Chapter Text
The morning of the ritual was unusually cold, something Irmgard felt carried a bad omen about it. The entire situation had been unpleasant in every manner truthfully. How could it not be? The Einzbern family had been in a state of confusion and alarm several weeks before this day, treating her less as a person and more as a tool that needed preparation. Her progenitors mentioned that she wasn’t ready, that they shouldn’t place such an important task on her without a retainer or bodyguard. In the end, these conversations always ended the same. “She will have to do.”
Irmgard herself did what she could to withhold any sense of apprehension about what was being asked of her. A homunculus of the Einzbern family, she was viewed as something of a daughter by the older German man serving as patriarch. That many servants of the house were like her didn’t go unnoticed of course. What separated these girls and women from her? What had deemed her such a success as to be viewed favorably enough to be granted a life within these cloistered walls?
A bitter April wind rushed about Irmgard’s body, chilling her through the light cotton blouse she wore and sending the budding flowers around her bending to its whim. Green stretched out in sloping fields before her, winter’s last snows melted with time. She stood out now more than ever. In winter her pale, alabaster skin and silvery white hair made her feel like she was part of the world. Like she could melt into the drifts of cold ice and be at peace, away from expectation and demand. And when spring came, with the thaw her body would be left behind and feed the flowers and earth beneath.
The homunculus had been what would dubiously be called “alive” for 17 years now. Due to the way she was created she had a sharp and clear memory of all of them. It granted her a maturity slightly ahead of her peers, or so she was told. In truth she had her doubts. Perhaps her advanced maturity was a product of how she was raised, her eventual fate planned out in fine details, almost day by day. The study of magecraft, history lessons, fencing, all of it for a singular defined purpose.
She was meant to fight. She was made to win.
Perhaps that was what made her creator view her in such a familial manner. He had invested so much time into her upbringing, so many resources to ensure her success. Was this what all humans found in their lives? The expectations of parents, like investors in a business? The drive to return on the capital that was used to raise them? She wanted to hate it, so desperately craved to resent this expectation. In the end, she was left with only her regrets that the emotion she felt most of all was acceptance.
One hand smoothed out the black skirt she wore, feeling the hem flutter about her ankles as the wind blew once again. The chill had not stopped, even with the sun rising higher in the blue, cloudless sky. She turned and walked back towards the castle she called home. At the door she could already see another homunculus, dressed in the immaculate style of an old hospital nurse, hair tucked away and leaving only the face exposed. A face Irmgard knew only too well as an imperfect simulacrum of her own. At times the uncanny nature of it comforted her, but today it only reminded her of the purpose she had been shouldered with.
“Good morning, Lady Irmgard,” the attendant greeted her, head bowing in reverence. Irmgard returned the gesture before a hand flew to her head. The black beret she had adorned herself with nearly flew off in the latest, strongest gust yet. Her attendant didn’t react, hollow red eyes like a doll registering nothing beyond the woman in front of her.
Irmgard never liked the red eyes of her “sisters”. She had always remarked how fortunate she felt to have the bright and shining silver color that she did. Now it seemed a silly thing to feel such distaste for. If her eyes were red, perhaps she would not be stuck in this horrible predicament. This expectation of success and victory at any cost.
The grand, sprawling expanse of the castle’s entry hall opened before Irmgard as she stepped inside. The ceiling stretched above her by as much as thirty or forty feet at its highest, and the cold stone of its walls held tightly together with the continual labor and maintenance of other homunculi and the subtle magecraft woven as a protective barrier against those who would wish the Einzbern’s harm. The wooden floor was immaculate, a red plush carpet laid out leading to a staircase that would bring her into the main body of the castle itself. At the top of those stairs she could already see an aged man talking with strangers. Representatives of the Mage’s Association no doubt, perhaps the church if the collar on one man suggested anything. It truly was coming to pass.
The paintings lining the walls of the entry stared at Irmgard as she walked with as much confidence and poise as her body could muster. It was a struggle to remain upright it felt, hands clutched in front of her as she walked to the stairs and ignored the dazzling morning light of the sun through ancient stained glass on either side of her.
By the time she had arrived at the foot of the stairs, the wizened form of her father had ceased his conversation, hands behind his back as he considered her almost appraisingly. There was a sharp biting sense of fear. So close, yet so far…what if she was judged unprepared? What if they told her father that this would-be Master was not acceptable, if the years of work were for naught and he must find another representative? The sense of disappointment might well and truly crush her into the floor then and there.
“Irmgard von Einzbern, you have been chosen as a representative in this fourth Holy Grail War,” the man in the priest’s collar began to speak. He was in his fifties, if one had to guess, hair salt and pepper gray among a field of dark black. The man to his side, dressed ostentatiously in a gold trimmed jacket, a silk button down and slacks, listened with a hint of a smile about his face. Blonde hair fell loosely around his face, and as he stared down at Irmgard she realized the first man had not stopped talking.
“I’m sorry, Father.” She spoke up with a start, eyes fluttering and looking around as if for an avenue of escape. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she took a breath and composed herself as best she could. “I’m well aware of the dangers and expectations of the position of Master.” Her voice was soft and somewhat cold. Detached as best she could managed in an attempt at maturity. “That is to say…this War was a sudden affair, and I feel we would be best served with completing preparations as quickly as possible.”
The priest had stopped mid-sentence and stared down at Irmgard as she spoke. Casting a glance to the side at his companion, the two seemed to communicate wordlessly. The blonde man smiled wider, splitting his pale face with something akin to a cut across paper.
“Of course, Lady Einzbern.” He gave a sweeping bow that did little to hide his intent. He was mocking her, putting on airs of pretense. Her creator shut his eyes silently, a motion Irmgard had learned long ago expressed a disappointment in his daughter that was deeper than any wound a blade could inflict. “We trust you have procured a catalyst for your ritual? An ideal Servant in mind already, perhaps?” The blonde man stood up straight and touched a finger to his chin, as if thinking.
Irmgard puffed out her chest as best she could and clasped her hands tighter. Into fists that threatened to bite her palms with the sharpness of her nails.
“We-…I have!” Her determination led her voice to rise higher for a moment, before she nearly deflated. This was all her father’s doing in truth. She hadn’t the beginnings of an idea on a strategy for the war, only following his words unfailingly. Now she was forced to step into the act of a capable Master and magician. “The Einzbern family intends to summon the Berserker-class Servant for this Grail War.”
“My, but we are grasping, aren’t we?” The blonde mage remarked, placing his hands on his hips. The smug satisfaction in his voice made it easy to hate him, to wish he would leave already. “Very well. We assume the laboratory is ready then?” He glanced sidelong to the Einzbern patriarch.
“It is prepared, as all matters of the Einzbern family are: meticulously and without question.” The old man tugged his lengthy beard. Dressed in fine robes and carrying a wooden cane, he was the very image of a wizard in the stylings of Merlin himself. Even the mage seemed to respect him, as the condescending attitude wavered and deferred at last to the church representative. The group of four retreated into the body of the castle, down winding stone stairs to one of many magical workshops that were used by Einzberns long dead and gone. As they walked, the elder Einzbern continued to speak.
“The Einzbern family thrice has failed to acquire the Grail. Three times we have tasted bitter failure and were it not for fortune being squarely on our side we might have lost the Grail entirely to the hands of a mad despot or eternal destruction.” The story of the Third Holy Grail War was not unknown to Irmgard. The Einzbern Servant that had been summoned was a farce, powerless and killed early in the proceedings. Only a seeming divine intervention happened to end with the Grail unharmed and simply unable to be claimed by the remaining contestants. “For that purpose, we are prepared to summon as strong a Servant as we are capable of. Whatever the cost of this War, we will see it to victory.”
The words chilled Irmgard to the core. “Whatever the cost” he had said, and she knew just what he meant. Even should she herself perish, they intended victory. That was her lot in life.
Arriving in the workshop, the four were greeted by the sight of two homunculi, standing in attendance of the circle to ensure it was complete and ready. In its center sat a shroud, discolored with centuries of age and what seemed to be flecks of dried crimson blood. The two women nodded their heads to the assembled group, and quietly left them to their business.
Irmgard stepped to the outside of the circle and held a hand over it. She felt three sets of eyes on her, and the nervousness nearly made her want to vomit. Another breath and she held it firm this time. She focused her mana into the task at hand, charging every line within that circle. The energy crackled to life throughout the floor, burning that design into stonework that had existed for almost a thousand years. The damage was superficial. She wouldn’t stop until she had succeeded. More power poured into the design, charging through not just the circle but the shroud that had been placed within it.
“Lady Einzbern-“ the father started to remark, perhaps out of concern or simple uncertainty. His word were drowned out by the thrumming in Irmgard’s own ears as something seemed to speak from beyond a realm of speech into her mind.
“Lady Irmgard von Einzbern. Would you call yourself my Master?” It was somehow everything and nothing within her mind. She couldn’t discern what sort of voice it was. Hard as steel? Sweet as honey? It weaved those lines in a beautiful paradox that threatened to tear Irmgard’s world apart. “I say again, Irmgard. Would you presume to be my Master?”
“I am!” Irmgard shouted above the din of her own thoughts. She shouted it so loud her voice cracked, and clenched her hand over that circle of brilliant red light. Her nails pricked her skin, blood seeping from the cracks between her tightly held fingers. “I am Irmgard von Einzbern, and for this War I shall be your Master!” As she spoke, the blood in her hand dropped to the ground. As if a thunderbolt had clapped beside them all, a wave of force erupted. It left a ringing sound in the ears and threatened to bowl over all but the old man, who seemed rooted to the very floor of the castle itself.
As the other three got their wits about them, they turned their eyes to the still smoking runes that had been drawn into the ground, and the figure that now stood within it. Draped in a floor length white dress was a woman, a few inches taller than Irmgard herself. Her hair was fiery and long, cascading down her back. A mature face, unmarked by the lines of age, held a serenity about it, only making the striking detail of her eyes easier to observe.
This woman’s left eye was cloudy and sightless. It seemed unable to focus, but it didn’t mask the intensity behind it. Her other eye was pure and vivid, and it was with a slow dawning that Irmgard realized it was as red as ruby. The same hue that all the homunculi of the castle had. A hue that seized her in a moment and stole her words away.
“My Master,” spoke the tawny-haired woman in a deep, soothing tone. Irmgard felt her face warming and reached up to touch her own cheeks, as if confirming what she felt. As she did, a warmth in her left hand caught her attention. Turning her palm down and glancing at the back, she saw an intricate pattern of red light playing across her skin. The design created a stylized pair of half-moons, something resembling a blade between them. Irmgard knew their purpose almost instinctively. For the purpose of inspiring a Servant’s loyalty, three Command seals were granted to each Master. Three orders that were guaranteed to be followed to the letter, even if such commands would cost the Servant their very life.
Irmgard was snapped from her thoughts by the harsh laugh of the mage behind her. The newly summoned Servant was too, her red eye seeming to fixate on him. The pupil in the center of that sea of red shrank as the blonde man’s laugh petered out and echoed on the stone walls of the workshop.
“This is mighty Berserker?” He asked it as if he was unwilling to accept what he had seen with his own eyes. “She’s summoned with no armor, no beasts, not even a head taller than her Master? I didn’t think I could understand how the Einzbern family failed three times before.” The mage sighed and turned his gaze to Irmgard’s creator, eyes narrowed angrily. “I believe I have an idea now, if this was sincerely the best you could come up with.”
The Berserker gave a harsh, animalistic growl quite suddenly, lurching forward one step towards the mage. Irmgard jumped with the suddenness of the motion, pushed aside by Berserker. “Einzbern, control your servant!” His voice heightened quickly, gaining in volume as he extended one hand, palm out. A harsh crackling of ice splitting began to fill the room, the blonde mage weaving some form of defense for himself. A means to prevent Berserker’s advance.
“Berserker! As your Master, please stop!” Irmgard shouted, but her words seemed to hardly reach her Servant. The woman’s eye had narrowed, teeth grit in a rage that consumed reason. Her gaze had not left the mage since he spoke. She stepped forward again.
“Use a Command Seal, you amateur!” The blonde mage was creating what seemed to be a spear or arrow of ice, something he steadied as he took a step back from the advancing Servant. The priest and Irmgard’s creator both had begun to retreat, the Einzbern patriarch calling for his servants to come and offer some level of protection to himself and his guests. The blonde mage was grimacing, watching Berserker advance. “Use a Command Seal before I have to defend myself! She doesn’t even have a weapon!”
As if to disprove his threat, Berserker ducked low and lunged at him. A sound like an animal roaring ripped from her throat as she grabbed his throat in both her hands. A strangled cry managed to escape his mouth before all access was cut off. He could neither scream nor even breathe as he hung suspended in her grasp, legs kicking at her midsection seeking release.
Irmgard’s blood had run cold. It was as if she was the one being strangled, prevented from making a single noise as her Servant held him up easily. In the silence of the moment there was a sound like a spike pounding into soft, wet earth.
The mage’s ice weapon had pierced Berserker’s shoulder. His face red and panicked, he watched the attack rush through her without any resistance of armor, magical or otherwise. When the spear was pulled back, his eyes bulged wider in their sockets. The attack had done nothing. Less than nothing, for all that it mattered.
With a snapping sound, something seemed to leave the mage’s body. Wide eyes stared at the last thing he saw in his life, the oddly quiet fury of a Berserker’s one eye, and arms and legs hung limply in the air. The priest and Lord Einzbern made a hasty retreat as a handful of homunculi rushed past them to restrain Berserker.
Irmgard took one look at the mage’s lifeless body, exhaled the breath she had been holding, and fainted.