...
There was a strange silence. The vines ceased their assault, and the sky was clear of the oozing bodies that had been falling.
-
Once again, Geryon's hand drifted aimlessly to the wound in his chest, the one that had nearly pierced his/her heart. It was almost healed now. But then, his concern had less to do about the wound and more about what it represented.
The cut in his/her face he had left untouched, aside from a single stitch to the forehead where the bleeding was at its worst. He was using too much energy. He simply couldn't afford to spend anything more on healing; he had long since given up on repairing his armor, seeing as it would do no good regardless.
A change in strategy was necessary.
If prioritizing defense was going to leave him dead, then he'd simply have to prioritize his offense. He'd have to go all out. Double or nothing. Even if he himself couldn't live to see another day, he had to ensure that Dionysus didn't have that chance either.
As he made his silent vow, Caster's voice echoed through the Parthenon, as if responding to his resolve,
"Those eyes of yours... they're quite peculiar, aren't they? They are not the Mystic Eyes of Petrification, as Medusa had; not what I suspected..."
Athena's face contorted with disgust behind the mask, "Show yourself! Let's end this!"
But Caster continued as if he had heard nothing, "The Eyes of the Gorgon turn the body to stone, but your eyes target the link between body and soul, severing it, trapping the soul within itself, with nothing to do but consider its own reflection.
"Yes... your eyes pierce all illusions; nothing in this world may deceive you. When gazing into the eyes of another, they are forced into the realm of their own design, where they cannot even deceive themselves. What shall I christen thee, oh dreary eyes of the charlatan's demise? Why not the 'Mystic Eyes of Providence'? For the hypocrite, one sight of them would be a death sentence..."
A great purple cloud rose from the cobbles, covering the stones and surrounding the tabernacle in the shape of a great, horned demon, it's manifold arms rising like tentacles from the earth; holes in its fog created the appearance of golden eyes and a matching, malevolent smile.
It was an illusion, but not one meant to deceive. No, it was a show of power.
The voice seemed to emanate from the fog-demon, "...But you know better now, don't you, dear Saber? Did you think I was a hypocrite? Did you think I was the type to fly at the sight of my own shadow? Why should I ever fear the prospect of being trapped within my own mind? Precious Saber, poor girl-
"We already are! The Parthenon! The entire city and half its populace! Soon, with the Chalice in hand, the entire world will be nothing but Myself, and all will live forever in the great dreaming of my soul! You bore me with such crude concepts as 'true' and 'false' and 'lie'... Fool! There is no truth in the land of dreaming! Here, in my dream- the truth is whatever I dream it to be!"
A mad cackle shook the very ground; the entire stone table on which the Parthenon was built. At first, it was assumed to be a kind of illusion, it took a second longer to see that it was no trick, nor was it any practical effect from the acoustics of the Parthenon-
He looked down. The oozing, viscous, semi-solid bodies which had fallen from the sky were all shambling to their feet. They were the color of wine, part red, part purple, part black, but each of these colors differentiated themselves in turn, forming exact portraits of Caster himself, with his horns and hooves and tails. They laughed and laughed, infinite, shark-like teeth chattering in the frigid night; their wild purple eyes looking with shock and awe at nothing in-particular. With his eyes, he could see that these were not, as one might suppose, clones or copies of Caster himself. They were no replicas, indeed, it would be better if they were. Each of them carried the essence, the signature, of Caster himself, but not purely. Within each of these false-gods was a positive cocktail of souls: not one of them was Caster himself, but neither were they distinct from him. They were like arms and legs: a mass of tentacles crudely grafted onto his concept, and designed to be cut down; sacrificing himself to himself in an endless cycle of empty, aimless narcissism.
Geryon clicked his tongue.
He himself was surprised to find that his reaction to this development was not fear, nor even a righteous anger or resolution, but a simple, petty annoyance.
"Is this another attempt to trick me? Or is it to test my resolve? ... Screw you! It's easy enough to look for the one missing an arm..."
"Oh no! Dearie me! Have I lost an arm!?"
His laughter rose, as did the clouds which made the demon's shape, turning, churning, twisting and pooling onto the Parthenon's peak, the very top of the temple. Violet lightning crackled within, and, when the clouds cleared, there stood Dionysus, staff in hand-
"See for yourself!"
He rose his staff, as if in victory, but the certainty of his declaration colored the truth in irony: his eyes sank to his right side and there, in spite of his declaration, was no arm.
His face contorted into a hideous mask of shock and disgust, "I- I have my arms! You never injured me at all!"
-But no matter how much confidence he spoke with, the injury remained.
"I-! Damn you! HRRAAAGH!"
With a scream of effort the stump on his shoulder bubbled like a cauldron. Soon, with great effort and a horrid -SQUELCH-, his arm burst out from his shoulder, as if it had never been cut off. He limbered his arm, and his right hand stretched out its fingers.
Geryon saw to the truth of the matter. As his arm had burst from his wound, there was a massive drop in mana. He couldn't lie his way out of the injury; he had to heal it manually. That meant his sword could leave lasting injuries-
It meant he could kill him.
He refused to waste another moment. He swooped in like an eagle, sword posed to strike, bathed in a pristine light, glowing like marble in the summer sun, but was overshadowed by a cloud of demons that seized upon him, swallowing him into an orgic cacophony of claws, teeth and cruel laughter that seemed to echo without end.
He had no room to move. He was swept away in the wave of leathery wings and curling horns. His own wings desperately hacked away, cutting down countless copies, while his sword and shield worked in vain to keep others at bay. Still, in spite of his efforts, the horde was endless. Even his magic eyes could see no end to the horror around him. Clawed hands tore at his armor, ripping pieces off, tearing into the cloth underneath, blood spilling out, and all the while he tumbled through the avalanche, never quite flying, never quite falling, always being flung every which way, eventually losing all sense of direction. There was, if you could believe it, a certain satisfaction in this. Only Geryon was being damaged, it seemed that, for a moment, his Master could enjoy a small respite-
"GAHCK!"
Through his back, out through his stomach, was Caster's sword. That demonic blade: Deathgrip. He flung out his wings, bathed in white, as a knee-jerk reaction, turning as best he was able in the same motion and firmly decapitating the 'Caster' which attacked him; the head and body disappeared amongst the rising tide, but not before melting into the same red-purple ooze. He reached for the blade, still in his chest, but found it disappeared the moment he did. He felt a hostility behind him and managed to kick off a clone's head, the very same sword cleaving past where his neck had been.
A new sense of dread overshadowed him. He was in the belly of the beast. He had passed the beast's fangs and thought he was safe, only to find that this was the sort of snake who swallowed his prey whole. The old fairytales of slicing down dragons from the inside was just that: a fiction. Teeth and fiery breath were nothing compared to the horrors of being slowly suffocated by dread; surrounded by a darkness which was always closing in, crushing your hope and your body all at once. The claustrophobia, the despair, the hopelessness, pushed him further and further back. The seas of his mind became a turbulent mess, churning and turning endlessly inwards on itself, until-
"HRAAAAAA!"
The pressure burst. Like a cornered mouse, like a simmering geyser, like a grenade ready to blow, all the force which was brought upon him turned back on its source in a grand act of defiance- a surge of power that pushes one desperately towards the single ray of hope- the certainty that one must give it his all or be left with nothing. He pushed upwards. His blade, his wings, all shimmering silver, turned up like a corkscrew through the demonic legion, drilling into the dense mass with some hope of breaching its surface- some hope of light, of freedom, of fresh air. As he went, countless cuts decorated his body: shallow cuts from claws and that sword, but he paid them no mind; he couldn't afford to. He pressed on and on, and the legion seemed to fall away- he saw it, he saw light! He broke out of the horde, bathed in his own blood, his gold and silver armor almost totally stripped, so that only the black and gold underclothes were left; the face of his Master, of Athena, was totally exposed, no different than normal except for her glowing eyes that refracted inwards infinitely as if through a hall of mirrors, and what seemed to be golden lipstick and mascara, though even these hints of feminine beauty were tainted by fresh blood and moist scabs. Yes, as Geryon broke through, he was hardly himself. One only saw his Master, the youth and beauty of her body, broken, bloody and bruised, held by angel's wings only inches beyond where Death could reach her, holding her sword with hope, defiance- and exhaustion- in her heart.
All these, even his exhaustions, were cleared for a moment as the light overtook him. This was not the light of hope. This was not the light of this world, but of the next. This was the light at the end of the tunnel.
It was eternity.
It was oblivion.
It was THE END.
In the face of it, the violence he had risen to meet the possibility of his own demise all faded into a total stillness of self.
One never knows how he will react in the face of Death until he meets it eye-to-eye. Here, he realized that he didn't fear death at all. Maybe he never did. In fact, it seemed to him as an old friend. He had longed for it all his life.
When Rhiannon killed herself...
When he spent those decades alone on that wretched island...
He had spent his whole life wishing for death, but had never had the heart to pull the trigger. No, there was something he feared more than death, more than even the prospect of living a life full of despair and tragedy, and it was the fear of being a failure.
Yes, Death was an old friend, and so he had to be ready to greet him as he deserved. Just as a bride decorates herself for her groom, he couldn't bear to meet his demise without all the proper preparations; without knowing that when the veil was lifted for that fatal kiss, the groom would find there only the most pristine life possible: full of beauty, empty of regret, and, more than anything, a bride who had done whatever possible to make herself worthy of his love. He hadn't been ready to meet the groom back then. The preparations weren't complete. The blemishes had yet to be painted over. The accomplishments had yet to be painted at all. But now, the prospect of dying here didn't hurt at all.
There was no shame in failure. There was only shame in failing to do what was in your power to prevent failure, and he had done that. He answered the call when it came. He fulfilled his duty without even asking why. He had done everything his conscience had bid him to do, and he had no regrets.
Death is a mirror more than anything else. He looked at oblivion and saw his reflection...
And he smiled.
Violet light overtook him: a pillar of purple lightning that cascaded from the sky and pierced the cloud of demons in the air. Among the blinding radiance and deafening thunder, there was the shadow of Geryon being flung towards the ground, buried in a crater of stone and dust.
-
When the sight and sound faded, there was Geryon's broken body, scorched and bent, facedown in the dirt, his half-open Mystic Eyes acting as the sole beacon of color, the only piece of him which wasn't scarred or deformed. His fingers, with great effort, dug into the soil, his weary arms vainly pushing against his own injuries-
The cloud of demons fell upon him as an avalanche of hooves and claws, and the crater was filled over its top, leaving a mountain of flesh in its place; the horrors therein tearing at the helpless prey pinned under their dogpile.
"Fufufufu..."
A low chuckle emerged from the tabernacle. His thyrsus and his hooves clacked against the marble in tandem, as if he were a three-legged beast.
"Fufufu... hahaha... HAHAHA! YES!" He struck his staff against the cobblestones, "YES! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE YOU MISERABLE, DAMNABLE CREATURE!"
His grin was so wide that he seemed to be a caricature of himself, his whole face becoming a horrid distortion of itself.
"See? What did I tell you? This is the fate of all those who dare oppose me. You are not the first... but I dare say you will be the last. None who taste my fruit come to oppose it, and the time has come to reap what I've sown! The most glorious, most revelrous harvest festival the world has ever seen is upon us! You could've tasted that wine for yourself, but no matter... your blood will become the food for my fruit, the roots of my tree, the foundation of my world!
"Ah... isn't it sweet? Isn't it bitter? Isn't it exactly what you wanted?
"This- this is reality. Cruel, faithless, traitorous reality. Drink it up, Saber. I gave you exactly what you wished for...
"Now-" He turned to the tabernacle, "To answer everyone else's wishes... to make them come through the medium of my dreaming... exactly as I have with you."
With his free hand, he reached out to touch that pillar of light, not to claim it, but to relish the feeling of Saber's divinity joining the Chalice; the knowledge that had out-maneuvered six Servants and seven Masters, including his own; that the trap he had set so many millennia ago had come to fruition and left him standing on top.
Yes, he was a genius. He was all-powerful. He was... a god.
-He felt a disturbance behind him.
"By the power of my Command Seal-"
He turned on his hoof and saw that the mass of his selves was bulging, bubbling, seeming to rise like a wave on a stormy sea-
White light broke through, an orb of pure white that pushed aside all the false copies in a shower of dark violet puss, and in its center was him- Geryon- as battered and bruised as ever, but with his sword held over his shoulder with two hands, like a batter ready to strike. The edge of this light pushed on like a crashing wave, an ever-expanding window into another world-
And it was rushing towards Dionysus-
Time seemed to slow down for him as he beheld the terrible, awful sight,
'WHAT!? Impossible! Is that a bounded field!? Hell, it might even be a Reality Marble! How did he even learn to use magecraft of that caliber-!?'
Then, he recognized the stance. It was the same one Berserker, Heracles, had adopted when about to use his Noble Phantasm, that all-powerful attack which would have killed all other Servants in an instant.
'Of course. Of course you would continue to haunt me even after your death, you pompous, arrogant ass! No matter. It's only a rough approximation of a much deeper magic. I only need to take a single step back- one step out of range- and this pitiful attempt on my life will be closed like the terrible fiction it is!'
His other hoof was only a centimeter from the ground. The second they touched, he would be gone, far from the range of that bounded field and within the assured safety of his own. Already, his mind was racing with possible counterattacks, predicting his enemy's movements, and plotting the infinite courses which the next moment could take. He was hardly even paying attention to the danger in front of him, as his mind so far in the future that he took the next step for granted-
He didn't even realize he had taken a step forward.
"What?"
It was as if he'd been pushed. He could even feel it: a strong but dainty hand shoved in the small of his back. He could even hear it: the laughter of a bully mocking her prey. He couldn't understand it-
The wave overtook him. He stood upon an endless sea of silver, and there, in front of him, was Geryon, but where his wings would've been were two figures with their hands pressed onto his shoulders. On his right was a young man with eyes that glistened like morning dew, and rose colored hair that fell like waves from his head. On his left was a young woman with hair the color of the sunrise, gold and pale; of such beauty that she seemed like Aphrodite rising from the waters. Between them, Geryon's sword was as poised as ever.
Chrysaor began.
"Four corners and three dimensions. Earth, Heaven and Hell. There is nothing which can escape my sight- the most hidden secrets lie bare before me."
Athena spoke next.
"Four corners and three dimensions. Mind, Body and Soul. My heart is unwavering. My nature; unchanging."
Geryon, eerily similar to his Master, finished the chant, the energy in the air rising to a fever pitch.
"Four corners and three dimensions. Past, Present and Future. What was is now, and what is will be forevermore."
White water poured from his blade.
"Who could carry the sky on his shoulders? Who could escape the span of space? Who could test the breadth of time? Who could bear the weight of the world?"
"Uranus!"
"Uranus!"
"Uranus!"
All three called out as one voice, and the angel's sword fell-
Caster scurried back, but in vain. In this place, the blade was as long as the horizon.
"No, No, NO! You can't possibly-!"
The white light cleaved him in two, straight down the middle, his head and his heart destroyed with a single strike.
....