no reason to complete this ritual— but he’s also quick on his feet and realizes that by claiming a right to participate, he keeps one Fatui participant out of the game.

His logic is the same as Diluc’s, an all-powerful wish is a dangerous thing to have.

Particularly in their hands.

And so, in his rented inn room in Mondstadt, after investigating the tight-knit rumors that all of the archons have disappeared from their stations, he draws the circle, though he doesn’t quite understand what his vision’s part to play is in all of this— the note says something about a ‘magic circuit substitute’ and ‘an old magic from a place too far from here’, but it’s clear that the writer was in a rush, judging by the quiver of the ink and hasty scratches. Heizou considers his options in front of the chalk circle… a tug of destiny that his curious heart practically beats for.

It feels dangerous. It is dangerous.

But it could help. And it seems the worst that could happen is he loses.

So he recites from the paper, acutely aware of every sensation that enters him and latches onto him, becoming the anchor that pulls a person from nothing.

And then, it all goes black.

He wakes up with chalk dust on his cheek, having fallen in the center of the circle. There’s a bruise forming on his head… damn it all. Did he really get interrupted? … But why would they just knock him out and not kill him? … Did he even finish the ritual? He glances around— the papers are gone. The Fatui must have caught up to him and took them back. Of course they would, it was top secret intelligence! … Or… maybe, that’s what he just thinks at first.

In truth, he did see a silhouette. It was vaguely person-shaped before things went dark. Dusting his shirt off, he resolves to get to the bottom of it.

When he steps outside, he hears a woman talking to one of Mondstadt’s knights…

“And then it was missing!”

“Ma’am, please calm down—”

“I can’t! That necklace is a family treasure! I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t—”

As much as he would like to help, he’ll circle back to that later. Heizou presses on, and realizes that little crimes have been occurring around Mondstadt all day.

“My wallet is missing!”

“My charm! My lucky charm!”

“My keys too…! They’re—”

… did a petty thief sweep through this entire section of the neighborhood? How could someone not notice them when they were this busy? … His eyes trail for anyone who looks out of place amidst Mondstadt’s locals, and it’s the funniest thing that gets his attention first.

A blue butterfly. He recognizes the species isn’t native to Mondstadt’s fauna.

In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever seen one that looks like this in his life… it seems to flutter in a certain direction, and his feet quickly follow towards the most popular tavern in town. There’s plenty of people at the outdoor seating; but only one is dressed in Fontainian-style clothing, without a vision, and an aura that Heizou can’t shake as otherworldly.

He sits across from him.

“Stealing from others is a poor way to make a first impression.”

The butterfly lands on the man’s glass of bourbon, and he brings the glass to his lip, kindly tilting it so the butterfly can maintain its perch.

“Haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, boy.”

“Do all familiars knock out their— what did the note call it? Masters?”

“Mm, no, it’s bad form,” the man concedes. “But one could always think of it as a test.”

“… and what kind of test is that?”

“Hahaha. Whether or not you have the magecraft or the know-how to find me. Maybe not the former. But the latter is good enough.”

“… Who are you?”

The man, who has been reading a local newsprint, swirls the bourbon as if it were wine.

“A mathematics professor.”

In truth, he sees the scheme already alight in the man’s eyes, whether or not his lack of an identity in this world has any sort of benefit to him to keep secret or spill. If being honest and being helpful are one in the same, or not. He is dealing with someone particularly troublesome, Heizou knows that because he knows criminals, and the smart ones know that unpredictability makes them hard to pin down.

“Your name.”

“James.”

“… I would have thought a familiar born of another world would have some flair for— I don’t know, dramatics? … Making themselves look a little more impressive than a petty thief, anyway.”

It’s bait. Heizou is testing the waters of his ego. It works.

“… petty thief? … If you didn’t have a trail to sniff, however would you find me?” ‘James’ chuckles. “… Bodies, and I wouldn’t be forgiven. Heirlooms and I just might.”

“You caused crime because you knew you were dealing with a detective.”

“I didn’t know. I guessed, from a few of your belongings. The thing you can always count on from the Throne and the Grail is that their flourish for irony is unmatched… do you want a more exciting introduction?”

“After you give me back the things you stole.”

“Everything but the wallet, then… I already spent a good chunk of it, you see. It’s not as if we’re supplied with money whenever summoned.”

As if a kindly uncle doing a magic trick, he’ll produce the necklace from behind Heizou’s ear, the charm from beneath his sleeve, and the keys seem to simply appear on his hand.

The wallet, however, lays in plain view.

Heizou gives a terse sigh… if it were up to him, this guy would sleep in a jail cell tonight. However, he did give it back…

… so he’ll put a glass of bourbon’s worth of mora into the wallet, an apology since he did summon this guy, before he goes and finds the knights. He tells them he found the thief’s little stash and asks them to deliver it back to the victims of the crime.

“Who was it…?”

Loud enough so that Moriary, around the corner, can hear, he says, “Some fool who was playing a game.” He can hear the offended ‘augh!’ almost out of earshot.

When he comes back, he folds his arms and stares up at him with a wry glare.

“Who are you, really?”

“… it really would be my luck to be summoned by a detective, hah! The best and worst of it! Very well. I am James Moriarty. And I suppose that name means nothing to you, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Good. We’ll keep it that way for now, Master.” Moriarty clicks his tongue. “… it’s not safe here, you know.”

“Not safe?”

“We’re being watched.”

“…?”

Now that he mentions it, as clear as day, he feels eyes on him, and not the kind that come with being new here. He only notices it just now, the command seals on the back of his hand. 

“… what are these?”

Moriarty puts his hand on his shoulder and power walks with him to an alleyway to cut off line of sight from whoever is watching.

“… a master who barely knows the ritual he performed…” Moriarty tuts. “What a shame! Alright, I’ll keep this short and sweet. Very soon, people are going to come to kill you.”

“The Fatui?”

“Hm? Other masters, I mean. There can be only one winner, and it’s a bloody fight to the death.”

“— do you know anything of the missing Archons?”

“Archon…?” He remembers quickly the etymology of the word, and shakes his head. “Afraid it’s not as commonly used of a word where I’m from. You’ll have to elaborate. What I do know is you’re a participant in a war of seven people. Depending on how chummy you are with the rest of them, I’ll hazard a guess they won’t let you live easily. Luckily, you drew the smartest, most clever and devious servant there is. If there’s anyone who knows how to crush the competition, it’s me.”

A flash of shadow eclipsing the eye.

Moriarty, instinctively, pushes Heizou behind his back when he sees it approach, summoning up a coffin to deflect the pistol shots that come his way.

“… speak of the devil…” Moriarty murmurs. Bartholomew gives a shrug.

“Come, let’s parley. Surely you don’t want this to end in bloodshed, right?”

“Master, your commands.”

Heizou blinks.

“Are you asking for my permission to kill that guy? Absolutely not!”

“Tch—”

With the pistol aimed at the two of them, and Bartholomew’s master nowhere in sight, Moriarty must make a choice.

“Very well. Don’t complain, it was your decision.”

“Huh—”

The young man, as easily as Moriarty summoned his weapon, is scooped up and thrown over his shoulder. The archer bounds up the walls, scaling it with criss-crossing leaps, until he’s on top of the roof and running.

… he looked like an old man, and yet… he picked him up like he was nothing more than a sack of potatoes and fled like a bat out of hell.

When the note said ‘familiar’, he’d anticipated a cute animal sidekick, not a fifty-five year old math professor, but it seems that beggars can’t be choosers and Heizou is probably lucky to be alive.

A detective with no wish, and a criminal with no morals.

He supposes it would be just his luck, but at least rolling snake eyes on a dice means there’s nowhere to go but up.

Chapter Text

It is late when the correspondence reaches Capitano.

The moon sits high in the sky, full and bright in yellow hue. The midnight blue that surrounds its reflected light carries across the sky, dappled by the occasional cloud crossing over the moon’s light.

He was the first dispatched after his queen’s trail, but she is gone without a trace. The evidence of her remains, though, the weather is rough, the blustery snow-whipped winds course against his form as if tempting him to turn back. He presses onward, but the trail is cold. It would be a miracle if following north would lead him anywhere but further from where the Tsaritsa really is. He doesn’t sense her presence in anything but the weather itself.

A scout, someone who he’s familiar with, approaches him with the standard salute. It’s commendable, fighting through all this weather just to get to him, so he’ll turn and accept the letter that he’s been offered. It is the last message of their queen, one he was not able to read before leaving; finding her first was the priority, after all. It’s difficult to read in the dark, so he’ll follow the trail back to one of their bases and step inside, tearing open the letter and reading the message within.

…

Her message is not like her; her handwriting is usually elegant, this looks like she was actively fighting to write, and indeed, while some of the letter appears to be pre-written, the more important part is scratched in as if penning it with her own blood.

A message that she will be under direct order and observation from above, against her will.

A plea to free her by finding what she is being commanded to destroy first, and using its power.

It is… a tall order, but he’s more than willing. He’s never known interference so direct as seizing control of the Archons themselves. Her plan is mostly solid; she intends to stack the deck by having only her trusted be part of this ‘grail war’ and have them work together in order to find it, but he doesn’t know if all of these letters will reach them in time, or be intercepted.

All that’s left to do is carry out her will.

There’s a private room in the base, suitable for this kind of thing. He closes the door behind him. In the section of the letter that’s pre-written, it details he will be summoning a familiar of one of seven classes, one of immense and incredible power. His note in particular says ‘not that you need them, but they will help’.

Her trust in him rings through her words, and so he will not fail her.

The circle is drawn in careful, short order. Time cannot be wasted. He must attain this familiar, and he must embark to find whatever the Grail is . The note cautions that it might not even be a literal chalice; and it will be hidden well.

He recites the chant on paper, and the circle fills with light .

“ From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power,
come forth from the ring of restraint, protector of the holy balance.”

For him, the magic conduits that alight in his veins come to him far easier, far more accessibly than the other masters of this war. Call it a side-effect of his disposition , but he doesn’t feel the same amount of strain, the threat of death if he fails. Yet, when the circle responds to him, the power he feels is unlike anything he’s ever experienced. While the other masters felt something grab and pull them, climbing their circuits like they were the rope out of hell, this is…

A divine light.

No, he wouldn’t call this divine .

Divine is to insult it, in his language. The divine are mostly criminals who have gotten away with too much. This is something much more than that; it is the power of humanity’s purity and fault, its will to breathe and fight. It is the coalesced, condensed ether of a soul pure and strong, both unfamiliar and radiant, beautiful and terrifying . Her arrival is marked by bells, in the ringing metal of her armor. Golden as the moon and painted in blues richer than the false sky’s.

He has drawn the strongest card , unquestionably. He waits for the light to fade so that he might see her clearly.

…

Though small in stature, her back is drawn back, her head held high. Clutched in her hand is a blade that bleeds a shining brilliance. Her eyes search his mask for his gaze, but the abyss swallows all.

“I ask of you,” She begins, properly, with authority before all else. “Are you my master?”

It’s a new feeling, for him, to be speechless. Silent is not uncommon from him, but speechless is . Very few things surprise him, precious little takes his breath away anymore.

“I am.”

He says, eventually.

“Then our contract,” She continues, “is sealed. Henceforth, I shall be your blade in battle, and with it I shall bring you victory.”

It takes him a few moments to summon the words that he wants to say, not out of any sort of hesitance, but because there are so many questions on his mind that picking the most important must come first.

“You are…?” He inquires, as knowing her name is probably the best precursor to anything else.

“I am Artoria Pendragon, the King of Knights and Commander of the Round Table… though it would be wise to keep my identity a secret from all others.”

Irony has never lost its bitter taste.

He’ll leave the room with her, leaving behind the circle for another lower-ranking member to clean up. “Explain why.”

“A servant’s trump card is their identity. One servant can easily figure out another’s power and weakness by their legend and name, though…”

She glances around. The chill bite of the air distracts her momentarily— she is somewhere frigid, and though her first instinct judging by clothing is Russia, she knows that must be wrong.

“… this cannot be my world. There’s no— it’s not…” Her voice trails off, confused, as if tasting the air for the same kind of mana. There’s no doubt about it, this is a different place with new rules entirely. It would be unwise not to gather intel from this point out. Yet, she can tell one thing is the same… the Holy Grail is the anchor that has her here in the first place.

“This is Northern Snezhnaya,” His gruff voice answers her even as the other soldiers of this base stare at her in jaw-dropped awe. A young lady might feel she is in a den of wolves, but even if she weren’t capable of leveling this entire base, having the strongest wolf next to her means she has nothing to even remotely be concerned about. She blinks at the name he used. It’s no place on Earth, that is certain.

“… and the world?”

“Teyvat.”

“There was only ever one humanity where I came from,” She says, armor clinking as she walks beside him. “To know there is a whole other world out there, is…”

“Will it distract you from your mission?”

“No.” She answers firmly. “And my mission is to defeat the other servants and attain you the grail, is it not?”

“… Maybe not so much the first, depending on who managed to complete the ritual. The latter, though, yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“We intended to summon seven servants as a faction. I cannot say if that plan has come to fruition yet.”

“…?” She raises her brow at that, but instead of expressing surprise, she glances around her, as if trying to feel something in the air.

“There are no other servants here,” She says. “Or anywhere close.”

Foreboding. Then again, most of his colleagues are all around the world. It will take a while to contact them, but to know he’s secured a strong servant in the meantime is of comfort. Little does he know, he is the second to last to do it.

She gives him the rundown that isn’t in the letter, telling him that he’s drawn the strongest class— however, he seemed to already know that. She tells him of the different classes, the likelihood that they’ll soon clash over the Grail. He tells her that their god— their Archon— the one he is in direct service to, has disappeared under the orders from above to destroy the grail, and likely the other six have as well.

… gods are not foreign to her, but she doesn’t know the power behind the ones of this world. To put a divine spirit origin into a vessel is one thing, but to deal with the actual thing is another. Even so, she is undaunted, and will protect her master to the bitter end.

(Not that he needs much protecting…)

“What are my first orders?” She asks.

“You are to accompany me to Zapolyarny Palace. We’ll see there how many have managed to summon a servant, and how to proceed from there.”

She nods— she will learn the lay of the land soon enough, though there is a weakness in being wholly unfamiliar with the world you’re summoned to— hopefully, he will compensate for that weakness and try to show her how this new, foreign world works.

It will be essential for their teamwork, after all.

Though those letters have made it all over the world at this point, only one more will make it to someone who can punch the final card for entry into the war. It is a failing card. No berserker has ever won a Grail War, after all, burning bright and fast like a comet streaking through the sky, powerful, sure, but that power is often its undoing.

It’s fitting, when Tartaglia reads the letter, confused by more than a few of the instructions, that he be the one ill-fated enough to bring forth Berserker. To summon him is to doom them both, but he doesn’t know that just yet. All he knows are the orders in front of him, and so, in the wilderness where he received the letter, he draws the circle in the pure white snow, just to see if it works. A hare provides the ink in its blood.

If it fails, he’ll copy the circle on the floor of an inn room or something, but the letter told him not to delay, and he’s nothing if not the type to follow orders. Usually, what accompanies a summoning is a speech of grand proportions. Tartaglia, vision in hand, merely reads off the inscripted chant as if reciting homework.

Yet somehow…

The blood that decorates the snow begins to melt its surroundings, inscribing itself in the dirt and searing itself into the ground. Light traces the form of the lines, a deadly aura emanating from within them. Tartaglia feels his heart grabbed within its ribcage as if someone is using it to pull themselves back from the dead, the pain is searing and he thinks this might be the end for how visceral it feels, but it stops almost as soon as it starts, as soon as someone takes shape within the circle.

A hulking, massive beast.

Shoulders lined with thorns and blood-dyed fur. Tan skin and blue hair. Sharp teeth and a sharper lance.

If Artoria were the type to exude goodness and purity, then Cu Chulainn exudes something feral and beastly. It isn’t pure evil, but rather, the distilled essence of a monster. Of something that kills to kill with neither joy nor hate.

And his lance is pointed at Tartaglia’s throat.

“Hey, hey, woah, easy… you listen to me, don’t you?” The letter said that. The letter said this would be his servant , underneath his command.

“Give me a good reason to.”

He is a dangerous opponent, but Tartaglia is an earnest fan of fighting Goliaths, people too big and too menacing for him to get away easily.

“If I best you in a fight, would you listen to me then?” His watery blades come to his hand, and Cu pauses.

And grins.

“Sure, but you’ll have to give up being my Master when you’re dead.”

“I’ll agree to those terms.” A cocky chuckle, paired with a roguish smile.

It really was the worst decision, yet also the correct one. Anything less, and Cu would never respect him.

It is a flurry of blades after that, a watery clash against blood-red thorns. Cu wields his spear like each thorn digs into his hands and arms whenever he twists and spins it, and doesn’t even blink when he does– it’s something Tartaglia notices right away, and immediately… kind of worries about. This is the kind of guy who can cut himself on his own edge and not even blink.

Kind of like… himself.

The first blow he blocks sends him back several feet and nearly shatters his blades on impact, the next knocks him into a tree. Dodging quickly becomes Tartaglia’s greatest asset.

Maybe playing games with this guy’s strength was a bad idea to begin with…

He is faster than Cu, but not by much, and the way he just barely evades even one of those thorns gets too close for comfort, yet in a deathmatch like this, there’s no time to call a time out…! No mercy for one, either.

He needs to put distance between the two of them so he can use his Delusion and mask, but Cu makes that impossible. His advances cut down even the old trees surrounding them in his wake, an action that must take an archon’s strength with how swiftly and little effort it takes him to do it, and Ajax has to dodge the falling trees now in addition to Cu’s spear.

Shit, he’s really going to die…!

At least, that’s what he thinks before two figures intercept them, right before their blades strike again. A shadow of black crosses blades with Cu with his back to him, and a flurry of blue guards Ajax’s watery blades from taking another step.

Oh thank god. He’s never been so happy to see the Captain in his life, and he’s usually thrilled to see him!

When someone interrupts a duel, the mood for the fight quickly dissipates, even though Cu can tell he’s dealing with a stronger opponent. He steps back in the forest of fallen trees, sizing up this new guy…

While Tartaglia stares at the unfamiliar woman in front of him.

“The notice didn’t tell you to battle who you summoned,” Capitano chides him, knowing that asking Tartaglia not to fight is asking a lot of him.

“It just kind of– happened–” Tartaglia quickly defends himself, and much like everyone else that sees her, his gaze is locked onto Artoria for several moments. “Who’s this?”

“Saber.” He knows he can trust his colleague, but he doesn’t know if he should reveal her identity just yet. Sometimes, it’s good to keep secrets from someone who can reveal one unwittingly. She lowers her sword, and bows her head at him.

“A pleasure to meet you. Are you two of the same faction?”

“I– yeah, do you know who…”

She’ll turn to look at the servant he summoned… and yes, she does recognize him, although he looks different.

“... Berserker.” She will not speak his name, though. “Am I wrong?”

Cu scoffs. “No, you got it in one.” His spear disappears from his hand, and his bleeding wounds close up in short order, as if they were never there to begin with. For some reason, Tartaglia feels a bit weak.

“Are you going to try to kill me again?” He asks him, and Cu rolls his eyes.

“You accepted the duel, you should have accepted the outcome as well.”

“... Tartaglia, look at your hand.” Capitano turns his attention to his younger colleague.

He does so, and notices the seals on them…

“What are–”

“If you burn one of those symbols, you can command him to do whatever you need him to. You are a dead man if you burn all of them. Remember that.”

Cu scoffs. It’s something he’d hoped he’d never learn, that leash that binds his neck. Though he is a brute, and is, by classification , insane, Cu’s head is clearer than most bersekers, his Madness Enhancement affecting mostly only his bloodlust. He’s able to assess a few things just as readily as his Lancer counterpart can.

One, this isn’t Earth. The mana in the air isn’t the same and that’s something that never changes.

Two, he was summoned by unconventional means. Something altered the ritual to make it fit the world, like cutting a puzzle piece to fit the rest of the picture.

And three… judging by the fascinated look in his eye…

His Master is going to be a bit of a pain.

“Where are you headed? Did everyone else manage to get this letter?”

Capitano continues walking, and Artoria follows in step.

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

Tartaglia rubs the back of his neck… he wonders if everyone has gathered at the Palace– surely, someone has found the Tsaritsa by now, right? But if the letter is accurate, persuading her to come home would be an entirely different story…

Ah, they have to race against the clock. To rendezvous, find out what’s gone down in their absence, and finally, track down that one in a million shot, that old, holy relic, before one of the Archons do.

It’s such a tall order, but Tartaglia’s life is nothing but tall orders, to both give and take. Besides, above all things, it’s exciting more than anything else. Teyvat’s got very few things that feel otherworldly , so to be one of the few privy to something new and different is a thrill.

Cu follows in step behind him, now leashed by the fact that Tartaglia knows how to make him heel– or maybe it’s simply because the act of defiance is exhausting, and being a dog that follows orders is easier than anything else.

… Though, Tartaglia thinks he'd like a rematch someday. Maybe on more even footing, though.

Chapter Text

It’s a bit vexing, having a model knight living in your house, under your direct command. It makes one feel both like a king, and wholly inadequate.

Indeed, if Percival has a reason to exist at all, it almost feels as though it’s to exemplify Diluc’s faults. Don’t get him wrong, they have plenty in common— too much, in fact, and that is precisely why Diluc finds himself lacking in comparison. Everything he is, Percival is more. The virtue he exudes and the kindness he shares— Diluc hides those things, but Percival wears them on his sleeve with pride, not to show them off, but because that is who he is. Percival might as well have knocked on his door and said ‘here’s the son your dead father always wanted, 22 years late’.

(Completely disregarding Kaeya filled that role as well.)

Every morning, when Diluc wakes up— ever since summoning him, he has to take a deep breath and prepare for what the staff has to say about Percival. The maids cannot stop fawning over him, and a few are fighting for the right to court him despite the fact that he is a spirit whose existence in this world will last only as long as the grail permits him to. Tunner often talks about how Guy can learn ‘a thing or two from a knight like that…!’ He seems to find Wyatt’s key before he’s even aware he’s lost it.

And today, Percival is helping in the kitchen.

It almost feels like he hired someone for no pay, whose sole job is to make him feel less like himself. And, apparently, make very good old-fashioned potato dishes.

He sees the white hair and strapping chest before he sees anything else, and immediately, something like disappointment seeps into him, a jaw set and a pursed frown. Yet, Percival doesn’t seem to notice this, thinking this is simply Diluc’s default.

(It is, but still.)

“Are we to search for the other servants today, Master? As you told me, there are two within Mondstadt’s walls--myself and your friend’s, right?”

“I’ll do my own investigation,” Diluc says, quickly cutting him off. For some reason, he can’t get himself to complying with the idea of ordering this guy around. If he’s to participate in this war, he wants to do it by himself. Win by himself. Sure, a servant may be necessary via participation, but that’s all they’re here for, right?

“... Master, I cannot be relegated to protecting your manor all the time. Sooner or later, enemy masters will try to hurt you.” He says, voice level and calm, but serious. “Dividing us only makes us weaker in a war like this.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Not against a servant. I’m sorry... even the weakest servant is twenty times the strength of an average man. We don’t know who have been summoned thus far.”

He doesn’t want to hear this from Percival.

Really, it’s kind of annoying to hear it from him. To be told outright, ‘you’re too weak’, only flares up the stubborn half of him in protest.

“... What do you suggest we do, then?”

“I suggest we collaborate with that friend of yours in town, and try to find the other five masters. You suggested they were likely going to be Fatui, right...? ... Then eliminating them while they might still be divided is the most reasonable choice.”

He picks up on the terms used fast-- at least in the terms of ‘Fatui = bad people who do bad things’.

(Which is another way of saying that Diluc hasn’t communicated with him much.)

The question was a trick. Of course, Diluc knew this was one of the few, if only, options he had available in front of him. Collaboration and Diluc go together like oil and water, especially when Kaeya seems to be aware of what’s happening.

Yet, he has delayed long enough, relying on his information network to bring him more news, yet it has brought him nothing of value. The most he knows is that there is another Master in Mondstadt, and they aren’t Fatui.

Which means anyone could have performed the ritual by now.

He decides to relent. Tonight, he’ll bring Percival to Mondstadt on his usual patrols. Archons willing, maybe they’ll learn something interesting.

He does learn there is a petty criminal running about, and a detective that just seems to be two steps ahead of him or one behind him on any given day.

Even Diluc knows of Shikanoin Heizou, which is quite a feat when he comes from the isolated Inazuman islands, but his appearance here is as conspicuous as rain on a sunny day-- he would not be here if not for a reason, and if that reason is a mystery pertaining to his current circumstances, then Diluc wants in on it.

He is lucky enough to find him at Angel’s Share when he clocks in for his shift, though he is alone. Percival steps inside after him and freezes.

“...”

Diluc pays him no mind.

He instead goes behind the bar where Heizou sits and sets himself to work, same as he always has. Percival pauses, before he steps outside, leaving Diluc alone with the other Master for a moment.

“What brings you here, stranger?” He asks, and Heizou sizes Diluc up the same he did Moriarty. However, the question doesn’t raise immediate flags— Diluc Ragnvindr is the well-known wine tycoon of Mondstadt, after all. However, the one thing Heizou doesn’t know is who the pirate’s Master is. He’s betting on it being someone important and influential in the city, but…

Hm.

“Wanted to travel,” Heizou says simply, as if he hasn’t sent his old, eccentric ‘uncle’ to scout the city for the pirate once more. It’s a little test of cooperation, though he definitely gave the order to not kill anyone, no matter what kind of war this is. “Heard Mondstadt had a gorgeous countryside and was worth visiting at least once.”

Diluc gives a ‘hm’, mixing together a sparkling drink of apple and fizz and pushing it towards him. No alcohol, since Diluc can’t quite tell his age, but it’s delicious nevertheless.

“A drink on the house, then, for a weary traveler. Apple cider.”

“Huh— generous of you. Thanks… is it a bribe of some kind?”

Diluc says nothing, and goes back to cleaning glasses. Heizou’s not stupid, not in the least— he knows someone like Diluc Ragnvindr wouldn’t do something like poison his drink, but he does think he must be involved if he’s not in the hobby of giving out free drinks to just anyone. That’s not how you make money, after all.

“… Hey, so,” Heizou begins, taking a sip of the cider. “Do you know anything about…”

“Master—!”

Percival opens the door, just short of the conversation getting to the good part. With a terse sigh, Diluc looks up at him.

“What, Percival?”

“A fight—! At the Knights’ headquarters!”

It does make Diluc stare for a second before he hurries around the side of the bar, following Percival, who, to his surprise, is followed by Heizou muttering something about ‘he better not have—’

The scene is a Natlani Standoff.

Moriarty, with his coffin gun pointed at Bartholomew. Bartholomew, with his flintlock pistol pointed dead on at Moriarty’s heart. The silence surrounding them is deafening, and will be broken soon enough.

— Oh, and Albedo with a bleeding arm on the ground.

Heizou is the first to grab Moriarty’s shoulder, yanking him back with a hiss. “What are you DOING?!”

“He fired first.”

“He was breaking in,” Bartholomew responds coolly, not moving his gun even an inch, “and when I fired the first shot, he aimed for my Master.”

“Wouldn’t have pulled the trigger if you hadn’t spooked me.”

“That’s a lie,” Bartholomew grits his teeth into a grin, “And you know it.”

Albedo groans, and Diluc hurries to his side— the knights are in chaos right now, some heading to get a doctor from the cathedral, others with swords drawn and pointed at Moriarty.

“Stand down, now,” Heizou hisses between his teeth, and Moriarty shrugs, lowering his coffin gun, letting it disappear from his hands. “You’ll be lucky if this isn’t treated as an international incident—”

“Ah, those are my specialty.” Moriarty's smug voice is incredibly punchable in the moment.

“Heizou—” Diluc begins as he makes an effort to stifle the bleeding. “You’re a master too, then?”

“Please don’t get me wrong— I asked this guy to scout the area, not to hurt anyone. He’s… I might have been dealt a bad hand.”

“Hey—” Moriarty is just a touch offended.

Heizou shoots him a glare, then hurries to Diluc’s side to help however he can. Being a detective, he knows a thing or two about heading onto scenes where there are victims and culprits— and therefore, is versed in how to help bandage a wound. However, it looks to him like those phantasmal bullets cut deep— “I really am sorry, and I really didn’t order him to do that.”

Albedo stares at him for a moment, sighing through his nostrils as he shakes his head.

“I’m less concerned about the wound and more worried about where it leaves me as a Master.”

“— you should really be more concerned about the wound,” Diluc huffs, and with their combined efforts, they manage to stifle the blood loss until Barbara gets there and helps, running cool hydro over the wound to both seal it up and clean it up as best she can.

“… what a strange grail war. It almost sounds like you three want to work together.” Moriarty murmurs, his mind running a mile a minute.

Heizou snaps, “Obviously! I didn’t join this war to fight anyone, just to—”

Diluc and Albedo raise their gaze and a brow at that.

“To keep it out of Fatui hands…?” Diluc hazards a guess.

“… yeah. I figured if they had one less participant, it’d be for the better. I didn’t count on being bound to such a troublemaker.”

Diluc sighs, helping Albedo to his feet by holding his good arm. As much as he’d like to continue this conversation outside of headquarters, Albedo needs rest first and foremost.

“We should talk about this in his office.”

Albedo sighs, and tests the stretch of his arm. He can’t move it much without aggravating it, and it leaves him a bit annoyed.

“… I obviously can’t participate anymore.”

Albedo says it with a light huff, looking at the scarring on his arm. What a pain… literally, metaphorically, you name it. It’s a shame, because he did have a wish. It’s a shame, because this would have been fascinating to see through to the end—

But he must give up his spot and his servant if he wants the two of them to succeed.

“Kaeya.” He lifts his gaze at the man who has just been told everything— and Kaeya immediately holds up both hands.

“No.”

“Then Jean—”

There’s a pause.

“… No. No, I’ll do it.” Kaeya’s jaw sets with a mild annoyance, like this is just his luck, but he’ll step forward. “If it means Jean doesn’t get involved, then…”

Albedo knew. That’s why he invoked the name of the Acting Grandmaster. Subtle manipulation on his part, but he knows Jean would run herself ragged in the name of helping people, and this kind of thing— this Grail War— is more suited to Kaeya’s skill set. He’ll take his hand and take a deep breath.

It takes some due concentration, but the command seals leave, one by one, and engrave themselves on Kaeya’s hand. Albedo looks truly disappointed, but he needs to heal and rest. He’s lucky he escaped with his life, thanks to a well-timed Geo shield.

“You’ll still use this place as a base, of course,” He suggests, “And if you need advice on how to proceed, I have a plan.”

“A plan…?” Heizou walks in. Diluc looks his way, a slight tilt of the head since Moriarty isn’t with him.

“… where’s your—”

“I asked him to bide his time in jail. I figured he deserved it.”

… Kaeya pauses, then snickers. “You put your heroic spirit in time out. That’s kind of funny…”

“Ah, your laughter is as bells, Master.” Bartholomew’s voice chimes in, “To think I’ll get to hear it all the time—”

“Shut up,” Kaeya snaps with a dangerous smile. “Your creepy fetish isn’t going to get in the way of my work.” He take a deep breath, and directs his attention back to his coworker. “Albedo, what was your plan?”

“… in broad strokes, it was to find and eliminate the Fatui participants. Once they’re gone, we’ll see if there’s any other master left. Then, we’ll see who has the best wish.”

He’s lying and a few of them know it, he knows that an all-powerful wish would be tempting in any hands and particularly in his own, and they have no idea just yet who possesses the other four servants. If they’re all Fatui, or if there’s one or two wild cards in the mix.

It’s a war with allies, sure, but it’s still divided.

“Hold on,” Heizou begins, and he realizes that in Mondstadt, they might not be aware of this— “Do any of you know about the missing archons?”

“… what?”

“Yeah, it’s a big deal in Inazuma. Ours went missing. I heard word it’s the same in Liyue and Natlan.” He continues… “Sumeru’s is usually out of sight as it is, and the only intel I didn’t have was Mondstadt’s, Fontaine’s, and Snezhnaya’s. People are panicking pretty badly— it’s not like our pursuer of Eternity to leave in the middle of the Vision Hunt Decree.”

… then it makes sense that that news would make it to Mondstadt last. The Archon of Mondstadt is out of sight, somewhat out of mind for most of its inhabitants, but Albedo clicks his tongue and looks to his ‘broken’ weather vane with a frown. So it wasn’t his imagination… the winds of Mondstadt really have left them behind.

“… it seems passing on the command seals was a good choice. I’ll have to investigate this on my own.” Albedo says, pushing himself to stand with his good arm. “The rest of you should know what to do then, right? … Find out who the other masters are. It’s best to stay two steps ahead of anyone in a war, after all.”

Percival, who has been silent this entire time, opens his mouth to speak.

“Where would you have us look? … The way I see it, all the Masters are scattered across continents, likely with the exception of us. It’s unusual— usually a Grail doesn’t have that much power over such a wide berth of land.”

“Oh…? It’s more concentrated, usually?”

“That’s correct, it’s usually just one city or an equivalent piece of land.”

Albedo rests his hand on his chin, lost in thought… in that case, they might be dealing with a grail that’s stronger than what these servants are used to. It’d be good to do research into what the Grail is, as well—

“I’ll look into it. In the meantime…”

He looks at Diluc and Kaeya, a bit knowingly.

“Can I count on you two to work together?”

Neither of them answer.

“I’ll start heading to the north,” Kaeya says. “The persona-non-grata should probably head towards Fontaine.”

Diluc scoffs, and the two of them leave.

It does give Albedo pause, but he looks at his vision with a slight frown. Despite it being the source of energy for the servants, and the thing that acts as a stand-in for magic circuits, he never actually felt himself drained much when he used it. It leave a few questions in his mind about the nature of visions, and what exactly they’re supposed to do.

… ah, he hopes the brothers manage to work it out between them. Otherwise, this’ll be a lot harder.

Heizou follows the two brothers and their servants outside of the Knights. Kaeya still has some paperwork for his leave to fill out, but he’ll look to Diluc in a slightly accusatory way.

“… Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“You already involved yourself in this nonsense, that’s already stupid enough.” Kaeya scoffs, walking forward with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“The Fatui—”

“Yeah, sure. The Fatui having this thing would be dangerous. But that doesn’t mean you have to be the one to—”

“It does.”

“Says who?”

“I was the one who received the letter. That means I was the one with the most access to—”

Percival and Bartholomew’s eyes bounce between the brothers in-between their argument. Though they hold no quarrel with each other as of yet, it still feels just a bit awkward and a little humbling to listen to an argument in the open like this. It makes Percival want to calm them both down, and Bartholomew want to egg them on.

“… there’s no point in arguing about it, is there?” Percival asks. “You two are both Masters, now. The fact that you can work together is a blessing.”

“The hell it is,” Kaeya mutters underneath his breath. The wording makes Percival pause, wondering if he should really get involved here, or just listen to whatever Diluc says— no, this kind of infighting wouldn’t have been tolerated at the Round Table, and neither should he tolerate it, either.

“… well, if it’s not a blessing, then at least it’s another ally for you to work with.” He’ll pause, looking to Diluc. “We’re headed to this place called Fontaine?”

“Mm, we should at least figure out where the Archon of Fontaine went, and if they have any information for us. Their Archon gives many public appearances, after all, so Fontaine would likely be the most direly affected by her absence.”

Heizou pauses… he should continue his own investigation. Maybe his investigation should be to locate this Grail to begin with, as it seems to be the source of trouble and a magnet for danger.

Ah, damn, that means he has to get Moriarty out of jail himself— but as if the devil was spoken of, he appears next to him, and Heizou purses his lips.

“Couldn’t sit still?”

“You forget bars cannot hold me, Master. Besides, it was rather dingy and medieval in there. Hardly comforting.”

… well, regardless of what card he drew, he did indeed draw it. Moriarty might be a troublemaker who both shoots first and asks questions at the same time, he needs to trust him as an ally, at the very least. He looks at the command seals on his hand, hoping they’ll be enough to either help or control him.

“We’re headed to Sumeru,” Heizou says. “If anyone has information on this, it’d be the Akademiya.”

“… understood, Master.”

Chapter Text

The cold dissipates with time, as if the tempest of a storm that brought it has faded away. While the temperature remains cold enough to keep snow frozen on the ground, no more falls. Artoria, who was summoned during a blizzard, wonders if its absence is an omen or blessing.

She has asked questions; many, in fact, about the archons and why the Cryo archon seemed to know more about the Grail War than anyone else in Teyvat. Capitano answers subtly, saying that their archon has pursued many means of striking back at Celestia, and traced many leads; the fact that she knew of it is a testament to her commitment to research. It simply never bore any more trails to follow until now, until it showed itself and it drew the attention of the divine— at least, that is most likely. It’s hard to study something that hadn’t appeared, after all.

Though it does make him wonder, too. What traces of old magic she found, how she managed to figure out that visions can be used in place of these things called circuits. Maybe it’s an old Khaenri’an or Sumeran field of study…? She always was incredibly invested in the former. Even so, he can’t say he’s ever heard of it, and he was very much there.

She tells him, while Cu and Tartaglia trail behind them, that their world is incredibly different from her own. That the modern day here is somewhere between her Camelot and the modern day of Earth. That this world, in its strict divide between nations, weather, culture, and advancements, seems quite strange to her. Sometimes, she looks back at Cu to see if he has anything to add, which is of course, never.

With her blue cloak materialized over her shoulders, Artoria speaks only of things she thinks will be important to this particular grail war; it’s not specifically about a wish, but to rescue a leader of a nation— seven leaders of seven nations, to be precise. The wish and the other combatants aren’t necessarily even enemies in this case, unless the other factions managed to summon them. 

If the deck is indeed all Fatui, then she won’t even need to worry about crossing blades with another servant. Indeed, the fight will probably only be with gods.

No big deal… right.

By the time they reach the palace, the weather is downright mellow in a way that bothers the locals— or would, if they weren’t incredibly preoccupied with the loss of their leader. To say they’re in chaos is an understatement, and the Harbingers likely worry that the small pockets of resistance will crop up even more in her absence.

A woman greets them at the door, one Capitano is not familiar with but the two servants with them recognize immediately as another servant. Her pink hair and fox ears perched atop her head sets her out among the regular humans, after all, but it’s her smile, dangerous and deadly, that makes both Saber and Berserker realize that in a proper Grail War, they’d be dealing with one hell of an opponent in her.

In fact, both of them recognize something…

Her class is hard to discern… but that might just be because they haven’t been told it yet.

Both servants fall silent as they’re led within the palace and meet with the other Harbingers, and quickly, it becomes clear that only one other managed to summon that servant they met earlier. Unusual, considering that there are usually some stationed at the palace— Then again, the Harbingers that were here scattered like buckshot in search of their queen. The whole palace was in shock.

(And, of course, the person to receive the letters was a spy. It certainly did not help that the delivery of the letters was deliberately obscured and delayed.)

It is Pierro who receives them, and asks them if they carried out her majesty’s will in time, glancing over at the servants by their side— it must test his patience that a former court mage was not able to carry out something so sacred as her instructions in time, but he also wanted to research the ritual as best he could. The lapse in time meant he performed the ritual just after Tartaglia did, and therefore—

— it bore nothing.

The meeting will be long. If only three of them managed to summon a servant, then they must eliminate the other four. Thankfully, the cards drawn seem to be powerful ones— Capitano’s, in particular, is the most powerful card in the deck. Their orders and directions are clear— find the other masters, and kill them and their servants. Then, work together to seize the wish.

… it bothers them both, Tartaglia and Capitano, that Dottore was the third. He will treat this like an experiment possibly to their own detriment, but what’s done is done.

Their third orders are to try and track down Her Majesty after, but not to engage her until they use the wish to break the curse holding her mind. Once the meeting is settled, Artoria looks to her Master with a pause… the other harbingers, the ones who did not summon a servant, are on intel duty and tasked with searching the nations for any clues with a couple of them remaining in the Palace.

“Where will you head first?” She asks.

“Dottore is headed to Fontaine, Tartaglia to Mondstadt. It’d be wise to split the difference and head towards Liyue.”

She nods…

It’s funny. She usually hungers for mana or any way she can replenish it, be it food or whatnot, and don’t get her wrong, she usually is hungry, but— her master almost seems to be like a perfectly efficient battery. He wasn’t noticeably weakened by summoning her, nor does it exert him much to keep her sustained. Though she knows it isn’t her place, she wishes to ask him about it.

…

Maybe on the trip there.

A cloudy grey sky casts over the Chasm.

It practically feels like nightfall, the way it hangs overhead. Thunder brews in the sky, the scent of ozone thick in the air. The wind brews and whines with a churning gust, almost tornado-like in nature, fixating on a center point within the bottom of the chasm. Lightning cracks, a natural source of energy that isolates on this particular summoning like a metal rod.

Holy Grail wars don’t always require a Ruler, but when the conditions are right, one will be brought forth. Divided factions, the sanctity of the ritual at stake… there could be no more perfect weather. And so, as lightning strikes the ground that go deeper and deeper within the spiral into the earth, one person watches this discordant weather in curiosity— knowing that the weather here is not often so easily affected.

Dainsleif watches, momentarily blinded by a close-by lightning strike, and feels something reach into his skull; he’s a man with a lot on his plate already, so when something— some thing, asks him to be the anchor for the arbiter, he’s half-tempted to tell that voice to leave him alone, he’s dealing with enough, but the thing does not listen to his voice. Rather, it listens to his burning curiosity, and takes that as permission.

The light clears, and a man stands where the last bolt was. A dark blue hood drawn over his head, heavy pauldrons of silver decorating his shoulders. Fabric drapes from his chest plate down, flowy and elegant, and though Dainsleif quite can’t see his face… there is something undeniably exalted about this figure. More than a knight, yet less than a deity. He has yet to notice the seals carved into his hand and arm, but wonders if he should even approach this person born of a storm.

It’s as if he knows his already complex life will get even more complicated if he does, yet cannot help the curiosity that helped choose him. Dainsleif steps out of the shadows, his eyes transfixed on the stranger who has yet to notice him.

And then, he does.

He sees a glimmer of something beneath the shadow of his hood, this mysterious stranger’s eyes widening in surprise. He turns to face him, and only now does Dainsleif get a better look at him. The eyes that stare back at him are a sharp, seaglass green.

Yet, the hood hides all else.

“… what are you?” He asks, and the question itself feels foolish; like something inside of him demands that he innately know who this is, despite having no clue nor ever having seen him in his life. The man pauses, carefully considering his answer before he finally speaks.

“A Ruler…” He begins, looking to Dainsleif’s gloved hand, “And you are my Master.”

They’re words that necessitate a lot of explanation. And yet—

He remembers them.

Not strongly— not… in great detail. But there were legends of something that appeared here before Celestia did. A pathway, a connection, a thing linked to another world. It was a very niche area of study, because it was deemed useless rather quickly, a fairytale that might have been forged as a prophecy. Just an old relic that likely now lays in the ruins of Khaenri’ah, unable to help it in its darkest hour and unable to use that untapped potential for hundreds of years.

So why… why, instead of when they needed it… is it awake now? Why did it choose him? Is it because he’s not part of the Seven nations?

“… that’s not what I meant. What are you? What is a Ruler, and why have you chosen me, of all people?”

“It is the Grail’s will. As for your other question, I am not one who seeks the Grail, which is why I’m the Ruler for this war. I… am a traveler from beyond the stars, on the hunt for a Beast.”

“You keep mentioning a war.”

“Seven servants and masters have been chosen…” Ruler walks forward, looking up from where the lightning struck, leaving behind a pattern on the ground. “… Likely, seven people who belong to different factions, with their own reason for seeking the Grail. They will begin their battles soon enough. I’m just the judicator. Impartial to the fight and here to make sure the rules are followed.”

“… Is the Grail really what they said it was? … Is it really a device that can grant any wish?”

“Yes and no. Though this Grail is a bit… different.”

“Different?”

“The Grail I am used to, the one that I know…” Ruler begins walking the circular path that leads upward, out of the chasm, “Requires something like a working method, or a path to granting a wish. Asking for money or power is easy, all you need to do is claim it from others, but if you specify something like ‘world peace’, you had better know the method to attaining it.”

Dainsleif follows, listening intently. So… it can be a wish for anything, but the pathway to having it must be clearly described. Otherwise, the results could be catastrophic… even in the best person’s hands, a device like this only serves to complicate things.

“Yet…” Ruler continues. “As I said, this one is different. A miraculous world begets a miraculous Grail. The rules are a bit looser. The power the players stand to gain, a bit more. Though the rules are still in play, of course.”

Things would be easier if it simply didn’t come here at all. If it stayed in its own world, trapped in its own cycle, but it seems that idle wishes like that won’t get them anywhere, and the only wish that can get them somewhere—

— is out of Dainsleif’s reach, at the very least. A Ruler can’t possess a wish for the Grail, after all, but Dainsleif himself has many, many things he would ask for if an omnipotent wish-granting device asked him what he wanted.

“… Am I allowed to compete for it?” He asks. “As your Master.”

“…” Ruler blinks. Huh. He thought… he would be attached to someone with no desire for the grail, either? Though maybe it’s a more basic temptation. Maybe it’s simple curiosity. Either way, the answer is the same.

“No,” Ruler answers. “I am not allowed to compete for it, and to be up against seven servants, you would surely die.”

Dainsleif feels an urge that rarely comes to him, and succumbs to it.

He laughs.

The King of Knights.

That was the title she used.

It haunts him, almost. A distraction in his own mind. The strongest card is a knight, and the knight in front of him is a king. It invokes memories, but he does not know her well yet, not enough to tell her about him, not enough to ask about her. She is a weapon and is content to be used that way, so why…

It is probably her eyes. That’s where he displaces blame, that way she stares straight ahead with a rigid back and her chin held high. A young woman who is older than him, yet a fraction of his height with no less stature. Artoria Pendragon has many conflicting features, yet she carries them with grace. She carries herself like a king even though she isn’t one in this world and isn’t one any longer in her own.

He wants to say it bothers him, but it’s really more the subject of intense curiosity within his own mind, and he convinces himself it’s in his mind where it will remain. As they travel together, splitting up with Cu and Tartaglia after the meeting is over, Artoria will get into the carriage that will carry them to Liyue, sitting across from him with her hands folded over her lap.

And there is a stretch of silence between them, as she searches his helmet for his gaze and only detects a slight glimmer of blue.

“…” She pauses before she finds the words she wishes to speak. “It is a heavy burden on you, is it not?”

“It is not a burden.”

“Not your task.” She says. “Your…” She falters, struggling to put it into words, what she can sense from him, unaware that it is a matter of the soul— or perhaps aware of it, but unaware of its manifestation.

“…” Instead of bring up himself, he decides to ask her a question.

“Your blade,” He says. “Excalibur.”

“Yes…?”

“… There is something unique about it too, isn’t there? … Though there is plenty that is unique simply about you, too.”

“… Excalibur is the manifestation of the wishes of mankind.” She says. “… It is a representation of my hope, and what I carry for the sake of humanity. It is the wish of every warrior, dying on the battlefield, crystallized from their common desire, to be exalted… ”

“It is… a beautiful blade.” He remarks, though he regrets the words chosen. It’s more than simply beautiful. In fact, that word may diminish its value entirely, to simply call it beautiful. As if ‘beauty’ is its only trait worth noting, when there is so much more beneath the surface, just like the person who carries it.

“…” She pauses… and though she might insist with anyone else that the word to be used is sacred, she understands why he chose ‘beautiful’. It’s rare that a weapon of war is ever beautiful, ever radiant, ever anything else than a bloodstained relic of death, but Excalibur is and always will be more than that.

“It is…” She falters for a moment, “A blessing and an honor to wield it. But also, it is…”

Her stomach growls.

… it could not be at a more inopportune time, but he chastises himself for it. Of course she’d be hungry, they never stopped for a meal anywhere. He forgot that since he doesn’t really eat, that she might need to. 

And so, once they cross into the territory of Liyue, they stop at Wangshu Inn, and he asks her to order whatever she likes.

… with anyone else, that might be a mistake, given how much Artoria can eat on a given basis, but he is both not hurting for money and he wants her to be at peak strength at all times. She opens the menu and skims it, ordering practically half of it once she asks him if it’s all right. Normally, she’s not so polite as to restrain herself, as it is her Master’s duty to make sure she’s in fighting shape… but he simply nods and says she can have whatever she wants.

… it’s funny.

It’s been so long since he’s enjoyed things like food. Things like this, things like company. Yet, Artoria reminds him of better times, places in the past he’s never forgotten. Ideals that he’s never let go of. As she tries every dish, it makes him wish that his rotted body could enjoy it once more. She lifts her gaze towards him and asks if he’ll be eating— he says no.

She frowns.

“A warrior cannot go on an empty stomach.”

“It is not a concern I presently have… though.”

“Though?”

“It is nice to watch you enjoy what I can’t anymore.”

She falters… ah, so it’s not an issue of him denying food, but rather being incapable of eating it… in that case, she resolves to enjoy everything in front of her, for his sake. Though she’s not hurting for mana and therefore doesn’t need to convert the food in front of her into raw energy, it’ll still be good to have it in reserve.

“… you were a knight as well, once, weren’t you?”

“You can tell?”

“It’s something that never leaves someone…” She murmurs. “I was a king, after all, and I knew my Round Table knights well. I… wish they were here, but I have yet to know if any of them have been summoned as my enemy.”

“…”

Ah, he wouldn’t wish that on her, yet he doesn’t know that’s exactly the case. In either case, he’ll let her finish the meal, and they can rest here for the evening. There’s still quite a ways to go until Liyue Harbor, and even then—

He’s not sure what they’ll find there.

Chapter Text

“You know, you don’t really say anything, huh?”

Cu, predictably, says nothing in turn. He’s learned more or less that Tartaglia provoking him into speaking only works if he obliges. Tartaglia thrives on engagement, and he will get none from a man like him, who thinks it’s a pain to even smile at someone on the best of days.

Even so, Tartaglia knows better than to provoke him beyond that. He nearly died because he couldn’t amuse Cu, and that… honestly, might be something he has in common with his Servant. Tartaglia has some pretty wild years of violence behind him, and a few people have earned to keep their necks (or lost them) by virtue of keeping himself entertained. As the cold weather melts away, the breezes of Mondstadt have always felt warm and welcoming in comparison. He looks to Cu with a pause, glancing up and down at his… eccentric way of dressing.

“You really can’t show up in Mondstadt covered in thorns.” He says, and Cu scoffs, an eyeroll he doesn’t bother to hide. Wordlessly, he disappears beside Tartaglia, asking him if he forgot he was a spirit.

“… so sassy,” Tartaglia replies, staring where he once was. As they head down one of the rolling hills towards the one bridge that will lead them into the city proper, he wonders if he should ask Cu anything about himself— anything at all. If he’ll even answer is a mystery, yet… Tartaglia wants to know more about him.

“Just who are you, Cu Chulainn?” He eventually posits, walking through the wilderness. “You’re a hero of humanity, right? I’ve never heard of you.”

“That’s because we’re on loan to this world, temporarily.” Cu answers from beside him, though Tartaglia can’t see him. “I come from a planet called Earth and a nation called Erin… though my time has long since passed, and it’s now called Ireland.”

“What’s it like?”

“Hm?”

“What’s it like? Your home.”

… many things come to mind. The endless wars, the way that humanity is continually put through the wringer by the selfish and those too big to see it as anything but a nest of ants. Though… he thinks Childe is asking about Erin itself.

“… it was fine.”

“Fine? That’s all? No love of your homeland?”

“Another version of me, likely if I were summoned in Lancer-class, would take pride in his home and legend. I take pride in nothing… that which exalted me as a hero was also what condemned me into being in servitude to humanity for all of time.”

“Do you… hate that?”

Cu does not answer directly, with either a yes or a no.

“It’s tiring.”

“But it sounds—”

“What? Sounds fun? … You’re really a child in disguise, aren’t you? Is that why they call you Childe?” Cu derides him. “Even so… I won’t complain about it. I have always existed to fight. That doesn’t change regardless of my class.”

“You just said it’s tiring.”

“It is. One’s purpose is often tiring. I exist to kill and be killed. I exist to fight and be fought. A warrior’s existence necessitates conflict. That’s why it’s tiring.”

Tartaglia hums as he listens to his words, and Cu’s red gaze glowers at him slightly… he knows. He knows the reason Tartaglia does not find such things tiring, yet— he’s young. The thrill of battle is still the most alluring thing to him, it’s not a perpetual cycle, at least not yet. He has not died by the blade, lived again, and died again. He has not encountered a single thing that would crush his spirit.

… then again, Cu died the same way. Young and standing. Laughing at an otter’s greed in drinking up his fallen blood. Though it does not worry him, he thinks he sees the same thing in Tartaglia. A fast-lived life with no regrets.

… ugh. Doesn’t he know to live that way is the same as wishing for death? It’s pitiful. Yet, it flares up something in Cu he has always thought long since buried, a desire to win. Not for his own sake, but to keep this stupid Master of his alive long enough to see the error of his ways.

As they approach the city proper, Tartaglia pauses and glances around… he knows a servant can sense other servants, but—

“Do you feel anyone around here?” He asks. “Another servant, another master?”

“…” Cu pauses as he takes in the lay of the land, tall buildings and slowly rotating windmills. He does think there’s someone here, but…

“Hard to say. Could be magecraft, could be a servant.”

It’d be bad to fight someone within the walls of such a small city, he thinks… nevertheless, his orders are what they are. Find and eliminate the other masters, no room for misinterpretation.

“Go look for another servant,” Tartaglia says, crossing the bridge, preparing to deal with the guards by way of smooth-talking and insisting that he’s only here to talk to his foreign dignitaries. “I’ll try and locate the master.”

“Your orders if I find them?”

“Kill them.”

… Cu grins.

At the very least, Tartaglia gives orders befitting a grail war. Some are not so bold.

Kaeya stares into his mug of beer with a slight frown. Man, of all the shitty jobs to be stuck with, being the Master of some weird guy with a weird fetish that applies to you has to be the worst. He’d rather be doing paperwork right now, and that says a lot.

At the very least, he sent Bartholomew out to scout the city for anyone suspicious, so that means he’s out of his hair for now. He tips back the beer, which is not as good as the wine— but Charles is not so easily bullied to silently get out the good stuff for Kaeya. He knows he could just pay for it, but—

Man… Diluc better not be getting himself killed in Fontaine, he idly ponders. Who knows who or what he could run into there.

The sound of the bell above the door gets his attention, though he doesn’t look over his shoulder just yet.

“Evening,” He says, the new figure sitting next to him, directing his question at Charles. “A beer, please?”

Kaeya glances around him… all the other bar stools aren’t even taken. This guy just sat next to him for no reason. He lifts his gaze to look to the side, seeing a ginger-haired man sitting next to him who he’s never seen before in his life.

…

Kaeya puts on a friendly smile.

“What brings you here, stranger?” And the stranger turns to look at him, and he doesn’t speak for a few seconds, though Kaeya can see him opening and closing his mouth in a slightly goldfish-like fashion. After his mental reboot, he puts on a winning smile.

“Heard the windmills were nice,” He says, and Kaeya scoffs.

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Nah, I can do better. Maybe… it’s a more temperate climate than Snezhnaya? … Well, except for Dragonspine. Dragonspine reminds me a lot of home.” He says with an easy chuckle, and Kaeya gives a slightly fake one in turn. What the hell is a Harbinger doing in his city walls? And bold enough to come to Angel’s Share…? This man is lucky Diluc is out of town, or Tartaglia would be staring down one livid bartender. At the very least, Kaeya recognizes him as the youngest one. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why he suddenly might be in Mondstadt with that half-baked excuse.

“Tell me why, really.” Kaeya asks, a little bit of sternness in his voice.

“On the hunt for a special person, you could say.”

“Oh…?”

Their conversation is interrupted with a crash, and Kaeya immediately stands up. Without giving the Harbinger another second of his time, he walks towards the source of the sound, pace gaining speed with each step. He hears the Harbinger get up and follow him out, and one of the knights immediately approaches him.

“Sir Kaeya—!”

“Tell me what happened.”

“All I saw was a flash of red, and then something attacking your friend, over the east gates—”

Kaeya immediately takes off, sword called to his hand, and he hears footsteps that follow him.

“Mister Harbinger,” he says with a warning shot hidden in his voice. “If you start an international incident here, it won’t be well received.”

“… there was already one taking place, when letters meant for Harbingers were stolen and distributed south of Snezhnaya.”

Kaeya’s gaze is full of annoyance. See, he told you it was stupid to get involved, Diluc!

In either case, he’ll head towards where he heard the crash, out past the lake, freezing a bridge of ice that Tartaglia just happens to take advantage of as well before it disappears.

It’s not an even match.

Even though there are many servants with skills that compensate for another’s strength, this isn’t one of those cases. The cannonfire that Bartholomew calls forth and casts out through these woods may take chunks out of trees, but Cu is too fast to be caught by even one. He narrowly avoids the thorny spear thrown at his head by making Cu dodge one such blast, else Kaeya’s participation in the war would have ended in a blink of an eye.

The spear is called back to Cu’s hands, and Bartholomew tries to think— he’ll have an advantage if he makes it out to the sea, and the cliff sides hide an open ocean behind them. There, he can activate his noble phantasm of a proper fleet, and hopefully blast this foolish berserker through the stratosphere—

Though Cu is no ordinary berserker. Madness doesn’t seem to affect him the way it affects others. It does not impede his thought or clarity, it manifests independently as another kind of affliction.

All of those thoughts come to a complete stop as he hears another clash of blades just short of him and Cu— and he even sees Cu stop to turn around and listen closer— to something like a sound barrier cracking as something lands nearby.

Dread seeps into Bartholomew. He’s been warned of beings with supreme strength that are currently hunting servants down— this lands’ gods, the archons. Cu seems to realize something is wrong too, because he turns around and changes course to where they both heard that blasting noise…

It’s…

Quite a sight.

A young man, covered in green, thorny lines— not vines, lines, reaching into his eyes and covering his bare skin, standing in-between their two masters, crashed onto the ground from the impact of this strange figure.

He pants. Barbatos’ jaw clenches as he looks to Kaeya… and Kaeya stares, like he knows what this is, yet doesn’t want to believe it—

“Venti?” His voice, scarcely a whisper, asks.

“S̶̢̩̻̹̫̫̣̙̪̳̻͕͒̈́̽́͒͠ṭ̸̨̨̱̼͈̞̙͙̙͇͓͈͓͇̱̃̄̌̊́͒̆̊̚̚̚̚͝o̸̘̔̇̆̏̈́͗́̇̈́͛̀͊̀̚͝p̷̧̨̛̰̗̲̦͕͔̫̪͍̮̘̱͚̺͛̊͛͆͊̎̒̔̂́̅̈̾̐͘͜͝.̵͕̝̞͙̯̗̩̪̙͍̩͙̟̳̝͕̎̌͋̇̓͘.̷̛̠̪͉̝̻͎̈́̒̏́͗̓̽̈́͑̆͗̕̕͘͝.̷̘͆̌̊͐.̵̨̗̗̗̥̺̥̗̘̮̼̟̈́̃̚͜ ̸̡̨̰̗̗̗̱̦̯̫̦̩̩̥͕͓̉̈̓̐̒̆͆͝ͅs̷̛̱͉͇̄͛̈́̿̐̌̒̀͘͝t̴̢̢̛̛͖̗̠͖̮̺̤̙̙̔̓̿͒́̑̀̎̿̾ͅo̵͙͎͇̖̍́̔̊̎͠͝ṗ̶̟̖̯̞̇͌̋͐́̔̉̾͆̍!̴̣̲̙̯̮̉̐̀̋̑̿̍̈͊̈͘”

His voice is an echo distorted, a plea for help for no one who will listen. Kaeya stands, but it is a mistake— as he’s instantly fired backwards with the raw power of anemo into a tree, a guttural grunt escaping his chest. Ice is sharp, it can’t cushion the blow of anything, but he’s surprised when his former enemy, Tartaglia, whistles at Venti to try and get his attention.

“You—” He snaps. “Over here.”

One couldn’t tell if it’s an insane bid for time or not, but Bartholomew hurries over to his Master and picks him up, and it becomes clear that he needs to get them out of there fast— but bringing this chaos to the city would be a nightmare…

Maybe his plan of summoning his ship on the seaside could save them, though… to hide in plain sight.

Bartholomew runs, and a blur of red rushes past his eyes to join the fight of his Master. The berserker, at least, might put up a fight against a literal god. Or, he’ll get them both killed. A distraction is welcome either way.

Summoning his ship, Bartholomew hurries up to the shore where it sits. His artillery is already loaded, so if anything comes after them, he’ll at least be more prepared for them here. Gently, he sets Kaeya on the floor of the ship, resting his hand over where the wound seems to be at its worst.

“Oh, my sweet peek-a-bangs—” he sighs. “They’re definitely on the level of servants, or greater— but why did he attack yo—”

“Shut up.” Kaeya groans. With double vision, he sits up and looks around, noticing that familiar ginger on the shore… he must have just ran up.

“…” He doesn’t have a weapon drawn. “What do you want?”

Tartaglia falters before he asks, “… Truce? For now, anyway? Can I come aboard?”

Kaeya grits his teeth as he forces himself to stand. “… You’re abandoning your servant?”

“…” Tartaglia seems almost agitated by those words. “No, I just— he said it’d be smarter if I got away first, that we’ll meet up later.”

… Kaeya knows this could be bullshit, that being stranded aboard a ship with this guy could be danger, and Bartholomew looks at him like ‘Master, you’re not seriously considering this, are you…?’ … But Kaeya, whether he likes it or not, is more merciful than he acts. He waves him aboard, thinking having this guy as an ally (or at least, as a truce) is better than having him as an enemy, especially with what they’re contending with.

Tartaglia hurries aboard, and Bartholomew wastes no more time. He has the ship shove off, setting out to sea. He worries it might not be much help with a god that can fly, but maybe it’ll get them out of sight for now.

“How are you going to meet up with him?” Kaeya asks, and Tartaglia pulls off his gloves to stare at his command seals for a moment…

Once they’re a good distance away from the shore, he’ll burn one up, whispering come back to me.

In an unceremonious thud, Cu lands on the deck. Seems like these seals really are their own version of overpowered… but he only has two more left to rely on.

He’s covered in blood, and tragically, most of it is his own. He pants, kneeling as he brings himself up to wipe away the drying blood dripping from his brow. He stinks of death, and Tartaglia himself feels a bit woozy, but he was warned, after all, that expending a lot of energy would be like overtaxing his Vision. He crouches to the ground before sitting with a thud.

“… You didn’t kill Barbatos, did you?” Tartaglia asks, a little wary, and Kaeya’s head shoots up and looks at Cu.

“Couldn’t,” Cu groans. “… Was going to, but you called me here.”

“You’re practically at death’s door yourself—” Tartaglia frowns a little, moving closer to him, but Cu waves him off.

“… why was Ven—Barbatos like that? … It’s true, then? All the Archons are being controlled?”

“To find and kill the servants, and destroy the grail. Yeah, that’s… the gist of it. Her Majesty is gone, too.”

It’s a lot for Kaeya to have to accept and deal with, even if he’s not a fan of the archons, that is his drinking buddy, at the very least… ugh, but that just makes it an even more sour note. His drinking buddy, is responsible for…

He looks to Bartholomew. “Do you know where you’re headed?”

“We could go the long way around… I did study your maps while I was in your office. We could land at the south shore and return to Mondstadt, but I doubt it’d be safe.”

He pauses…

“Then, is it correct to assume neither of you have wishes?” He directs the question at both Tartaglia and Kaeya.

“Yeah,” One answers as the truth and the other, a lie.

“… maybe this is less of a grail war against servants, then.” He hums, returning to the helm. “Maybe this is against your gods.”

“That’s… insane.” Tartaglia laughs, trying to brush it off as a joke. “But… are you saying that we should try to make friends, with the other servants, then?”

“Considering every servant-master pair will be hunted to death by the gods, it certainly means strength in numbers.” Bartholomew spins the wheel to turn the ship around. “We are better right now as allies than enemies. It might be for the best to consider that, don’t you think? At least, that’s what I think.”

Kaeya leans against the wall of the ship, still feeling exhausted from that encounter… so what are they supposed to do? Break the archons’ mind control?

…

He pauses, when he realizes that’s probably it. The answer.

“… do you think there’s any way to interfere with Celestia’s orders?” He directs the question at Tartaglia.

“Our Majesty’s plan before this all went to hell was to claim the gnoses from each archon by any mean’s necessary,” He answers. “Maybe that’s how they commune? … Maybe that’s what we need to get away from them.”

It seems more hectic, more trouble than it’s worth, but people that Kaeya cares about will probably be killed if they don’t find a more permanent solution.

“Bart. Do you know the way to Fontaine from here? From the maps you studied?”

“I can get us there. You’re talking to a master navigator, after all.”

“… I need to meet up with my brother. See what he’s found out.” He sucks in a breath. “Jean won’t be happy about me disappearing on short notice… again, but it can’t be helped. Not when so much is at stake.”

Tartaglia looks to Kaeya with a knowing glance. Ah, if the shoe were on the other foot, his own first instinct would be to find family, too.

“… Alright, sounds good. I promise I won’t start a fight. Especially if this is us versus them and not us versus us.”

“I would make you walk the plank if you tried anything,” Bartholomew hums. “Or maybe just fill you with lead—”

“Bart, shut up.” Kaeya repeats himself, before he looks to Tartaglia with a begrudgingly grateful look. “… Until the time it changes, you have my word, too.”

With that, Kaeya forces himself to stand, and Tartaglia hurries over to him to check out his wounds— he knows a great deal about field medicine, having to patch his own so much.

Cu, meanwhile, slumps near the mast. There’s nothing to be done about his wounds other than to soak up his Master’s mana, and so he will.

 Bart shrugs, rolling his shoulders as he stares out at the horizon. The call of the sea has always been strong in his heart, and he takes to it like a fish to water.

And it certainly beats fighting on land, all things considered.