Chapter Text
Unsummon Program, start.
Spiritron Conversion, start.
Rayshift starting in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
Grand Order, commencing operation.
She was standing in a green meadow underneath a vibrant sakura tree. A curtain of pink petals cascaded around her as the wind rustled through the branches, obscuring her vision. When it cleared at last, she found that she was no longer alone.
A familiar figure stood on the other side of the sakura tree, her expression oddly solemn. It was—
“Ui,” she said, and it came out as a cry. She wanted to run forward, to embrace her, but her body wouldn’t move no matter how hard she tried.
“Big sister,” Ui replied. “Big sis, you need to wake up.”
“What?” Iroha said. The idea felt utterly foreign to her. “But why? I want to stay here with you!”
Ui shook her head. Her gentle smile was a balm to a wound she’d been nursing for months, and yet it stung at the same time. “You can’t do that, big sister. Look up.”
Startled at the abrupt command, she did as she was told. There, rippled across the bright blue sky, was a band of glowing white light. It shone with an unearthly beauty down on the earth, bathing the sakura tree in its radiance.
She knew immediately that it didn’t belong there.
“You see?” her little sister said. “You have duties more important than staying with me. The future of the world depends on you, big sis.”
She knew that, too. Of course she knew. The red marks on her right hand reminded her of those responsibilities constantly, and ignoring them did no good. Even so, she wanted to deny it. Ui looked at her with sadness and sympathy, like she understood her words would cut deeper more than a weapon ever could.
“Please, Iroha. Open your eyes once more.”
Iroha’s eyes flew open at the sound of the swords clashing against a shield.
For a moment, she just stared up at the sky—there was that unnatural ring of light—and recalled traces of a conversation she had in a dream. Then someone shouted, “Master!” and reality came crashing down.
Chaldea. Mash. Singularity. Orleans.
Instantly, Iroha stumbled to her feet and forced herself to concentrate on the situation they were thrown into. She was uphill from Mash, who was fending off a small group of soldiers with Fou on her shoulder. Or—it most likely was a group, but now it was reduced to a couple of men fleeing from the sight of Mash brandishing her shield while the rest of their compatriots lie unconscious on the ground. She stared at the sight, wondering what else she missed while she was asleep.
"Iroha, are you awake?" someone asked.
Iroha jumped, glancing wildly around for the source of the voice, before she remembered about the communication bracelet. Fumbling, she brought her wrist close to her lips and blurted out, "I'm here, doctor!"
Dr. Roman inhaled sharply. "Ow! You don't need to lean in that close, we can hear you just fine from a regular distance—ow, that almost burst my eardrums!"
Embarrassed, Iroha straightened up and said, "I'm so sorry about that, Doctor. Um, are you alright?"
"My ears will be ringing for a little while, but I think I'll be okay," he said. "More importantly, what about you and Mash? Did she use the back of her blade like I suggested when she fought those soldiers?"
Iroha frowned a little. "I don't know. I wasn't able to support her in the fight . . ."
She did absolutely nothing. Nothing but dream about Ui, and that sakura tree—
The useless last Master of humanity, Lev had sneered, and Olga-Marie's tearful face superimposed itself in her mind. Then again, I wouldn't expect much from a human like you.
"Right, the Rayshift," said Dr. Roman, promptly jolting her out of those memories. "You know, I thought we fixed all the problems with it the last go around, but it looks like we still have some things we missed. Leonardo was the one in charge of all those changes, so I'll have a word with her. Rayshifting isn't usually supposed to knock you out."
"Really?" Iroha said, latching onto a welcome distraction. "But I felt fine while I was in the coffin."
"Yup, that's what I got from your vitals. Everything remained stable throughout the entire Rayshifting process," Dr. Roman reported. "It was only towards the end where your heart rate and brain waves changed. Were you experiencing anything then, Iroha? Did you see or dream of anything? I want to know if the Rayshift is affecting something other than your consciousness."
And she was back again, stuck where she's always been. "No, nothing," Iroha said, and the lie tasted like ash on her tongue. "I . . . I didn't see anything at all."
"Huh. Alright.” Dr. Roman paused and let out a resounding groan. “Ugh, this whole situation is making me use my brain more than I want to! Why do you keep falling asleep?! That's not how it works!"
"Yes, but for some reason, it just keeps happening," Mash agreed, appearing over the crest of the hill. "Master, I've defeated the brigade. While you were asleep, I tried to make friends with the locals, but they reacted badly to my attempts." She stopped, looking thoughtful. "Perhaps I was too forwards with them. I'll make sure to rectify that later."
Iroha wasn't quite sure what that meant, but she was relieved to see that Mash was unhurt. And by the looks of it, Fou was too, although she didn't know why he was here in the first place. "I'm sorry for not helping you," she said. "I was—"
She stopped herself. I was dreaming sounded like a ridiculous excuse, so she hastily changed course. "Maybe we can try making friends again once we enter a city. We also have to find a leyline to summon a Servant, right?"
"Correct," Mash said. "Do you need assistance walking, Master? The nearest town is a couple of kilometers away, and you seem a little pale."
Iroha waved away her concerned hand. "I'm fine, Mash. Thank you. I was just thinking that maybe the problem isn't with the Rayshift. Maybe it's with me."
"That's . . ." Mash tilted her head in consideration. "Well, you did react badly every time we Rayshifted, but that could still be a malfunction in the systems. You're the only person to test it out, and machines are prone to errors. We should have da Vinci look further into it before you start blaming yourself."
"Yes, that's what I said!" said Dr. Roman, his voice ringing out oddly.
"So you did relay the message to her, right?" Mash asked. "No, wait. Are you eating the snacks I left for Master in the Command Center?!"
Dr. Roman audibly swallowed. "You mean the ones left by the tea? Those snacks?"
"Why are you eating it in the first place, doctor? They were made for Master, who was fighting so bravely on the frontlines!"
"Ah, well—they just looked so delicious, so I couldn't resist!"
". . . Master. I request a Command Seal to be reserved when we get back so I can charge up another attack."
"M-Mash?! Don't make jokes like that . . . Ah, but I’m so proud! You’ve really grown as a person!"
Iroha listened absently to Mash continue to berate the doctor as they walked downhill and towards the speck of a town settled on the horizon. On a whim, she turned around, half-expecting to see a sakura tree atop the hill she'd just been standing on.
But that had only been a half-forgotten dream, and instead, her eyes were drawn to that glowing ring of light. An involuntary shudder ran through her, and she rubbed her stark red Command Seals for comfort.
Like most of everything she does, it didn't work. On the contrary, Iroha just felt worse. She hunched her shoulders, quickened her pace, and tried her best to push down the vision of Ui's form disappearing into oblivion.
Maybe, in Orleans, she could learn to forget.
If Iroha didn’t know of the existence of Servants before, she was certainly briefed thoroughly on the subject when she came to Chaldea. From the description, Iroha had pictured proud, elegant heroes from fairy tales, and couldn’t fathom how they were anchored to one person. Yet she had summoned the pseudo-Servant Zhuge Liang and that red Archer in the Fuyuki Singularity. With the help of Cú Caster and Mash, they defeated every blackened Servant they came across. Now they were waiting in Chaldea, ready to be Rayshifted over to Orleans at a moment’s notice.
Whenever Iroha thought of that, she also thought of how they couldn’t prevent Olga-Marie from being sucked into Chaldeas, or stop Professor Lev, or put out the city of flames where their battles took place. Not that the last part mattered—Dr. Roman had reassured her the city would be perfectly fine after history had been restored—but she had regretted it all the same. If she did this, or that, or been a bit more forceful—
No amount of regrets can bring the dead back. Iroha should’ve known that by now.
It was her fault alone. Her Servants had done everything they could, after all. Iroha never really believed in karma or fate, but if the concept of magic existed, why couldn’t destiny? She’d tried to escape from the dreams plaguing her in Takarazaki and instead ran straight into the arms of nightmares. Perhaps this was her comeuppance for being too weak to face the ghosts back at home.
The town they were currently standing in was full of ghosts. It once must’ve been a lively, bustling place, but now the buildings were destroyed with nobody in sight. They picked through the rubble in an attempt to find any survivors, but if there were, they must’ve fled to the next town over.
“A Servant had been here earlier,” Dr. Roman said, as Iroha stared mutely at a bloody kerchief on the ground. “They’re most likely the one that caused this. It’s getting dark, though, so we can’t pursue them for the time being.”
Mash placed a steadying hand on Iroha’s shoulder. “That’s alright. Senpai needs to rest for the night, anyway.”
“I’m . . . I’m okay,” Iroha said, finally looking away. “Let’s search the town more, just in case we missed anything. Maybe we can find a clue to what Servants were here.”
So they scoured the village as the sun sank below the horizon. There were some more bloodstains—though not as much as expected—and signs that someone had annihilated everything in their path. Iroha touched the charred remains of a house, wondering if the Dragon Witch they’d heard about caused this disaster.
They found Jeanne d’Arc, savior of France and temporary ally, on her knees before the visage of a half-collapsed church. “I stayed here once during my campaign," she murmured, lifting her head. "The townsfolk gave us a place to stay and supplies for our journey. They were kind, pious people. I pray that God welcomes those who’ve perished freely into his arms."
“The Dragon Witch set fire to this place, I think,” Iroha said quietly. “Was every town that was attacked burnt down like this?”
Jeanne rose to her feet. “Perhaps. That’s what the locals say.”
Iroha bit her lip, then didn’t say anything more as they left the town and trooped into the forest for the night. They weren’t far from a leyline, and that would allow her to summon the Servants for tomorrow’s battles. And there would be one, since their enemies were closer than ever.
Iroha disliked fighting against people. She realized that it was necessary in the Grand Order, and that they were fighting for the future of humanity, but she still preferred peaceful methods over violence. The Fuyuki Servants were beyond any civil conversation, but she secretly believed that maybe someone in Orleans would hear them out.
Any hopes Iroha harbored had quickly been squashed when she saw the village. There was no way someone who inflicted that much damage would negotiate with them.
Now she understood. In the face of warfare, her naivety would only drag everyone down. She needed to fight, fight against monsters and humans alike, even if her heart ached at the thought. Fight, until she could no longer stand on her own two feet, until the last breath had been dragged out of her body. Until the people who couldn’t be saved had the chance to be.
Big sis. She saw the curve of Ui’s smile, the subtle sadness in her expression. What do you want?
That night, when she lay on the ground watching the ring of light in the sky, Iroha closed her eyes and gave a silent answer.
I want to become stronger, Ui, for everyone’s sake. I need to be. So, please—
Please watch over me.
It turned out that learning to fight was entirely different from wanting to fight. Namely, how her muscles vehemently began to protest after the tenth time she was knocked to the ground.
“You’re vulnerable on your right,” Emiya said, standing over her. “You can’t compensate for the weakness on your left by neglecting your other side. Get up and try that again.”
Iroha struggled to rise, panting heavily. Emiya wasn’t even trying. She’d witnessed how he fended off that Berserk Assassin and Berserk Lancer during their confrontation with the blackened Jeanne d’Arc, and he wasn’t using even a tenth of his strength now.
That should have frustrated her. Instead, it made her more determined to land a blow on him.
Iroha gripped her sheathed dagger and lunged forward again. Emiya let her get close, then side-stepped her strike. She whirled around, drew her arm back, and—
She hesitated before she let the dagger fly from her grip. Emiya snatched it out of the air without even blinking, spinning the hilt easily between his fingers.
Applause resounded in the clearing, and Iroha glanced over, startled. Queen Marie Antoinette sat primly on a blanket that had been offered to her, observing the sparring session with unadulterated interest. She beamed at her, sunny and enthusiastic.
“That was très magnifique, Iroha!” Marie said. “That last attack was a creative turn of events!”
Jeanne, who was sitting next to her, nodded in agreement. “You were quite accurate as well. You would have hit Emiya if he didn’t defend himself at the last second.”
“Good aim and creativity wouldn’t matter if she doesn’t commit to it,” said Emiya, approaching Iroha. “Your dagger, Master.”
Iroha accepted her weapon with no small amount of consternation. “Thank you, everyone. And I’m sorry about holding back. I just . . .”
She trailed off and couldn’t bring herself to look Emiya in the eye. Even if it had just been a lesson, even with the sheath covering the blade, her stomach had plummeted when she envisioned the dagger landing its mark.
“You recognize your problems. That’s the first step to making progress,” Emiya said gruffly. “Chin up, Master. It’s only our third sparring session. Expecting yourself to improve so drastically isn’t realistic.”
“Yes, yes, he’s right,” Marie said. She watched them intently, her chin resting in her hands. Not for the first time, Iroha was reminded that she and Jeanne weren’t that much older than her—they could’ve been exchange students strolling down the crosswalk in Takarazaki, and she’d be none the wiser. “I believe,” she continued, “that you’re being too hard on yourself, Iroha. Look at you! You’re covered in grime, and your pretty hairstyle has become undone. We must fix this at once!”
Iroha brushed futilely at the dirt on her Mystic Code. “I’m alright,” she said. “I have to meet with Lord El-Melloi II for a strategy meeting, so I’ll—”
“Oh, non, that wouldn’t do at all,” Marie said, rising from her seat. “Can’t the strategy meeting wait, Emiya? I understand that war wouldn’t wait for a girl’s looks, but she must at least feel clean, if nothing else.”
“But I—”
“I’ll tell Caster,” Emiya interrupted. “There’s a stream nearby. Go splash some water on your face and wash your hands. He wouldn’t die from waiting a couple more minutes.”
And just like that, there was no other choice left. Iroha meekly acquiesced to Marie's advances, following her and Jeanne to a babbling brook a little way west from their sparring spot. The queen kept up a steady stream of lighthearted chatter as Iroha dipped her fingers into the cool water, and didn’t stop as Jeanne sat her down on a rock to fix her hair.
Iroha shifted shyly as Jeanne ran a hand over her head. She wasn’t used to being fussed over, and it felt strange to receive so much of someone’s attention. Strange . . . but not unwelcome.
Jeanne settled into a comfortable rhythm of braiding Iroha's hair, humming an unfamiliar melody. Iroha ignored her aching muscles and instead focused on the warm sun on her face, the stream babbling merrily over the rocks, and the birds chirping from their perch on the tree branches.
For one sleepy moment, she could almost believe everything was alright in the world.
“Isn’t this nice?” Marie said. “The flowers in Versaille were gorgeous in bloom, but there’s a certain charm to wildflowers as well. They shine brilliantly here in the woods.”
“It is pretty,” Iroha said. “I’ve never seen anything like it in the city.”
Marie leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “You were from the city in the future, oui? What was it like? Was the architecture as splendid and the people as fascinating than in our era?”
“Um, it’s . . .” Iroha stopped to contemplate her answer. “I think each is beautiful in its own way. Takarazaki, where I lived, didn’t have any green hills or forests, but it had tall buildings made from steel and glass. When night comes, you can see the lights of the city from your bedroom window, and that makes up for the stars you can’t see in the sky. The people there are . . . they’re very kind. They love to laugh and celebrate there, too.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Marie said, as Iroha paused to breathe. Her expression was gentle as she studied her. “You love your home very much, don’t you? Do you miss it?”
She did. She missed her shared bedroom, she missed her apron, she missed riding the train to school, she missed her parents, and most of all, she missed Ui and Touka and Nemu—
“Yes,” Iroha said abruptly. “I do, but not for the right reasons.”
As it turned out, like most things she did, she wasn’t very good at forgetting.
From then on, they had little time to take breaks.
After they defeated St. Martha, she told them to go to Lyon, where they could find someone who could aid them to defeat the other Jeanne's dragon. She hadn’t been an evil person, despite her status as their enemy, and Iroha gathered some wildflowers as a marker for her and her tarasque before they left.
“You are truly compassionate, little Master of Chaldea,” Mozart commented as she laid the bouquet at where Martha disappeared. “To commemorate your enemies like so is quite the remarkable feat.”
He said that like it was an amusing fact, but Iroha still couldn’t face him directly. “Do you think that’s a bad thing to do?" she asked. "To honor someone who might’ve hurt other people?”
“Oh, I'm no judge of good or bad,” Mozart said, smiling. “However, if the rhythm of your heart troubles you, perhaps you should seek music outside yourself for comfort. Since I am by your side, you have nothing to worry about in terms of exquisite music.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant, but then Mash called for them, and the conversation stalled as they trooped to a nearby (intact) town for information. Iroha hadn’t been lying to Marie when she said that France was beautiful—it was just that the beauty was overshadowed by the metallic tinge of desperation in the air. Each time they spotted smoke in the distance, or fought back against bandits, Iroha couldn't help but think that Orleans may not be so different from Fuyuki.
No, that wasn’t quite right. In Fuyuki, she had faced the aftermath of complete destruction with no way to save it; in Orleans, the promise of said destruction hung thickly over their heads. She was afraid to see the villages and greenery be reduced to ashes, and even more afraid of her inability to prevent it.
The useless last Master of humanity. Lev’s words rang loudly, more than ever before, in her ears.
So Iroha worried. She worried and fretted and agonized over what more she could do, if there was anything for her to do. She pored over strategies with Lord El-Melloi II, discussed team formations with Dr. Roman and Mash, pushed herself to train with Emiya. They were supportive and kind, but she knew: she wasn’t doing enough.
Perhaps that's what drove her that day at Lyon, what pushed her to the defeated Berserker's side. He was dangerous and still had Mad Enhancement clouding his judgment, but he was slowly fading away into nothingness when she stooped down next to him.
"It's alright," Iroha said, even though none of it is. "I'm sorry that you have to go through this. I hope that one day, maybe we can fight together."
The Berserker opened his cracked lips, his exposed eye wide open. "Ah," he breathed, "this voice . . . Christine, my angel, so you have come to soothe me as the curtain falls . . ."
He lifted his arm, as if to caress Iroha's cheek, but his long-nailed fingers had already dissolved into motes of golden dust. With a contented sigh, the rest of him disappeared as well, leaving her to stare at nothing but rubble.
In the absence of flowers, Iroha stacked two makeshift towers of stone—one for the citizens of Lyon, one for the unknown Berserker—and clapped her hands together in prayer. Then, she returned to her companions, where Emiya and Lord El-Melloi II scolded her about the dangers of approaching a fallen enemy. They had been unable to restrain her, since they were too caught up in disposing of the other creatures sent their way. During their lectures, Iroha inadvertently met eyes with Mozart, and he simply winked at her.
If nobody else, at least he seemed to approve of her actions.
They found Siegfried, the dragon slayer, chained up in a musky old castle—one that must’ve been magnificent in its intimidation but had now deteriorated into a skeleton of its former self. Iroha had tried to heal his wound with what little magecraft her Mystic Code granted her, but a curse had prevented her from going any further. She hadn’t felt much better about it even with his thanks.
However, it was enough for Siegfried to drive off the dragon—Fafnir, as the blackened Jeanne had called him—who had menaced Jeanne and Mash with his reinforced scales and sharp claws and powerful wings. A dragon, straight out of the storybooks that Nemu had loved so much, and a hero with a mystical sword to fight back against it.
The hero won, at least temporarily. Iroha’s relief about their small victory was quickly offset by more problems. Namely, the wyverns besieging a nearby French army, the same French army attacking Jeanne for thinking that she was the Dragon Witch, and more of their enemies showing up to incapacitate them.
In short, it was chaos. Complete and total chaos.
“Mash! Emiya!” Iroha shouted, activating her Command Seal. Their fight with Fafnir had been draining, and they needed an extra power boost to hold back the black Berserker. Emiya’s eyes flickered to her, most likely as thanks, but what came out of his mouth was something else entirely.
“Master! Behind you!”
Too late, Iroha whirled around. An arm snaked around her neck, yanking her up and leaving her to dangle in the air. “My, my,” someone crooned in her ear. “Another virginal girl for me to indulge in. Your blood must be so very sweet."
“Berserk . . . Berserk Assassin,” Iroha gasped out, her feet kicking uselessly against her. “Please . . .”
“Resorted to begging, have you? How amusingly pathetic.” A nail traced across her neck, threatening to draw blood. “‘Cut off the head and the rest shall die,’ the Dragon Witch said. It's a turn of phrase, of course, but shall I cut off your head as well? Beheading is Sanson’s pastime, but it's a waste not to preserve your look of fear. I shall hang your head up on the walls so I can enjoy it while I bathe in your blood.”
Iroha’s vision was swimming with black spots, but the words of beheading and blood made her scrabble for the dagger at her side. She gave up a scant second later when Assassin began to squeeze her throat, choking the air from her lungs.
“IROHA!”
Berserk Assassin hissed, her breath stirring Iroha’s hair, before she let go. Iroha collapsed to the ground, coughing and sputtering, tears trailing down her face, as Jeanne clashed against Assassin fiercely, her banner creating sparks on the staff.
“Oh? And here I thought you were still taking care of the wyverns,” Assassin taunted. “Or have you grown tired of the countrymen who had betrayed you?”
“Never,” Jeanne said, swinging her banner for another blow. “I had some assistance to defeat the wyverns, and I’ve come to aid my companion! Gilles!”
A large boom nearly deafened Iroha, and she covered her ears as she bowed over, trying to regain control of herself. Before they came to Orleans, Dr. Roman taught her how to take stock of any injuries just in case, and she did that now; her head spun, her throat burned, her bruises ached—yet she wasn’t in as much pain as she expected.
“It’s pretty obvious, but the body’s very adept at lying to itself.” Touka’s voice came floating to her mind, rehashing a lesson from long ago. “For instance, when your body’s fight or flight response kicks in, it starts up the nerves connected to the adrenal glands, and thus releases adrenaline through the bloodstream. That’s why people don’t feel pain after going through a stressful situation, you know?”
If she hadn’t known before, she did now.
Touka . . . would have you made the same mistake that I did? Surely she would've kept her guard up and had more awareness of her surroundings. A nonsensical thought floated through her mind: she was always better at chess than I was.
Chess . . .
Little black and white pieces being pushed across the board. Touka, fast and decisive: Iroha, slow and hesitant.
"Checkmate!" Touka said, and laughed triumphantly. "As expected of a genius, I win again!"
She couldn’t cling to Touka’s proud expression for long. Instead, she could only picture her on the day of Nemu’s funeral, when she clutched at Iroha’s sleeve, tearfully begging her to stay.
"Don't leave me too, Iroha," Touka cried. "I can't bear it if you leave like Nemu and Ui, I just can't . . ."
You left me, Iroha thought wearily. You and Nemu and Ui. Everyone.
Why did the most painful of memories have to come at the worst of times? Why couldn’t she hold onto Touka’s smile like she did Ui’s? Why did everything have to circle back to their deaths?
She couldn’t ask anyone but herself, and she wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
“Master? Oi, Master, can you hear me?"
Iroha shakily raised her head to see Lord El-Melloi II kneeling before her. The first thing that came out of her mouth was, “I’m sorry . . .”
“What?” His brows, if possible, became even more pinched. “We don’t have time for apologies. Sanson and that Assassin had retreated; Mash and Emiya are on their last stretch of energy fighting Lancelot. One of them needs another Command Seal for them to finish the job.”
Iroha followed his line of sight. Jeanne had joined forces with Mash to keep the black Berserker at bay, while Emiya was engaging him in a flurry of attacks.
“Emiya, please defeat him,” she whispered, because shouting hurt her throat too much. The second Command Seal disappeared in a flare of light from her hand, and it was then where Emiya’s blade struck beneath the visor of the blackened knight. His other sword, Kanshou, rammed straight into his chest a heartbeat later.
Berserker—no, Lancelot, one of King Arthur’s knights, fell backward with a garbled scream. Iroha rose unsteadily to her feet and would’ve immediately fallen over again if it weren’t for Lord El-Melloi grabbing her arm.
“What are you doing, fool?” he said, exasperated. “You were strangled barely five minutes ago. Why do you insist on doing things the hard way?”
Iroha lowered her eyes in favor of an actual answer. Despite his grumblings, Lord El-Melloi helped her walk slowly to the spot where Lancelot lay, where the rest of their group formed a loose ring around him.
“Senpai!” Mash cried, rushing over to them. “Those injuries aren’t minor, we have to treat them—”
“There’s something she wants to do first,” Lord El-Melloi cut in. His gaze was merciless but not judgmental. “Well, Master?”
Iroha lightly pushed away Mash’s hands. She gave a little nod to prove that she was fine, really, and hobbled over to Lancelot’s side. He was nearly gone when she arrived, and only spared a passing glance at her before focusing his attention on Jeanne.
“Arthur . . . king . . .” he rasped out. “I’m . . . sorry . . .”
“I am not your king,” Jeanne told him. “But I’m sure she’ll understand either way.”
There wasn’t anything left to say. Lancelot vanished, as the Berserker and St. Martha had done, and Iroha watched as the last of the gold dust winked out of existence. “Wait,” she said, as they started to leave. From her pocket, she pulled out a smooth gray stone she found in Lyon and nestled it in the grass.
Emiya sighed at the familiar ritual. “Is that necessary, Master? You have to understand that it’s impossible to memorialize every enemy we defeat.”
“Even if that’s the case, I still want to try,” Iroha said softly. “It’s the least I can do. They’re still people, and they deserve to be remembered.”
“I see,” Emiya muttered. “And what happens when you find that you can no longer bear to remember them? The enemies and the civilians?”
She'll have to remember, she wanted to say, but Emiya wouldn't like that answer, and she doubted that she liked it either. Remembrance was an obligation, a plea for forgiveness, and a personal vow, all so inextricably tied together that she couldn't tell where one began and the other ended. It was for their enemies who never had a choice of which side they had to fight for, it was for Ui and Nemu and Touka, and it was for herself.
At last, Iroha said, “I'll do my best to prevent that. It’ll be too sad otherwise, right?”
Dread was a hard feeling to shake away.
Marie may have healed the bruises around Iroha's neck, but the phantom touch of Assassin’s fingers hadn’t gone away. Mash had blamed herself for the whole thing, and though Iroha reassured her that it wasn’t her fault, the older girl had stuck close to her throughout the entire day.
“Why were they targeting Senpai, anyway?” Mash asked. “They never did that before.”
Lord El-Melloi, cigarette in hand, blew out a plume of smoke. “Someone must’ve thought that they could cut out half the players in the field if the Master was out of commission. The other Jeanne’s too bullheaded to think strategically, so it must have been her advisor.”
“Well, if Iroha’s being targeted, why don’t we have a guard stationed for her?” Marie said brightly, as if they were discussing her favorite piece of jewelry. “It’ll be safer that way.”
"That would be the wisest course of action." Lord El-Melloi brought the cigarette to his lips again. "Well, Iroha? What do you think?"
A roomful of eyes all turned towards her, and Iroha shrank a little in her seat. She was discomfited by how these powerful, legendary people wanted her opinion, not as a suggestion but as an order.
Iroha was a lot of things, but she was sure she would never be as good a commander as everyone wanted her to be.
"I think . . ." Iroha said weakly, "I think it'll be okay."
The apprehension in her chest grew further as they moved on to a solution for Siegfried's wound, which involved splitting up. Things were accelerating in a way that meant the end was coming soon, and she didn’t know how everything was going to end.
It terrified her, that sense of unknown. That promise of destruction, of failure, was too much for her to bear.
"What's wrong, Iroha?" Marie said after the meeting broke up. She was smiling, as always, but it was edged with a hint of concern. "You haven't spoken much. Are you still shaken up with what happened with that Berserk Assassin?"
Iroha bit her lip, unsure where to even start. "A little, but it's not that. I . . . I have a bad feeling about splitting up. It's . . . I'm not sure about this at all."
"Oh, Iroha," Marie said sympathetically. "There's a saying that goes, if you believe bad things are going to happen, they will happen, non? So don't worry. This will surely all work out in the end."
"Will it?" Iroha said in a small voice. She felt like a little girl again, wanting to be reassured by her parents. "What if . . ."
What if it’s just like Fuyuki, like with Professor Lev and Olga-Marie?
Marie patted her cheek. "Be hopeful! Be optimistic. You are stronger than you think, and that will carry you far. And if your strength gives up on you, you always have us!"
It was hard to hold onto doubt when Marie sounded so confident. She was a beacon of light amidst the darkness, and she understood why Mozart had said France loved her. "I'll . . . I'll do my best," Iroha finally said. "I'll see this through."
"Now that's the spirit!" Marie cheered. "Vive la France!"
Iroha cracked a fleeting smile. "Thank you, Marie. For everything."
Marie shook her head. "Oh, non, non. Thank you, Iroha. Without you and your friends' support, I doubt that Amadeus and I would have gotten to this point. So don’t be anxious. You're so much more adorable when you loosen up a bit."
It seemed easy to copy Marie’s brilliant smile, but Iroha found she couldn't quite do it. It didn't seem to matter to the queen, however, as she kissed her cheeks airily in goodbye and waved as they went their separate ways.
Hope. Optimism. Iroha curled her hand over her chest and closed her eyes briefly. She wanted to hope. She wanted to believe. In the beginning, she had done just that.
So why couldn't she manage it anymore?
Maybe . . . Maybe it had been burnt alongside the city in Fuyuki. Maybe it had disappeared the moment Olga-Marie did.
Maybe it has died, long ago, with everybody else.
No. Iroha shook away the thought. The reason why she was here, fighting in this Singularity, was because she believed in the future; maybe not for Ui, or Nemu, or Touka, but for everyone else who wanted to live. For Mash. For Dr. Roman. For the remaining staff in Chaldea.
Yes, she needed to believe, or else half of the battle was lost. She had almost forgotten about that. She was so hung up on her helplessness physically that she neglected herself mentally, and that can't ever happen. What was she if she just—gave in to despair, so easily? She had almost let it swallow her whole back in Takarazaki, and when she stood in that burning room before Fuyuki.
She can't let despair consume her. Despair would make Iroha Tamaki less than nothing. She wouldn’t be able to call herself human anymore if she gave up.
Be hopeful. Be optimistic.
"I should smile more," Iroha said aloud. "Or . . . is that too inappropriate?"
Mash, who stood next to her protectively, glanced over at her. "No, not at all. But why is that, Senpai?"
"Nothing, really," she answered, and tested her newfound resolve by smiling a little at Mash, and then at everyone else. "Should we get going?"
Marie sacrificed herself.
Marie wasn't supposed to sacrifice herself.
But then again, when did Iroha ever have a say in other people's actions?
Marie would have wanted her to think on the bright side, so Iroha tried to do just that—St. Georgios had healed Siegfried's wound, they had two more members in their group, Emiya was cooking dinner again—but that wasn't enough to erase the grief of Marie's death.
"In war, there must be sacrifices," Lord El-Melloi II brusquely said to her once. "So don't get discouraged if someone dies in battle, Master."
That was way before the Orleans Singularity, way before Iroha had gotten close to Marie. How could she learn to separate her feelings? A Servant's death technically didn’t count as a fatality, since they were already dead, but they were still people. People who talked and laughed and smiled, and had dreams even after they lived. And the death of a person, living or not, wasn't something she could forget about so easily.
That night, after a dinner she barely touched, Iroha picked some white-and-yellow wildflowers—ones that Marie had pointed out as being beautiful, so long ago—and dug up the smoothest stone there was in the forest. She placed the stone on top of the flower stems as a weight and brushed over the petals wistfully.
"May I join you?" a voice asked. Iroha jumped, then whipped around to see a familiar silhouette emerge from the trees.
"I'm sorry for startling you," Jeanne d’Arc said apologetically. "Your companions sent me to find you, since they were worried about enemies or monsters attacking. You're making a memorial for Marie, aren't you?"
"Y-Yes," Iroha stammered. "I'm sorry for not telling anyone and sneaking off like that . . ."
Jeanne sat down next to her. "Don't worry about it. Your friends understand that you needed some time alone, as Mozart did. You've gotten close to her during our journey together, after all."
"So did you," Iroha said, remembering how Marie would stay up late talking to Jeanne. "You were friends with her. I think . . . she admired you a lot.”
"And I felt the same way about her." She folded her hands together in prayer. "I hope that in another life, we could become friends again."
Tentatively, Iroha said, "If . . . If I summoned you two in Chaldea after all of this, would you mind continuing to be friends there?"
Jeanne's smile shone like the stars glimmering overhead. "Not at all. And I'm sure that she wouldn't mind, either."
A short silence fell upon them, where Iroha stole quick glances at Jeanne, trying to figure out the best way to ask another question. She couldn’t impose upon the moment, could she? Or was she overthinking again? Maybe she should find Lord El-Melloi later, or maybe Emiya—
“You’ve been staring at me for a while,” Jeanne said, folding her hands in her lap. “Is there anything you want to ask me?”
Iroha blushed at being caught. “Um, I’m sorry about that! I . . . I was just wondering, you were in a lot of battles, right? Like the ones we’re fighting now?”
“Well, in life, I didn’t lead armies against wyverns or other Heroic Spirits,” Jeanne replied with a short laugh. “But yes, I did. I lead troops into war, so that the Lord would stop weeping over humanity.”
“Were you scared?”
“Terrified,” said Jeanne. “But there was no one else who could hear God’s lamentations, and I couldn’t go about my life knowing that I did nothing to stop it.”
“So you . . . didn’t regret it?”
“No, I didn’t. Despite everything that happened.”
Iroha glanced down at her faded array of Command Seals. “How did you deal with it? All the deaths, I mean.”
“I prayed,” she said simply. “I prayed for the souls that I fought with and against. I prayed that they found peace in eternal rest.”
“I . . . I don’t have that much faith anymore,” Iroha admitted, and braced herself for a negative reaction. When none came, she went on. “How should I accept the people who die? It’s only the second Singularity, and yet so many people have already . . .”
Jeanne laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not easy, I know. It’ll never be easy unless you lose your humanity. But you needn’t wallow in those deaths. Remember them, tuck them away in your heart, and let them fuel you on your journey. If it ever becomes too much, and you’re knocked back down, know that your companions will help you back up.”
Marie had said something like that, before they had parted ways. Hope and optimism and belief, and that everything will work out. Mozart, too, with his cryptic statement about finding comfort in the music outside herself.
Iroha still didn’t understand it completely. But she was starting too, just a little.
“I guess I was too selfish,” she said, and tried for a smile. “Thinking how I feel about all this when it’s someone else’s tragedy. Thank you for giving me advice.”
The holy maiden shook her head. “Marie was truly blessed to have you as a friend.”
“I was blessed to have both of you as friends,” Iroha said without thinking.
“Friends?” Jeanne repeated, blinking at her.
“Yeah. Isn’t . . . Isn’t that what we are?”
Jeanne broke into a wide smile, her eyes shining. “Yes, of course! We’re friends and comrades-in-arms. How could we be anything less?”
For the first time in months, in front of a dear friend’s makeshift memorial, Iroha Tamaki laughed. It was a little fragile and strained from disuse—but it was sincere. It came from the bottom of her heart, without any lingering reservations or sadness about the future or the past.
She hasn’t forgotten. Not really. But for now, it was enough for her.
Along with the morning came the preparations for the final battle.
Iroha slept fitfully that night, dreaming of Marie’s cheery smile, of standing underneath that sakura tree, of riding a train that carried her to a burning city. She woke up to one of Kiyohome and Elizabeth’s arguments and didn't dwell on her dreams as she rushed to break them up.
She decided to take that as a good sign for today’s operations.
They cleaned up their camping grounds and were ready to move out by the time the sun was up. It was a beautiful morning, like every day in France has been. Iroha shielded her eyes against the morning sunlight and squinted at the band of light overhead. That, too, had been a never-changing constant since they landed in this Singularity.
If today went as planned, that would soon change.
They set off in an odd but methodical fashion; Siegfried, Emiya, and Jeanne in the front, Kiyohime and Elizabeth Bathory following close behind, Iroha in the middle, with everyone else bringing up the rear. Iroha wanted to be placed in the back, to not slow everyone else down, but Lord El-Melloi had insisted.
“That way, if enemies attack, you won't be in a vulnerable position like last time,” Lord El-Melloi had said grimly. “We can’t let you become bait again.”
Iroha had shuddered, thinking of Berserk Assassin’s fingers closing around her throat, and accepted it without further complaint. When wyverns converged on them on all sides, seemingly out of nowhere, she vowed to herself to never second-guess Lord El-Melloi’s strategies.
“Ready yourself, Master,” Emiya said, surveying the snapping, slobbering display of monsters. “This won’t be easy.”
Iroha squared her shoulders. “I don’t have a lot of mana, and I need to preserve my Command Seals for when we fight the other Servants, but I promise to heal anyone who gets hurt. Let’s win and come back safely!”
It wasn’t a very inspiring speech, but a ragged cheer rose from the group all the same. They rushed out to meet the wyverns head-on, countering razor-sharp teeth and claws with fire and blades and overwhelming force. Though it was entirely pointless, Iroha unsheathed her dagger and held it out in front of her. She braced her other hand against Mash’s back and nodded at her surprised look.
“We’re in this together,” she told her. “Please don’t hold back on my account.”
A determined look flashed across Mash’s face. “Of course, Master! Leave it to me!”
From there, it was a test of endurance. The wyverns weren’t so much strong as persistent, and made up for their shortcomings with their overwhelming numbers. Still, there were only so many that the Dragon Witch could send out; after they defeated the first couple waves, the creatures noticeably thinned, and they were able to continue their trek onwards. Everyone made it out without any wounds, save for a few singed eyebrows that Elizabeth complained about.
“Pesky worms,” she said in distaste, her previous enthusiasm forcibly shunted aside. “They’re more trouble than they’re worth. Go die already.”
Iroha privately agreed with the sentiment, but outwardly said, “Maybe we can think of it as a . . . rehearsal, of some sort?”
Elizabeth sniffed, disdainful. “You’re pretty new to this, aren’t you? Rehearsals aren’t usually this annoying. But fine. For the sake of my upcoming performance with my older—I mean, a person whom I have an ax to grind with, I’ll treat this seriously. So don’t look so alarmed. Your eyes are going to pop out of your head at this rate.”
They walked onwards—Emiya trounced another straggly herd of wyverns without so much as breaking a sweat—before their problems magnified in size. Quite literally. A small army was appearing over the horizon, brandishing visible weapons, all seemingly Servants that the other Jeanne had summoned. And at the front, heading the frontal assault, was none other than—
“Fafnir,” said Lord El-Melloi. “Master, support Mash and Siegfried to take that thing down. Everyone else, follow the formation.”
They didn’t have a formation. Not really. Instead, Jeanne took the lead for their messy charge, banner raised and head held high. This wasn’t the Jeanne that Iroha had confided in last night; this was Jeanne the general, who had plunged bravely into war because of God’s tears, who had her legacy enshrined in paintings and textbooks all over the world. The other Jeanne, the Dragon Witch, could see that too; her yellow eyes were narrowed and vicious, and she spat harsh words that Iroha couldn’t hear as they exchanged blows.
That was the last vivid memory that stuck out in Iroha’s mind. She couldn’t recall the finer details of that day’s battle, but she could still remember the feeling of everything; panic at Mash’s accumulated wounds, desperation at how slowly the enemies chipped away at their defenses. And, most of all, she remembered how Fafnir loomed over them, making her feel so very small and powerless.
She remembered the taste of despair.
Yes . . . wasn't despair always waiting for her in the end?
And then Iroha understood. In the face of despair—or, perhaps, because of it—there was nothing to do but to hope. There would be no hope without despair, and no despair without hope. It was an intrinsic cycle that could not exist without the other.
That was the nature of the world, and that was the nature of herself. She will always have the potential to believe, even if she has almost forgotten how to do it.
Marie’s voice echoed in her mind. Everything will work out in the end.
Yes, it will. Because she will try her hardest to make it that way.
“Siegfried! By my Command Seal, please kill Fafnir!” Iroha shouted, as the last Command Seal on her hand glowed. “Mash, please, go and assist him! Don’t worry about me!”
“Master—”
“Go!”
Mash leaped away, chasing after Siegfried’s glowing form. Iroha gripped her dagger tightly, keeping an eye out in case anybody tried to strike. Thankfully, it seemed that they had dropped that strategy altogether. The enemy Servants were too preoccupied with her allies to go after her.
A whirlwind of motion drew Iroha’s full attention back to the dragon. Mash had thrown her shield with full force towards Fafnir, and Siegfried had jumped on board. He lifted his sword over his head, his entire form thrumming with energy, and—
“BALMUNG!”
—The world erupted with light.
Afterward, the only sign that a battle had happened on the plains of France was the deep gashes gouged into the land.
Iroha wanted to build her usual monument for the fallen enemy Servants, but they had to rush after the blackened Jeanne and her advisor, the Caster Gilles de Rais. They retreated to a castle that reeked of blood and things that Iroha didn’t want to think too long or hard about, because that would mean acknowledging the shadow of bodies lining dark rooms and the slumped forms of foot soldiers.
Gilles de Rais reveled in death and destruction just as fiercely as he did in his love for Jeanne, and wasn’t ready to let go of it anytime soon. “You have come and destroyed my world,” he said, directing his words towards Jeanne. “You, especially—why must you come to kill Jeanne d’Arc? Have you no dignity? No grace? Even a false Saint like you should spare some leniency!”
Iroha looked helplessly at her companions. All the words strung together theoretically made sense, but she couldn’t understand any of them. What did dignity and grace have to do with anything?
“The ravings of a lunatic,” Kiyohime murmured behind her fan. "Let's not listen to any more of his ramblings. It grows old very quickly."
Jeanne pursed her lips, unable to refute the statement. “This Gilles . . . no, this isn’t the man I know. He’s been twisted beyond recognition. I shall release his soul, right here and now.”
“You dare? Enough with this farce, fake Jeanne! Fall to corruption, all of you!” shrieked Gilles, and snapped open his spellbook. The pools of blood on the floor stirred as if something from deep within had disturbed them. A dark form shot out from the depths, writhing in agony as it coagulated into the form of an . . . octopus?
“Are those tentacles?” Dr. Roman said. “Uh, this is heading in a very different direction than I had expected . . ."
“There’s magical energy imbued in them!” Mash said. “Multiple familiars incoming!”
"Ugh! They're disgusting! Gross!" Elizabeth squealed, whirling away from one as it lunged forward. "On second thought, this castle is absolutely tainted beyond repair! I have no interest in it! None whatsoever!"
“Didn’t you denounce this place earlier, you lizard-brained imbecile?!” Kiyohime demanded.
“Shut up, shut up! I mean it this time, you stupid stalker!”
A fierce but quick battle ensued; everyone holding their own against the overwhelming flood of familiars. Mash, despite the narrow space, handled her shield deftly and sent a creature flying into the wall. It landed with a sickening squelch, and the tentacle twitched weakly as it slid down to the floor. The imprint and trail of blood that it left behind arrested Iroha’s gaze. It seemed to move unnaturally, curling into little swirls as a squirming shape emerged—
“Come, come! Destroy the pathetic Master!” Gilles said gleefully, as another creature clawed its way out of the blood. “Bwahahahahaha!”
Mash turned around, face stricken. But she was too slow compared to the creature. It reached for Iroha blindly, threatening to choke her as that Berserk Assassin did—
Her body moved before her mind did. That day in the clearing, from what felt like so long ago, urged her to aim and throw, not slash and stab like Emiya had taught her to. It was instinct that overshadowed her training, and Iroha flung the dagger at the tentacle with the blind hope that it would hit its mark—
A dull thunk made her eyes fly open, having screwed them shut after the weapon left her hand. The tentacle was skewered against the wall, feebly trying to escape the dagger pinning it there. Iroha stared, stunned to silence. Did she . . . she had . . .
“Good job, Iroha! Now run!” Dr. Roman blared from her communicator. “I suggest getting away as far away as possible! Preferably outside! Maybe find another route where there aren't octopus monsters?!”
“Master!” Mash said, before Iroha could respond. The other girl's features were wracked with guilt. “Master, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t supposed to leave your side like that. Are you alright?”
“Please don’t worry about me,” Iroha said automatically. “Nobody expected this to happen, so it’s not your fault.”
“Master, I—”
“Save your useless apologies for later!” Elizabeth hollered, kicking away a limping familiar. “Get over here! We could use some help now!”
“Don’t worry about me,” Iroha repeated to a conflicted-looking Mash. “Go support the others. I’ll stay behind you.”
Mash only hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Roger that, Master!”
Iroha cast one last glance at the now immobile tentacle, held in place by her dagger, and joined Mash to ward back the rest of the creatures. Emiya, constantly on the offensive, was the first to reach Gilles. He engaged him in a brief skirmish, then vaulted off the wall so Jeanne could charge in with her banner. Gilles screamed in rage as Kiyohime and Elizabeth rushed at him simultaneously, fumbling for another page in his spellbook.
Even if he was a lunatic, like Kiyohime said, he was still able to take on four Servants with skill. It didn’t take long for their overall strategy to change. They were taking too much time here with Gilles, which was exactly what he wanted. They had to move on to the other Jeanne.
“We’ll hold him off!” Kiyohime said. “Master, please hurry onwards!”
“I’ll stay back with them,” Emiya said firmly. “Go ahead with Ruler. We’ll catch up after we’re done here.”
Emiya wasn’t someone Iroha questioned, so she held fast onto Mash’s arm so they could move onwards. But it was Jeanne who lingered, her expression unsure and despondent as Kiyohime bombarded Gilles with flames.
“Jeanne,” said Iroha, and touched her shoulder with her free hand. She knew the weight of regrets and the desire to lighten them, but she learned firsthand that personal wishes didn’t matter on the battlefield. “Jeanne, we have to go.”
“Oh . . . yes,” she said. “Yes, let’s hurry.”
Gilles howled obscenities as the three of them turned their backs on the fight, running down the hallways towards where the blackened Jeanne was. It should’ve been a relief to get away from him, but Iroha shivered as his voice chased after them. Suddenly she was sure that no matter how bad the other Jeanne was, she couldn’t be any worse than the Caster they left behind.
The blackened Jeanne d’Arc was in the throne room, located in the central part of the building. It was the first time Iroha had seen her up close; until now, she had seemed like a distant force of destruction, much like a storm rolling over the horizon. She had a commanding presence that rivaled Jeanne’s charisma and sneered at them with the attitude of an ancient god. Merciless, angry, cruel—nothing about her was meant to be pitied.
And yet Iroha pitied her. The blackened Jeanne was created by Gilles de Rais’s hands, so she never knew the warmth of a family. She wasn’t born to love or to be loved; she was born to hate, and to receive hatred in kind.
It was a horrible existence, one that she wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Iroha couldn’t imagine living without Ui, Nemu, and Touka. Having them at her side, no matter how short it may have been, was the greatest blessing of her life, and she wouldn’t have changed that for anything else in the world.
In Orleans, Iroha wanted to forget. Forget about the pain and run far, far away, where the memory of tears wouldn’t haunt her. But she needed to remember everything—the joyful, the miserable, the mundane—because that was the nature of love. Love hurts as badly as it heals, leaving deep scars that would never quite be the same as before. But love gave color to her life. It gave her friends and laughter and happiness, and everything else that someone like her could dream of.
Without love, she wouldn’t be human. Without pain, she wouldn’t be here, standing side by side with Mash and Jeanne, facing down the ghosts of Fuyuki Servants.
“You,” the Dragon Witch snarled at Jeanne, as they clashed together again. “You and your little Master both—don’t look at me with such disgusting eyes! I don’t need your worthless pity!”
“I vowed to defeat you with sadness, not anger,” said Jeanne, “and I would uphold that promise, no matter what.”
The blackened Jeanne scowled. “When have promises amounted to anything?! Your countrymen betrayed you! France is a nation built on broken oaths and lies!”
“Even if that's the case, I'll forgive them,” Jeanne said simply. “Like I forgive you.”
The Dragon Witch let out a noise that was more animal than human, her next attacks becoming far too complex for Iroha to follow. Then Mash blocked her view as an onslaught of Servants surged towards them, and she couldn’t see any more of their fight.
She supposed that it wouldn’t have mattered much, anyway. The battle would’ve ended up the same way; with Jeanne’s sword driven through a crack in her twin’s armor, buried deep into her chest. It was one of the only times Jeanne had unsheathed her sword, and the first that Iroha had seen it dyed red with blood.
The blackened Jeanne stumbled backward, clawing at the gaping wound in her chest, as if she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Iroha winced. Mash, as if sensing her discomfort, hesitantly stepped closer and reached out for her. Then she tensed and said in warning, “Senpai—”
A flurry of black motion burst into the grand hall, rushing over to the corrupted Jeanne’s side. Gilles de Rais bent over the Dragon Witch, cradling her gently in his arms, his head bowed over hers. She wheezed something to him, and his tone sounded almost consoling as she began to dissolve into golden dust.
Iroha’s heart twisted at the sight. She knew that they had done terrible things, but Gilles cared for her. And for the blackened Jeanne, it had been her first taste of human connection. Maybe their relationship had been nothing more than pawn and tool, or commander and adviser, but there was still something there. Something that made the blackened Jeanne’s shoulders relax and her face soften as she disappeared.
Gilles’s hands closed around empty air, and he glanced down at the empty floor inscrutably. As he rose to his feet, a bedraggled Kiyohime and Elizabeth Bathory tumbled into the grand hall, with Emiya following close on their heels. Everyone was now gathered in the same spot, and they were back in the same place they’d been when they entered.
They didn’t attack him right away, though. Jeanne had wanted to confirm a theory first; that the blackened Jeanne, who had never existed in the Throne of Heroes, was created by Gilles de Rais’s wish, and that he was the real bearer of the Grail. And, like the other Jeanne, he wouldn’t stop without putting up a fight.
More of his twisted familiars materialized, somehow even more grotesque than before. Iroha took a deep breath, pressed the hand marked with the faded seals against her chest, and drew herself up to her full height.
She wouldn’t falter, no matter what.
You can do it, big sis. I know you can.
Ui’s faint, imaginary encouragement rang in her mind, a second before everyone sprang into motion. A blur of steel, of blue flames; the sound of a shrill song, the clang of a shield, all of them against a cacophony of stomach-churning monsters—and Iroha, standing behind Mash, eyes wide open, processing everything that's happening.
Don't look away. It was Nemu who spoke this time, monotonous and serious. You didn't look away the day of the explosion, so you shouldn't do that now.
Yes, even if the nightmares chased and tormented her, even if she wished none of this had ever happened, she would bear witness, as the nominal last Master of humanity.
"Curse you!" Gilles screamed as they broke through his line of familiars. "Curse you, curse you, CURSE YOU!"
"No," Jeanne said, almost inaudibly. "No, Gilles. It doesn't have to be this way."
Gilles's mouth twisted—in pain, in defiance, in yearning. He raised his hands towards the sky, gaze fixated on Jeanne, and took a step forward.
Then a blue arrow rammed into him. Then another. And another. And another.
"Emiya!" Iroha gasped. He decided to use arrows instead of his blades, and it caught Gilles off guard just as much as everyone else. Emiya lowered his bow as Gilles toppled to the floor, a trickle of blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth.
“Jeanne,” Gilles whispered. “My holy virgin, Jeanne . . .”
“Yes, I’m here,” she said, kneeling next to him. “Rest now, Gilles. I won’t pretend that you didn’t commit a great many sins, but I shall pray for the man you are, and fondly remember the man you were. Thank you for believing in me back then.”
Gilles’s eyes fluttered shut. He seemed satisfied, somehow, even as blood leaked and pooled around his body. “Very well, Jeanne, I should be the only one that should return to hell . . .”
His words reverberated in the great hall as he disappeared. Jeanne crossed herself and lowered her head in respect. Iroha, struck by the gesture, fumbled around in her pocket and brought out a crushed flower with some missing petals.
“Here,” she said, approaching Jeanne. She nestled the flower between the cracks of the floor, one of many caused by their battle, and lifted her head to the hole that Kiyohime had blasted through the ceiling. Sunlight was streaming into the room, shrouded only by the thinnest of clouds.
The battle was finally over.
Their good-byes were short and abrupt, with no time for Iroha to explain how deeply grateful she was towards them all. The Rayshift was still in stages of development, and Dr. Roman, despite his penchant for slacking, apparently ran a very tight ship when it came to things like this.
“Thank you, truly!” Iroha said, grasping Jeanne’s hands. “I hope—I hope we can fight together someday in Chaldea. With Marie and Mr. Mozart and Siegfried and . . . and everyone else!”
"I’d like that very much,” Jeanne said brightly. “I can’t wait for that day to come.”
“You left me out of that line-up, but I suppose I can let go of that mistake just this once,” Elizabeth Bathory said. “Be a good manager to me when I get summoned, okay?”
Kiyohime tapped her fan against her lips. “I’ll be waiting, dear Master. Just don’t make me wait for too long.”
Iroha mustered up a small smile at both of them. Whatever their eccentricities may be, they were still valuable comrades who helped them resolve this Singularity.
“Thank you,” she repeated, gripping Jeanne’s hands a bit tighter. “You braided my hair, and saved me from that Berserk Assassin . . . I don’t know how to repay you, ever.”
Jeanne shook her head. “There are no debts between friends, right? Don’t be afraid to ask for my assistance at any time. I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.”
Iroha closed her fingers around empty air. Jeanne’s body was becoming increasingly translucent, but her smile remained as cheery as ever.
“Don’t be sad,” Jeanne said, as swirls of golden dust surrounded her. “We’ll see each other soon, I’m sure of it!”
And then the grand hall was empty, as if it had always been like that from the beginning.
“Singularity resolved!” Dr. Roman said. “Rayshift preparations, complete! Get back here, the two of you!”
Iroha turned towards Mash and caught her hand. “Senpai?” said Mash, looking startled.
She didn’t know what to say at first. “I’m sorry, but can you please . . . hold my hand?” she asked, finally. “Just until we get back.”
Mash studied her curiously, but nodded all the same. “Alright. If that makes you feel better, then it’s fine by me.”
The Rayshift activated, surrounding them in a whirlwind of blue light. Iroha shut her eyes, mostly on instinct, so she wouldn’t be blinded by the brightness as an automated voice counted down. The last thing she remembered was Mash’s hand, cold yet comforting, as the world fell into blackness.
Iroha was waiting for someone underneath an ancient sakura tree.
She sat on a white chair, observing the horizon, waiting for the silhouette of people to appear. She might need to wait for a long, long time, but she didn’t mind. She’ll keep waiting, no matter what.
“Iroha Tamaki,” someone said. Iroha glanced up to see a girl, a little older than her, standing beside three empty chairs. She didn't think she had ever seen her before, but an unusual sense of familiarity nagged at her. Was she supposed to be a stranger?
“Hello," she said back. “How do you know my name?”
“You are my creator,” the girl replied simply. “It’s only natural for a story to recognize its authors.”
“What?” Iroha said, frowning a little. “I’m . . . your creator? But how?”
The girl glanced at the three chairs next to her and gestured towards them. “A story for three girls in a hospital room. Have you forgotten already?”
“No, of course not!” Iroha blurted out. “So, you’re . . .”
“The Eternal Sakura,” the girl said, and her eyes flashed pink in the sunlight. “I have no blood type, and I am zero years old. Although, I believe you already know that information.”
Iroha smiled at her. Somehow, the revelation didn’t faze her at all. “Everyone loves your story, you know. It became a promise between the four of us.”
“Yes,” the Eternal Sakura said. “But . . . it’s not a promise anymore.”
Iroha caught her breath. For a moment, the world wavered before her, and she could remember—
Before she could understand it, the fragment of a memory slipped away just as quickly as it came. That inkling of knowledge, of realizing something that would shatter this fragile illusion, made her heart race with fear.
“I don’t really understand,” Iroha said, smiling uneasily. “We all agreed to the promise. That’s why I’m here. I'm waiting for them.”
“Indeed, but promises can be broken,” the Eternal Sakura said. “Not by choice, but through other inescapable means. How long have you been waiting for, Iroha, for someone who will never come?”
“They’ll come!” Iroha was on her feet before she knew it, her voice trembling. “They’re going to, any minute now, I’m sure of it . . .”
A flicker of melancholy crossed the Eternal Sakura’s face. “Don’t you think it’s hard for me to accept as well?” she asked quietly. “To be kept waiting forever, knowing that the promise couldn’t be fulfilled . . . the pain is as unbearable to me as it is for you.”
As she spoke, the sakura tree above them began to wilt and die. The petals dropped to the ground in a shriveled mockery of their former selves, and the branches began to twist into sickly gnarls.
“But you, the one who gave me life—your story is not yet over,” the Eternal Sakura said. “You are not a figment of a rumor or story. You can move forward and make new promises.”
Iroha bit her lip. “But it won’t be the same.”
“Of course it won’t,” the Eternal Sakura said. “From what I observed, humans have the capacity to grow and change. It’s only logical for promises to change along with them, is it not?”
“Maybe,” Iroha said, after a second of hesitation. “But you . . . this promise . . .”
“One day, perhaps you’ll meet with the others underneath the branches of another tree,” the Eternal Sakura said. “Although I hope it won't be anytime soon.”
Iroha gazed futilely over to the horizon. “Is it wrong to try and wait a little longer? Just to see?”
“No,” she said bluntly. “We may not have Ui, Nemu, or Touka, but you, at least, have people waiting.”
A sudden wave of memories washed over her, stronger and more visceral than the previous flash. That’s right. She had Mash, and Dr. Roman, who both treated her kindly after she arrived at Chaldea, the blue Caster who patted her head in the burning city, and Jeanne and Marie and everyone else in Orleans . . .
“You have new responsibilities,” the Eternal Sakura said with a nod. “Perhaps that’s a good thing. You’ll have all the time in the world to find yourself again.”
Iroha had so many questions and no idea where to even begin. At last, she settled on, “This is a dream, right? If that’s the case, then why am I seeing you, and not Ui or anyone else?”
The Eternal Sakura studied her. “Do you want to see her?”
Iroha wanted to say yes, of course, but the words were stuck in her throat. “She’s my little sister.”
“I know,” the Eternal Sakura said. “That is why it hurts you to meet her in your dreams. Reality will always come and rip her away from you.”
Iroha stood there, underneath a dead sakura tree, her heart heavy and her stomach tight from the truth. The personification of their promise touched the trunk of the tree wistfully, then looked up to the cloudy sky.
“But you needn’t worry, Iroha,” she murmured, and the clouds blotted out the weak sun as the wind picked up in the clearing. The Eternal Sakura turned, her lips forming barely discernible words as the wind howled and the world crumbled beneath Iroha’s feet—
“—enpai? Senpai?”
A small tongue licked her cheek. Someone shook her shoulder. Iroha blearily opened her eyes, her vision adjusting to the fluorescent lights and the indistinct shadow hanging over her.
“Ui?” she croaked.
A pause. Then, the voice said a little strangely, “No. It's Mash, Senpai.”
“Mash,” Iroha mumbled, and the other girl’s concerned face came clearly into view. “And . . . Fou?”
“Fou, fou!” Fou nuzzled against her, then leaped off her chest as she sat up to properly take in her surroundings. She was lying on the bed in her room in Chaldea, hair undone, still wearing the standard-issued plugsuit for the Rayshift.
“Where’s Dr. Roman?” Iroha asked Mash, unable to contain herself. “Did Emiya and Lord El-Melloi II get back safely? Are you alright?”
“Dr. Roman and da Vinci are in the command center, and everyone else is uninjured,” Mash answered. “What about you, Senpai? Are you feeling alright?”
Iroha touched her forehead, unsettled and perturbed, thinking about a girl standing underneath a dead sakura tree. But Mash was staring at her a little too keenly, and not wanting to worry her any further, Iroha said, “I’m okay! The nap really helped. Um, what’s everyone else doing?”
That was the perfect question to ask, as Mash began to rattle off everyone’s whereabouts. From what she could gather, Lord El-Melloi II was in his room, Emiya was in his kitchen, and the Summoning Circle was ready for new summons. Lord El-Melloi had complaints about their battle formations, Emiya wanted to talk to her about switching over to archery, and they had so much paperwork that Dr. Roman had neglected—
Iroha gazed at Mash’s animated expression, at her little smile, and remembered what the Eternal Sakura had said to her during the last moments of a lost dream.
You’ll see her when you find your way again.