Fate/Reverse - Prologue

The swordsman arrived at the battlefield too late.

Aimon picked his way through the remains of his world, the earth crumbling away behind him into the black void that was once the sky. Blood was already on the ground, even the cries of the dying had finished.

It had been a small battle, but fierce, and with forces far beyond Aimon’s understanding. The bodies wore robes rather than uniforms or armor and had been torn into pieces. Craters smoldered with green fire, skyscrapers lay on their sides, cut cleanly in half, and bronze plates and gears lay scattered across the cracked pavement.

It was amongst a pile of these that Aimon found her.

Marissa still had a sword in her hands, as he had expected. It was not her sword, but a beautiful curve of steel forged in medieval Japanese style. It was almost as beautiful as the curve of her cheek.

Her lips were drawn back in a tight grimace and her powerful back was drawn up against a wall, surrounded by bronze figures, approximations of men, all cut cleanly into pieces. That fierce and inspiring light had left her eyes, as he had expected. But at least she had fought to the last, with a sword in her hands.

As expected of Marissa.

Her still beauty blurred and Aimon felt a moment of panic. His vision has always been perfect, superior even. He could see the swing of a sword almost before it happened or track a bullet in the air and cut it down. He could see each incision into her Kevlar armor, each line of blood running down her side, the angle of each thrust and slash her foes must have made…

Aimon shook his head. The mages had called them Faerie Eyes, some sort of ancient curse, but his vision had always been perfect until now. Then he felt a tear hit his crouched thigh and he screwed his perfectly useless eyes shut. He stayed that way a while, until the pain subsided a bit.

Finally, he faced her again, his friend, his mentor, his lover. He closed her empty eyes, the hand she had trained for years to be strong and steady shaking as it did so. He straightened her hunched shoulders, smoothed her bloodied hair, and turned her right hand over, hiding the ugly red markings that had appeared on her smooth olive skin and pulled her into this war.

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When it was done, he leaned back, and the body shifted. The weight of the stranger’s sword pulled her hand to the ground, twisting out her wrist like she was offering him the blade.

Aimon bit at his lip, unsure. He almost wanted to find her family sword instead, the one that was as much a part of her as her honed arm or flowing black hair. He had always loved the feel of Marissa’s hair.

He took the blade.

It would be wrong to take a part of her with him. Unhealthy. Maddening, even. He knew that, but he needed something anyway. The weight of the sword she had died with would remind him, even if it was only for the few hours he had left.

He had stayed away from this battle at her request, but if he had been here… If he had protected her like she always protected others, if he had fought by her side…

Aimon looked around at the ruined city. His eyes and the back of his hand stung. They could have at least died together.

Working the lacquered wooden scabbard free from her side and sheathing the sword on his own hip, opposite the now-useless one he had brought, he turned away to face the void. The sky above him was still a grayish-blue, though it bled into the black just a few meters away. One of the buildings still left standing groaned into the emptiness as its foundation crumbled one stone at a time. The logo of a bank, three red stars on a blue swirl, plunged next before dissolving away into the starless black. The color was eating away at the edge of the world, its nauseating depths getting ever closer.

Aimon had lingered too long and lost his lead. He wanted to stay with Marissa, embrace the end together, but some deep instinct pulled him away, towards solid ground. He let go of her hand and it fell into the blood pooled underneath her. She looked more peaceful now, restful. He walked away before he could see her tumble into the black.

Methodically, he picked his way across the ruin, knowing that he could keep ahead of the end if he remained calm and ran steadily. But then he passed an alleyway that had yet to be consumed and heard a small cough. Instantly his gaze snapped towards the noise, darting from one shadowed object to the next, looking for threats. Instead he saw the huddled outline of a girl.

She was young and thin, not quite a woman and certainly not a danger. Aimon turned away to keep marching on until a thought stopped him. Had their situations been reversed, Marissa would have helped her. Even at the end of the world and wracked numb with grief, Marissa would save that girl because that was the kind of person she was.

The kind of person she had tried to teach him to be.

He slipped into the alley, still aware of possible dangers, and scooped the girl into his arms. She was very light and whimpered softly when he moved her. There was a long cut on her arm and several welts where her robes had split along her left side. Evidence of a strong blow, but not enough to incapacitate her or warrant whining.

Aimon shook his head. Marissa would not have judged, only extended a hand. He tried to hold the girl more gently and kept moving away from the edge.