Fate/Zero Novel Edited (Readable) Version Excerpt
Tuesday, 19 January 2016 23:48![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
neverarightstepAct 8
‒ 122 : 18 : 42
M and wine adorned the table between rows of brilliant and shining candlesticks. In the large Midcuart banquet hall, the Erin nobles were gathered. Now is the climax. On this day, the boasting and drinking contests of ruffians were strictly forbidden. This evening, the uncultured
warriors were drunk solely with the fragrance of a graceful flower.
This was a feast for loving the flower. Gráinne, the daughter of the High King of Ireland, Cormac mac Airt, would finally be betrothed. Her betrothed was to be Cumhaill’s son, Fionn mac Cumhaill, he who received information from the oil of the Salmon of Knowledge, the great warrior who controlled the healing water. Unmatched under the heavens, he was the head of a
Fianna, a group of knights. The warrior’s strength and fame rivalled the High King’s. There was no marriage engagement as joyful as this.
Accompanying the old warrior was his son, Oisín—a poet, and his grandchild as well—the warrior Oscar, and an almighty group of knights: the talented Caílte mac Rónáin; Druid Diorruing; Goll mac Morna—“Horror of the Battlefield”; Conan of the Gray Lashes; and finally, one more honorable than the highest honor—Diarmuid Ua Dubhine of the love spot. Each was a great warrior, inferior in no manner. Each adored and swore unwavering loyalty to Fionn, revering the great hero as their leader,
and entrusting their swords, weapons and lives to that one man. This was a knight’s honor; the true worth off warriors, told by bards and handed down through generations.
Yearning that path, undertaking that path, was something they believed without doubt even as they perished proudly in the battlefield at a fateful time. Until the banquet on that fated night, when one of them met that flower.
“In exchange for my love, accept the geis. My dear, by any possible means, annul this abominable marriage. Please take me away ... to the ends of the earth!”
Appealing to him in tears, the eyes of the maiden flared earnestly with love. They could become the flames of Purgatory, burning him to ashes ...
The hero understood. Yet, he did not refuse. The weight of a geis, which tested his honor, and the path of a loyal subject, which he followed—he wondered which was more precious? No questioning or self-struggling yielded an answer. The thing which finally spurred him, a reason without any relation whatever, with his pride.
Hero and princess, together they held hands and turned from their brilliant futures. Before long, he became a Celtic legend handed down by word, and the curtains were lifted on a story of tragic love.
--------
After Sola returned to her bedroom, Lancer remained outside alone, standing guard. For Servants, sleep was not necessary. As long as they had enough prana from their Masters, weariness had no effect on their body. Consequently, he had no way to forget his troubles in sleep. Recalling Sola’s words again and again, Lancer let out a sigh. That look which abandoned everything and pleaded with him wholeheartedly and pitifully, was too similar to the look of his “wife” in the past—Princess Gráinne, who had imposed the geis of betrayal on him; she, the perpetrator who caused him to fall from the position of a glorious hero to that of a refugee. Despite all this, Diarmuid never resented her.
Her decision to flee from the seat of Micuart’s banquet, supported by no reason—save perhaps for captivation by the Mystic Face of the hero—nonetheless put her life at great risk. Her blood ties, royal pride, promised glory of the future—Turning her back on it all, Gráinne chose a path of love with Diarmuid. If the mystical force of his charm was its cause, the day would come when she would doubt her love. Still, with no fear of such a future, Gráinne lived her life of love. Diarmuid was dragged into
that disaster—this was how others viewed it. He did not see it the same way. His own suffering paled in comparison to the ache he felt for his partner’s. He never yielded to the weight of the geis which tested his pride. There was reluctance; there were struggles as well. He was distressed by his perversion toward the ruler, Fionn mac Cumhaill. But ultimately, he grew attached to the courage of Gráinne, this woman who believed in her feelings, and loved her to the end.
Naturally, their pathway of love was full of hardship. Driven by jealousy and resentment, Fionn mac Cumhaill mobilized all his forces to pursue the two who had taken flight, hunting them like wild beasts. While protecting the princess, Diarmuid resolved not to cross weapons with his friends, the knights under Fionn. But he did not hesitate to bare his fangs at the foreign pursuers who were assembled through Fionn’s pact with them. His fight with the giant Searban ... the nine Garbs ... Fionn’s nanny, “Witch of the Millstone” ... Diarmuid found himself using his great valor, which surpassed all achievements established in the knight troupe, to formulate his flight with Princess Gráinne, again and again. For one known to others as the most noble subject of Fionn, this was too ironic an epic.
Loyalty? Love? Cutting up enemies with both lances, his heart was torn as well. Tormented by the dilemma of his contradictory loyalty and geis, his refined, twin lances pierced previous enemies, causing many meaningless deaths. A lady and two men—the sentiments and obstinacy of each party caused much bloodshed. At the end of the day, after all futile sacrifice, the heartbroken one was still Fionn. The old master acknowledged Diarmuid and Gráinne’s marriage, bestowed him with a
proper title and territory, and welcomed him as a subject again. It was a reconciliation Diarmuid had wished for ceaselessly, but it would be the harbinger of the conclusive catastrophe.
One day, Diarmuid, hunting together with Fionn, received a deep wound from a wild boar’s fangs. It was a mortal wound, but he was not afraid; Fionn, the subject of countless records of miracles, was with him, and could transform spring water scooped with his hands into a miracle drug. But before this subject who was on the verge of death, the only thing in the old master’s mind was the bitter jealousy of the dispute for a woman. The well from whence the spring water flowed was only nine steps away
from the collapsed Diarmuid. Fionn had only to walk nine steps to bring back the water; water spilled from his hands
twice. The third time, Diarmuid’s breathing stopped.
—Now, invited again as a Servant and looking back at his end during those bygone days, Diarmuid had no sense of regret at all. He had no intention of cursing anyone. He wanted to reply to his wife’s love. He could understand Fionn’s anger as well. But the twist of fate was simply too cruel. It was not just a life filled only with suffering and anguish. Each glass he drank with the king; the lovers’ whispers; they remained irreplaceable memories. Though the end was tragic, Diarmuid was not dissatisfied. He, and
the others around him, had earnestly lived their lives to the fullest. He did not deny the one life which had passed by him.
Still, supposing he became a knight again, picked up his spears, and lived another life ... An impossible miracle was born within the heart of the Heroic Spirit Diarmuid. His crushed former honor, his pride which could not be fulfilled—he would have a chance to pick it up again. That was all he wished for. A path of life with his long- cherished wishes, which did not come true in his previous life. This time, surely, his path of faithfulness ... With undoubting loyalty, the honor of lifting up the victory to his Master ...
Lancer had absolutely no wish toward the Holy Grail. Having received a Master for a second time, standing on the battlefield called Fuyuki, his wish was already half-achieved. The other half would be accomplished when he attained victory; when he brought the Holy Grail back to his Master, the fruits of his loyalty would take shape, and everything would be fulfilled. That was it; he was never supposed to wish beyond that. However, right now, Diarmuid’s path started to grow ominous and cloudy. In this new age, his burdensome Mystic Face was trying to drive a wedge in again.
If Sola could come to the realization that she was only foolishly entranced by the Mystic Face, the worst case scenario could be avoided. Yet, if she became another Gráinne and clung to him, would he be able to shake off the woman’s feelings? This was supposed to be a battle to compensate a tragic fate he did not want to repeat. How could he achieve it? Amidst the darkness of the still night, without a way to an answer, Lancer looked up at the moon in agony, helpless.
‒ 122 : 18 : 42
M and wine adorned the table between rows of brilliant and shining candlesticks. In the large Midcuart banquet hall, the Erin nobles were gathered. Now is the climax. On this day, the boasting and drinking contests of ruffians were strictly forbidden. This evening, the uncultured
warriors were drunk solely with the fragrance of a graceful flower.
This was a feast for loving the flower. Gráinne, the daughter of the High King of Ireland, Cormac mac Airt, would finally be betrothed. Her betrothed was to be Cumhaill’s son, Fionn mac Cumhaill, he who received information from the oil of the Salmon of Knowledge, the great warrior who controlled the healing water. Unmatched under the heavens, he was the head of a
Fianna, a group of knights. The warrior’s strength and fame rivalled the High King’s. There was no marriage engagement as joyful as this.
Accompanying the old warrior was his son, Oisín—a poet, and his grandchild as well—the warrior Oscar, and an almighty group of knights: the talented Caílte mac Rónáin; Druid Diorruing; Goll mac Morna—“Horror of the Battlefield”; Conan of the Gray Lashes; and finally, one more honorable than the highest honor—Diarmuid Ua Dubhine of the love spot. Each was a great warrior, inferior in no manner. Each adored and swore unwavering loyalty to Fionn, revering the great hero as their leader,
and entrusting their swords, weapons and lives to that one man. This was a knight’s honor; the true worth off warriors, told by bards and handed down through generations.
Yearning that path, undertaking that path, was something they believed without doubt even as they perished proudly in the battlefield at a fateful time. Until the banquet on that fated night, when one of them met that flower.
“In exchange for my love, accept the geis. My dear, by any possible means, annul this abominable marriage. Please take me away ... to the ends of the earth!”
Appealing to him in tears, the eyes of the maiden flared earnestly with love. They could become the flames of Purgatory, burning him to ashes ...
The hero understood. Yet, he did not refuse. The weight of a geis, which tested his honor, and the path of a loyal subject, which he followed—he wondered which was more precious? No questioning or self-struggling yielded an answer. The thing which finally spurred him, a reason without any relation whatever, with his pride.
Hero and princess, together they held hands and turned from their brilliant futures. Before long, he became a Celtic legend handed down by word, and the curtains were lifted on a story of tragic love.
--------
After Sola returned to her bedroom, Lancer remained outside alone, standing guard. For Servants, sleep was not necessary. As long as they had enough prana from their Masters, weariness had no effect on their body. Consequently, he had no way to forget his troubles in sleep. Recalling Sola’s words again and again, Lancer let out a sigh. That look which abandoned everything and pleaded with him wholeheartedly and pitifully, was too similar to the look of his “wife” in the past—Princess Gráinne, who had imposed the geis of betrayal on him; she, the perpetrator who caused him to fall from the position of a glorious hero to that of a refugee. Despite all this, Diarmuid never resented her.
Her decision to flee from the seat of Micuart’s banquet, supported by no reason—save perhaps for captivation by the Mystic Face of the hero—nonetheless put her life at great risk. Her blood ties, royal pride, promised glory of the future—Turning her back on it all, Gráinne chose a path of love with Diarmuid. If the mystical force of his charm was its cause, the day would come when she would doubt her love. Still, with no fear of such a future, Gráinne lived her life of love. Diarmuid was dragged into
that disaster—this was how others viewed it. He did not see it the same way. His own suffering paled in comparison to the ache he felt for his partner’s. He never yielded to the weight of the geis which tested his pride. There was reluctance; there were struggles as well. He was distressed by his perversion toward the ruler, Fionn mac Cumhaill. But ultimately, he grew attached to the courage of Gráinne, this woman who believed in her feelings, and loved her to the end.
Naturally, their pathway of love was full of hardship. Driven by jealousy and resentment, Fionn mac Cumhaill mobilized all his forces to pursue the two who had taken flight, hunting them like wild beasts. While protecting the princess, Diarmuid resolved not to cross weapons with his friends, the knights under Fionn. But he did not hesitate to bare his fangs at the foreign pursuers who were assembled through Fionn’s pact with them. His fight with the giant Searban ... the nine Garbs ... Fionn’s nanny, “Witch of the Millstone” ... Diarmuid found himself using his great valor, which surpassed all achievements established in the knight troupe, to formulate his flight with Princess Gráinne, again and again. For one known to others as the most noble subject of Fionn, this was too ironic an epic.
Loyalty? Love? Cutting up enemies with both lances, his heart was torn as well. Tormented by the dilemma of his contradictory loyalty and geis, his refined, twin lances pierced previous enemies, causing many meaningless deaths. A lady and two men—the sentiments and obstinacy of each party caused much bloodshed. At the end of the day, after all futile sacrifice, the heartbroken one was still Fionn. The old master acknowledged Diarmuid and Gráinne’s marriage, bestowed him with a
proper title and territory, and welcomed him as a subject again. It was a reconciliation Diarmuid had wished for ceaselessly, but it would be the harbinger of the conclusive catastrophe.
One day, Diarmuid, hunting together with Fionn, received a deep wound from a wild boar’s fangs. It was a mortal wound, but he was not afraid; Fionn, the subject of countless records of miracles, was with him, and could transform spring water scooped with his hands into a miracle drug. But before this subject who was on the verge of death, the only thing in the old master’s mind was the bitter jealousy of the dispute for a woman. The well from whence the spring water flowed was only nine steps away
from the collapsed Diarmuid. Fionn had only to walk nine steps to bring back the water; water spilled from his hands
twice. The third time, Diarmuid’s breathing stopped.
—Now, invited again as a Servant and looking back at his end during those bygone days, Diarmuid had no sense of regret at all. He had no intention of cursing anyone. He wanted to reply to his wife’s love. He could understand Fionn’s anger as well. But the twist of fate was simply too cruel. It was not just a life filled only with suffering and anguish. Each glass he drank with the king; the lovers’ whispers; they remained irreplaceable memories. Though the end was tragic, Diarmuid was not dissatisfied. He, and
the others around him, had earnestly lived their lives to the fullest. He did not deny the one life which had passed by him.
Still, supposing he became a knight again, picked up his spears, and lived another life ... An impossible miracle was born within the heart of the Heroic Spirit Diarmuid. His crushed former honor, his pride which could not be fulfilled—he would have a chance to pick it up again. That was all he wished for. A path of life with his long- cherished wishes, which did not come true in his previous life. This time, surely, his path of faithfulness ... With undoubting loyalty, the honor of lifting up the victory to his Master ...
Lancer had absolutely no wish toward the Holy Grail. Having received a Master for a second time, standing on the battlefield called Fuyuki, his wish was already half-achieved. The other half would be accomplished when he attained victory; when he brought the Holy Grail back to his Master, the fruits of his loyalty would take shape, and everything would be fulfilled. That was it; he was never supposed to wish beyond that. However, right now, Diarmuid’s path started to grow ominous and cloudy. In this new age, his burdensome Mystic Face was trying to drive a wedge in again.
If Sola could come to the realization that she was only foolishly entranced by the Mystic Face, the worst case scenario could be avoided. Yet, if she became another Gráinne and clung to him, would he be able to shake off the woman’s feelings? This was supposed to be a battle to compensate a tragic fate he did not want to repeat. How could he achieve it? Amidst the darkness of the still night, without a way to an answer, Lancer looked up at the moon in agony, helpless.