rhongomyniad

even if it is not the edge of the world, a world like this is beautiful. my spear will protect this brilliance. lancer altria, goddess rhongomyniad, for eidolon path.

[holycities]

lamaldat·:

@holycities

Ah, he didn’t like this.

That morning, Angra Mainyu had gone The Crystal to have a full breakfast before he headed to the forest. He had made an habit of it; there was something comforting in a routine that he could not explain. It should not fit him, considering his tendency to do whatever he wanted at any moment, but he found out he liked to have a schedule. Even if it was only as a reminder that he actually had things to do and so he will never be bored.

It had been then when he saw her roaming the frozen streets. That golden hair, that air in which he carried herself; a jewel, almost divine amongst the snow and the common folk. It made his heart skip a beat. He might have been captivated even if he hadn’t recognized the frame of that woman, even if it was different from what he remembered.

The memories came like a torrent in his mind. A girl enjoying a well made dinner with a content smile on her face. A girl playing with children, for a moment forgetting her duties and the heavy burden she always carried on her shoulder. A girl, smiling back at him warmly with her profile outlined against the sunset. 

He felt so dizzy that he thought he would spit out his breakfast the way it came. 

He had followed her then without a second thought. There was no actual reason for Avenger to do this, and he realized quick enough that it was a waste of his time but he clung to it. To her, to her vision, to those precious memories she awakened with her mere presence. Even if he always told himself to not grow attached, the days he spent as Emiya Shirou filled him with a warm wistfulness. 

For the first time since he arrived, Angra Mainyu wished he could turn into a shadow just so he could hide his presence better. He did not want to catch her attention, of that King of Knights that he recognized but was not the one he knew. It was not conversation what he sought, nor recognition, just the memories and the feelings they brought. That was all he needed.

Ah, no, he didn’t like this. Begone, fickle emotions. Before he found himself yearning for things he couldn’t have. 

today--today, your shoulders are loose for the first time. you hadn’t realized how tight the muscles were coiled there, knotted from stress and rage both at the base of your neck, until the tension started to go out of them, and then they began to ache. ah, what a hassle; not the soreness, but the fact that you’ve let yourself settle long enough to feel it. even in the greatest days of the holy city, there was never this level of rest.

a king always has something to attend to, until he doesn’t. and then what? can he still call himself a king?

there is a different weight bearing down on you, now, and you recognize it only from memories of the looks in the eyes of your knights. not the loyal ones, the gifted ones, the beloved handful who stayed by your side. the rest, knelt in sand and dust, red blood and white bone. kay. he’d looked at you with such sorrow in his eyes, hadn’t you? resignation, defeat, pity. it stings to remember--so you distract yourself.

and the distraction for today is a journey of discovery. nothing grand; just a walk from the center of town to the greenhouse, half desperate for the sight of something more than white on white on white. alone, as you’d planned it. only--someone seems to have decided otherwise for you--and you would ignore them, the soft shuffle of their feet through snow, the careful way they match their pace to yours, except that inside the cage of your ribs saber is singing.

(resignation, defeat, pity. which of those feelings are yours, goddess? which of those feelings is saber running through your marrow and disguising as your own?)

and eventually you stop, just outside the glassgreen’s doors, staring through glass and the shadow of your own reflection. you do not turn; your voice carries well enough. “if you have business with me, it would be wise to hurry up and state it. i am not known for my patience.”

[holycities]

itlilauh·:

“   Calm down.  ”   He sighs, and motions to the villagers dispersing opposite either way. From his pocket, he’ll remove an unlit cigarette and place it between chapped lips; he turns the cerise lighter wheel, plumes of smoke exiting from the spaces between his bony fingers.  

If he looks at her too hard, she reminds him of someone he knew in another life. Her face a pale gem cupped by gold foils, her likeness to Saber is almost uncanny, though not exact. This woman lacks Saber’s shadow of naivety. She is as vain as Saber was humble. 

Their most common denominator? They both aggravate him. In his head, it’s enough to mark them one. 

“   Welcome to the modern age, where there are no kingdoms. I suggest you learn to adapt to the times or risk finding yourself dutifully disappointed.  ”   He turns to look over his shoulder.  “   You are not my king; I will kneel for no one. Humble yourself a little, and maybe I’ll consider humoring you in conversation. Though, a word of advice: an emperor is nothing without his empire, a king is nothing without his kingdom, but - as you are- a raging megalomaniac.  ”

you want to snatch the cigarette from between his lips and crush it in your fist, or drive the burning tip into the exposed skin of his throat, or any number of other things. you want to put all the weight of your armor behind a bullrush strike and knock him into the snow, fingers round his neck and squeezing, or any number of other things. you want to get your breath back, rasping out of your lungs like each shaky exhale is a trial, or any number of other things.

you don’t know who wants any of this more; you, or the saber tucked away behind your breastbone, screaming. ah--she’s so loud--your ears are ringing.

“you have no right,” you repeat, each word forced out through teeth gritted so hard your jaw is starting to ache. “even this far from camelot, even in this frigid hellhole, even here. i am still so much more than you. you miserable, piteous, intolerably piss-poor excuse for a master--”

(saber, saber, saber. you’re saying too much. did you forget? this isn’t your life.)

[holycities]

nobleforgery·:

He came to his knees, making no effort to shake the snow from his legs. There were more pressing matters, he’d rather not divert his attention from the King for one second. Archer returned Kanshou to his waist, only to cross his arms.

“She was, quite so. Perhaps she deserved a better Master than…,” he left the pronoun unsaid, having played both rival servant and master was still a topic that was likely tricky to explain.  “The magi who we were under the instruction of, they were working together. This was why we didn’t cross blades, really.” Of course, there was some sentimental value to their partnership, which some part of him truly did value…but this was the Pragmatic Answer, and the truth that was most relevant. 

He closed his eyes, smirking. “I’m sure I could’ve taken her in combat if it came to that.”

his own self-assurance very nearly brings a smile to your own lips, and you hate that. instead, you press your lips into a thin line, turn your head to look out over the snow and count to ten. one, two, three, and you start to feel a little like yourself again, four, five, and this misplaced saber shuts her mouth for the first time since this man showed his face, and by ten you’re--empty, mostly, but you can be altria again.

(it’s about time.)

“well, if she were anything like me, it is only to be expected.” you click your tongue, look him over with a critical eye. “perhaps we may have to put that last comment to the test, however. hm. you are hardly an ideal candidate, but desperate times call, and even a king might find himself in need of allies.”

here you turn on your heel, stepping away from him--you’ll lead him into the village, if he chooses to follow, or leave him in the snow if he feels like being stubborn. it’s all the same to you. “there is no war here, shirou emiya,” you call over your shoulder; “but that may not always be the case.”

[holycities]

itlilauh·:

STARTER  CALL.  ( closed )                                     /        @holycities

He doesn’t care to look her in the eyes when she speaks. Human or divine. Goddess or mortal. At the end of the day, her status is nothing but pencil on paper to him. Word of legend. Kiritsugu is a firm realist; he doesn’t brand himself with the bile-inducing insignia of religious crisis. He loathes that in a person. 

He’s not praying to anyone. Especially to her.

And she can speak of her holy city. Her narrative’s version of Romulus’ Rome. The heavenly capital of the world. Though, he finds it does very little for him when others gloat about their carnivorous accomplishments. About conquest. Plainly, he’s not very interested. And on a more profound level, he finds it aggravating; he absolutely detests egocentricity. 

My god. This woman is practically bursting at the seams with it.

“   You are the biggest egomaniac, of who’s company I’ve had the misfortune of enduring in quite some time.  ”

you’d been daring to think that maybe the constant roil of the rage inside you had settled to a simmer. after those first few days--you’d felt, if not comfortable, then secure enough in your dominance here to leave your lance back at your bunk. you hadn’t gotten into any more fights. you were doing very well.

except this man had paused in his path as you explained your divine right to rule to one of the villagers, keeping your tone carefully level and your hands by your side, unclenched, and instead of minding his own business thought to comment. and with such disdain in his tone, too. a curl to the lip that makes your skin crawl.

you were wrong, it turns out. a dozing beast is still a beast--and it wakes easily enough. you see red and black in equal measure.

“how dare you? you have no right to speak to a king with such disrespect.” as if they can sense the storm brewing, the villagers makes themselves scarce, leaving you to turn on this man with fire in your eyes. saber’s forgotten memories gleam in the back of your mind and you steel yourself against an onslaught of fondness--only she feels the same way you do, and you can barely keep a vicious little smile off your face. “remember your place. to criticize royalty so is treasonous, and treason comes with such grave consequences.”

[holycities]

hisloyalsubject·:

@holycities

Even with the multiple layers provided by both a stiff dress shirt and a thin sweater, Waver could feel the prominent chill of the terrain sinking into his bones as soon as he arrived. 

Barely managing to step properly through the piled snow, his arms being firmly crossed to maintain heart hardly helping with balance, brushing against another was probably the least disastrous possible outcome.

Recognition filled the dark eyes as the stranger turned, though, and Waver nearly yelped in surprise at the familiar sight of the face that had once been an enemy servant, jumping back in spite of his already barely existent balance. 

Him falling backwards straight into the snow he had already been struggling with was hardly surprising. Hardly minding his rough landing, a shaky finger pointed up at the king, with a wavering voice following it.

“Hnk… S-saber! What.. what is a servant doing here?!”

It was far too early for the next grail to emerge, wasn’t it? And this wasn’t even Fuyuki.  

that forgotten self’s memories are surfacing again, murky and incoherent, nothing more than a feeling of familiarity and--fondness, which you fold and put away--you’ll deal with that later, or never, or you’ll crush it under your heel and be done with it. you’re certain you’ve never seen this boy in your life, all lanky limbs and terrified looks, but he’s calling you saber like he’s known you for years... you sigh, cross your arms over your breastplate.

(you knew you shouldn’t have left rhongomyniad back in the bunkhouse today.)

“does no one know how to properly address a king? i am not your saber, boy. are you a master? you should know better than i.”

‘saber’ thrums in your bones and very nearly makes you offer him a hand, help him out of the snow, but you remember yourself just in time and clamp down on her--enough. enough. only your knights have done enough to earn such a courtesy, and the overgrown child in front of you is far from knight material.

“get up. you embarrass us both.”

[holycities]

heirofheroics·:

herosburden·:

Commotion stirs the air; in a quiet village like this it’s hard not to notice a disturbance, and the sound of an angry voice carries far. But unlike the nervous onlookers who seem unsure of what to do, when your eyes fall upon this scene you are spurred to action.

This world did not task you with saving it. These people are not tied to your destiny. But, to defend those in need comes as naturally to you as breathing.

The boy retreats, the king advances—and without a trace of fear, you slide into the narrowing gap between them, sword in hand. The blade does not glow as it always did in the presence of evil energies, but anyone could see that it is no more an ordinary weapon than the lance pointed in your direction.

Your fury is cold, your glare as ice. Your words are gone, as they so often are in times of urgency, but you can communicate your intent to fight even a goddess clearly enough by your steady battle stance.

Despite his big words, his haughty attitude, his disdainful snarl, Damian was… a bit concerned about the situation at hand. Against your average thug he was beyond fine solo, and frankly most serious criminals he could take down with no assistance.

But the hateful energy this self-proclaimed king radiated felt more align with the colder enemies that lurked amongst Gotham, the self-righteous and self-confident ones that he had a bad habit of approaching alone and unfortunately needing help with.

There was no Grayson here, though, no Father to pull him away from the danger at the last second. Just a woman hellbent on making him pay for… being obnoxious? Drake not being there was a blessing, in the least, for how much he would enjoy that.

Even as he retreated, she moved forward, and her legs were definitely longer than his own. He wasn’t in a great position for running, and with how quickly she moved he wasn’t sure how well that would work to begin with. Damian was running out of options.

… That is, until a stranger came between them in an instant, a blade in their hand. The sudden appearance was surprising enough to the child that fell backwards with the movements, and was soon staring up at their back.

As much as he bragged, Robin was far from the only hero in the world, and he supposed this village as well.

@holycities·

when the other steps in between you and the wretched boy, you instinctively search for rhongomyniad’s light--if he is pure of heart, brush him aside, save him for later; if he isn’t, well, more fool him for getting involved. except your lance is nothing but dead steel in your hand--you forgot, didn’t you? for all you know, this new one could be the devil himself trussed up in blonde hair and wide, fierce eyes. for all you know, he could be your undoing.

so you don’t stride past him like he’s nothing but an inconvenience; you don’t turn your anger on him, cold-blooded and cruel, lance striking out like a viper. you stop in your tracks and you look at the warrior, at the boy, at the sword readied your way, and you draw in a deep breath, willing patience into limbs that itch to move.

“this has nothing to do with you.” the words come out as icy and imperious as you’d hoped--good. no breathless fervor, no weakness. a king. you’re a king. “stay out of things that concern you none, and you will live a peaceful life.”

less an offer than a thinly-veiled threat, but maybe he’ll get the hint and leave you be. the sudden stillness in your muscles feels like the world holding its breath, and if he bars your way much longer--well. either your anger will abate, and you’ll show mercy, or it won’t, and you won’t, and you already know which it will be.

@herosburden

[holycities]

frontlinersflag·:

While everyone is distracted by Valentine…. Shirou will strike and steal the Holy Grail.

someone say holy grail?

[holycities]

first-hero·:

His eyes, pools of curled pages of history, of future happenings, of things far beyond, dipped in a familiar red, observed her the moment she entered his field of view. Not like prey saw predator, not like predator saw prey, but like a lion who watched another wander along the edge of his territory. Cautious. Edging on unwelcoming. 

“Lancer,” he speaks simply. Names were not to grace his lips so soon, of course. His tone is tell enough that he knows exactly who she is–or so he assumes from appearances. There is something off, he must admit. Something in the way she carries herself is not quite the King of Knights he had passed through bleak hallways again and again. They had never spoken much to begin with, however. He had never watched her all too closely.

“I assume I am as memorable.”

so it seems the resemblance is more than just skin deep. a demand for the respect he doubtlessly thinks he deserves expressed in every word, every invisible movement; if you were anyone else, perhaps you’d bow to him. even here, sitting side by side with him as equals, he radiates a certain kind of conquering condescension. dimmer, perhaps, than the sun king’s, dulled down by more wisdom than ozymandias could ever lay claim to, but--

--but what else would inspire him to make such an assumption of you? memorable? no, you’ve never seen him before in your life--you’d remember, like you remember every day of those fifteen hundred years, burned into your brain, inescapable. you shouldn’t laugh, but you do anyway, quiet and unkind.

“you? we have never met. unless you claim to be one of the marauders besieging my holy city, in which case we should be having a very different conversation.” you turn your head his way, raise a brow. the smile that curves your lips is cold. “the world is not so small that every person you meet might know your name.”

[holycities]

heirofheroics·:

There was a brief hope that perhaps a single failure would be enough for her to decide to no long target him. This was dashed when the lance was aimed towards him once more, forcing Damian to practically jump out of the way. He landed on the palms of his hands to her left, and pushing off of them he managed to flip back onto his feet, tight fists slightly raised. 

This village had seemed almost ridiculously peaceful, so while he was always on guard, he had deemed the blade he was allowed to keep unnecessary for average patrol. If he had had his utility belt, he would not have parted with it, but a whole sword? A child carting that around would attract far too much unwanted attention. 

That attention would have been worth it to be armed in that moment. In his current state, Damian could do little more than stay defensive and hope for either an escape from the battle, or that the woman with the giant lance just gave up. Against such a large and overpowering weapon, his hand-to-hand combat would be difficult to be useful in any way, and without the armor of his uniform would be more of a risk than anything else.

He had to get out of there, and fast.

“This land seems to have a god with no interest in you or your supposed rule, Your Highness,” Slowly, the boy walked backwards as he spoke, fists raised defensively in front of his chest. “Any position you would like to have here will likely have to be earned. You’re doing a poor job on that front, so far.”

it doesn’t surprise you that this confrontation has drawn the attention of others. more fool you for it, you suppose; for not finding a secluded place to carry out a conversation, for letting the anger in you get the better of you, for the white-knuckled grip you still have on rhongomyniad--you doubt it would let you drop it even if you wanted to. how must it look? a grown woman, an armored king, threatening the life of some poor boy.

(they don’t know--they can’t see it, but you can, always have--humanity will burn either way. whether one death comes a little sooner is irrelevant.)

and perhaps, cowed by the worried looks of passersby, you might have turned on your heel and let him run--only he says your highness like the words are repulsive to him, like a serpent spitting venom, and a great yawning chasm opens up in the very heart of you, and the only thing left in there is a blue-black inferno.

“you know nothing of kingship.” you are snarling, again, face twisted like a wild beast. every step he takes backwards, you match--you don’t strike again, not yet, but the intent is plain to read in your every movement. “you are a fledgling with clipped wings crowing at a god. bow your head and beg forgiveness, boy. know your place. i am divine.”

@herosburden

[holycities]

nobleforgery·:

It does not.

Some kind of weight intermingled in his chest, a sort of heaviness, it seemed. Maybe a tangle. He should have known it so, she looked so much older than the one he knew–summoning didn’t work like that. Why would it? (damn the one that still believed, deep in there). 

Steel was to his throat now, and all thought on the matter ceased. Instinct kicked in; this was a gesture too gentle to be meant with malice. His chin was forced upward, though gently. Latticework on the lance making contact with his skin made him wonder if he could project this someday, even only with this touch. A moment was spent on the lance, ruminating this within the spear’s structure before his eyes met Altria’s. Just in case.

There’s a conflict in the King’s eyes, though Archer did seem to pick a bad time to intrude. Such composure in the face of such fury was not lost on him. 

Archer closed his eyes. “You could say I did. I knew her both as comrade and opponent. Regardless, we were familiar enough.”

“If you wish to know more, state your questions, and I will answer. I may be cooperative but I wish to not bore you with my entire biography.” 

you cannot keep your spear at his throat for long; that other part of you won’t let you. as much as you might want to run him through you find that, once he starts to speak again, your arm lowers, and rhongomyniad’s tip buries itself in the snow, instead. if he were to speak too enthusiastically, this secret self says, he might hurt himself, and--

(it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. say you’re using him for information, nothing more. if you pretend for long enough, it will become reality.)

“stand, archer,” you instruct after a moment, freed from his gaze for long enough to remember yourself. “it would serve no purpose of mine to have you freeze to death out here. as for questions... what--” and then you stop, because you were going to ask--what was she like?--like some kind of lost child, seeking meaningless knowledge about something that doesn’t matter to you.

what makes its way out eventually is this: “was she a skilled combatant? i would assume not, since you stand here before me, but assumptions have made many a fool before. perhaps you are far stronger than you look.”

[holycities]

heirofheroics·:

Damian’s instincts were prepared to roar to life as she stepped forward, knowing full well there would be maybe a second to escape when the time came, if even that. Odds of success were less than in his favor, and it was the memories of the deadly training with his mother that his muscles tapped into in preparation.

There was only an instant to react, but that brief flash of time was all Damian needed to let his body drop out of the path of the lance, rolling about a yard away before rising once more into a crouch, even then still in position to dash. A line had been crossed in the interaction, but it was one that felt like second nature to the child, entering a form of interaction he was far more used to than stiff conversation or awkward niceties. 

“I suppose that is one way to try and force loyalty,” His words played around a tight grin, adrenaline returning his limited sense of humor. “My grandfather would admire such tactics. Perhaps if you’re ever in the neighborhood of the League of Assassins you should try and meet with him.”

Wishing he hadn’t left his own sword in his bunkhouse, hidden beneath a pile of sheets and blankets, dark blue eyes darted across the surroundings to find an out.

“I doubt this place would take so kindly to such violent measures, though. I would advise maybe trying to talk it out in the future, if you want any sort of standing amongst these people.”

did you underestimate him? it’s beginning to be a bad habit of yours. first the rebels that let the refugees escape the cleansing, only to come back and break through the walls of your city with your very own knights--and now this. some child in desperate need of a muzzling, avoiding your strike like the movements came second nature to him. how irresponsible of you. haven’t you learned your lesson yet, dear king?

his barbs fall on deaf ears. yours is not an anger that surges at petty criticisms, not when you are already incandescent, the part of you that is more divine spirit than human (and it becomes a greater part of you every day) rising in radiant defiance. if his plan is to frustrate you into making a mistake--he will be sorely disappointed.

if you’re foolish for underestimating him, then he’s even more so for coming out unarmed. has he been here so long that the peace of this place has domesticated him, too, even though he’s as quick to respond to your strike as a wild dog? never trust yourself to be safe--if he survives, it’s a lesson he’ll need to learn.

another lunge with the lance--you strike at his legs, not the fragile gaps between his ribs, hoping to make him stumble, fall to his knees where his head can be yours. “my standing is bestowed upon me by fate and by god. violence is only a reminder. if i need them to fear me, they will fear me. if i need them to love me, they will love me.”

[holycities]

heirofheroics·:

King Arthur, huh? That was not what he was expecting, in the least.

Of course, Damian knew of the legends. His mother had been very adamant about him reading countless tales of leaders and heroes in his younger days, telling him to take their stories to heart as he grew to be a conqueror himself. While not fond of the reasoning behind it, they were some of the only teachings his father didn’t almost completely resent his son going through.

“If that is truly the case, you bringing shame to your own name with such pointless threats,” Chin tilted upwards, Damian refused to panic even as the spear was pointed directly at him, maintaining a steady and serious-sounding pace. 

“Moreover, my father is not here,” In a sudden shift, though, his voice came out in what could only be called a growl, hatred tinging his tone in response to a far from uncommon assessment, and one he had long grown tired of. “And neither he nor I have anything to do with your current state.”

This situation was far from great, but it was nothing Damian couldn’t handle. Keeping a careful eye on her movements, the boy readied himself to evade as soon as it was needed. Even against the great King of Knights, a lifetime of combat training would come in some handy.

you don’t have the same reputation here as you did in the holy land. despite the cut of your helmet, you doubt that any know you as the lion king, here in this quaint little town--they barely know you as a king at all, treating you with such disrespect. in eidolon you are a girl, not a goddess, and nobody knows enough to fear you.

any patience you might have had for the boy evaporates in a flash, and you stare down at him with disgust curling your lip like he was a cockroach, not a flesh and blood human being. if lancelot were here--but he’s not. you will teach these people to fear you, if they refuse to figure it out on your own.

“i do not make pointless threats. if you are too much of a fool to understand the severity of your misdeeds, that is no problem of mine. i am judge, jury, and executioner all. and you--”

(if lancelot were here--)

“you,” and here your voice drops from the rallying cry of a king to a venomous hiss, stepping closer to the boy--rhongomyniad’s tip a hair’s breadth from his chest, “are nothing more than an obstacle. you are a blight. you disgrace your fellow man with every word you speak. fine, then. if you will not kneel to your king, i will make you.”

(rhongomyniad moves like lightning, an extension of your own body. you’ve never fought for the sake of fighting, and striking at a boy brings you no satisfaction, but this is your divine duty, and you will not be kept from it. not by anyone.)

[holycities]

@first-hero

there’s something about this man that reminds you of the desert king, in a way that sets your jaw and leaves you far more on edge than you’d like. they couldn’t look more different, but the blonde man has the same bearing, and if you close your eyes you can nearly hear that pharaoh’s voice ringing out across that burned-out wasteland--how inconvenient. how repulsive.

but still, but still, but still. a servant is a servant and you need as many allies as you can get. you find him in the crystal and take the next seat over and don’t order a drink--to dull your senses now would be beyond foolish. instead you lace your fingers on the bar to still the part of you that wants to drum them restlessly against the wood and fix your gaze ahead of you, ever stern.

(he glitters like sunlight. maybe you should invest in some gold.)

“should i assume you know me already, or are introductions in order?”

[holycities]

@launncelot

“so even the likes of you might be called to a place like this?” you do not look at him. he doesn’t deserve to feel your eyes on him--he is nothing, you tell yourself, less than nothing, dirt beneath your heel, too many times a traitor. there was a time you’d forgive him for anything, but that time has long passed, and you are carved from cold marble, now. no room for him. no room for anything.

you sigh with an air of practiced indifference, rest rhongomyniad against the firm silver of your pauldron. “well. i can rest a little easier knowing your allies are all the weaker for your absence. agravain should be able to coordinate a suitable retaliatory act on his own.”

and only now do you let your eyes meet his, every sign of mercy stripped so carefully from your gaze. is he still as resilient as he used to be? if you drove your lance through his chest, would he make it out the other side with a smile? you don’t want to find out. not yet, maybe not ever. “i am still your king, sir lancelot, despite your actions. you should kneel.”

[holycities]

@thirteenthseal

you’d always assumed that if you saw him, you wouldn’t be able to recognise him. you’re not so familiar with your own face, after all; you know the shape of you from portraits and tapestries, from lovingly-rendered illustrations in illuminated manuscripts, but you are no narcissus, and the details are lost on you. maybe he would dress differently, or style his hair in some mundane way that would make your eyes skip over him; maybe he would look like something so different to yourself you could barely stand to look at him.

and maybe if you were anyone else that might be true, but where your gaze cannot find anything to hold your interest your heart takes the lead. you know it is him because of the resonance that fills you, the knell of a single great bell filling every hollow in you, and your heart sinks. isn’t he supposed to be a king? he looks domesticated, dressed like a civilian, a kind smile marking his features, and your own lip curls at the sight.

isn’t he supposed to be a king?

“has this place tamed you, pendragon?” no preamble, no introduction, nothing but you in cold steel and the drift of snow. “how disgraceful, acting as if you are nothing more than a common man. i should hope you are not bringing shame to our rule.”

[holycities]

heirofheroics·:

The constant stream of newcomers was more of an annoyance than anything else at this point, but Damian still made sure to keep an eye on arrivals when they occured, silently evaluating each individual as best as he could. One never knew when an ally, or more likely an enemy, would find one’s way to a place such as this. It was the best to always be at alert.

A woman holding a large lance walking up to him was not an immediate cause for concern. After all, many came here with a weapon, himself included, and that did not necessarily mean there was anything wrong with them.

How she chose to interact after approaching him, though, was… worse.

“My king?” Despite being threatened, Damian’s usual pride held out, his eyes hardened into a fierce glare directed firmly up at her. “That is quite a claim. I’ve never seen nor likely even heard of you in my life, which is hardly proper for royalty.”

Her presence was certainly powerful, as much as the child would hate to admit it. She spoke with certainty, truly believing every word, truly meaning every implication in her actions. Those with conviction were dangerous.

But Damian could deal with danger.

“I don’t believe I would have any answers you don’t already hold yourself. That supposed goddess brought you, along with everyone else here. Though, waving around an outdated weapon and demanding explanations from random children isn’t likely to wield more information even if it was available.”

what would lancelot say, if he were here? would he place himself between you and this boy, a purple-hue wall, insist that a child isn’t deserving of your wrath? would he insist on your mercy? oh, your knight of the lake, so loyal until the very end. but lancelot is not here, and you wouldn’t listen to him anyway. he has no place in your heart, now. there is no more room for traitors.

instead, you close your heart even further, shut it behind iron gates and entomb it. you raise your lance, pointing it at the boy--trained on his heart--there is still distance between you, but you could cross it easily, and he could not stop you.

“do you really know so little of history? humble yourself, for you are in the presence of the great king of knights, wielder of the sword excalibur and now the sacred lance rhongomyniad. he who pulled the sword from the stone--he who will preserve humanity.” the last title is new, but it falls from your lips as easily as the rest, the certainty in your heart giving the words weight. “king arthur. your king, now that i am here. it is my divine right.”

somewhere along the line you bit your tongue, striving to keep your tone level and the renewed burn of anger in check. the blood in your mouth is grounding where nothing else is.

“the son is as complicit as the father. is a child pure of heart because it closes its eyes and pretends that absolves them? yours is black as pitch, boy, if you think to speak to me with such disrespect; i do not need rhongomyniad’s light to see as much.”

[holycities]

nobleforgery·:

He was spared the lance, and though part of him wanted to feel relief, maybe even joy, Archer couldn’t just bring himself to that. Proper respect would be paid, if only to not tempt his fate further when he was simply a man with half a set of married blades, a boat in a storm with no anchor. The Japanese-style bow was abandoned for a kneel more familiar to the King of Knights, the snow biting on his knees even through cloth. 

“My apologies, Your Majesty.“ He debated being a smartass, and simply allowing the same half-truth to persist; that he had no name, he was just another member of the counter force, despite full well being aware of who he was. “These days I’m simply known by the parameters of my summoning, Archer.”

A hand behind his back squeezed Kanshou’s hilt. Archer’s focus was nowhere and everything on the ground at once. Maybe he should utter the words, spark a memory that might not even exist. What he had to lose at this point wasn’t particularly palpable–maybe it was only pride, or rather shame, holding him steadfast.

“But, if you need something more….maybe the name Shirou Emiya means something to you.”  The shape of the words was disgusting, even if whatever past conflicts came and went. The grimace could almost be heard over those two specific words even if Altria couldn’t see his face as his tone seemed to falter into a grumble.

again, that surge of someone else’s memory; again, a crawling feeling of familiarity ticking its way up the curve of your spine. don’t you know that name, altria? it’s a spark that skitters over you, leaving a warmth you haven’t felt in years, and you bite your tongue sharp to halt its advance. taste copper and reassert yourself, the part of you that is you.

“it does not.” a lie, delivered with the same flat affect as the rest--archer might not know. you step forward, reach out with rhongomyniad--its tip comes to rest under his chin, and you tilt his head up; despite your insistence on the proper respect, something about that name and seeing his gaze fixed on the snow unsettles you. it isn’t weakness, you tell yourself--it is mercy.

“did you know another pendragon, in your time? i suppose we were nothing alike, if you felt you had the right to speak to me as you did.” the feeling that surges in you is something like shame, something like revulsion. how pitiful for a king to ask such things of someone whose head they have every right to take. one careless movement with the lance and it would spear him right through, blood on the snow, blood on the steel. that common throat would never speak your name again.

(but you do not, will not, cannot. what is it about him? what is the meaning of that name--?)