12th of May 1864
The sound of chewing echoed in the room, walls of timber enclosing on the people inside. Rain pattered against the roof, the weather having turned sour sometime in the last hour. Not that it mattered to those inside, that's why houses had been built after all, to protect humanity from the elements.
There were five figures seated at the table, but only one was eating. The other four simply stared.
"You know, it's really rude to stare while another person eats," the boy, because he was just a boy said, moving his chopsticks about as he pointed at the other four who sat at the table, then at the plates each one had. Steam still rose from the fish and rice before them, curling upward in lazy spirals. "Go on, eat."
They continued to stare. The boy sighed, the sound carrying more disappointment than a fourteen-year-old had any right to feel. "Mama and papa always ate when I made food for them. Though I guess you aren't going to. It's disappointing."
He threw a piece of fish into his mouth, the flesh filling his small chubby cheeks. The taste was adequate, not as good as what the servants back home used to make, but acceptable for a meal prepared his hands.
With one big gulp, down it went.
He was about to continue eating in silence as the other four maintained their vigil, but a familiar sensation prickled at the back of his skull. The boy's head turned north, golden eyes narrowing as he felt it. The first Servant of the war had been summoned.
"Weird," he murmured, setting down his chopsticks on top of the bowl. "I really thought the Einzberns were going to summon theirs first. So who is it?"
His eyes turned to a window out of which he could see the silhouette of the main castle rising above Fuyuki's cramped streets, otherwise known as the Toshaka family mansion.
"It's definitely not them," he continued, his voice conversational despite the lack of responsive audience. "The Matou family isn't either." He wrinkled his nose as he thought about that family. "So it's one of the other three."
He turned to face his dining companions, sweeping his gaze across their slack faces, expecting for someone else to carry on the conversation as he had been the sole one keeping it going. So he decided to ask the table.
"Who do you think got summoned?"
Silence answered him. The rain continued to hit the roof. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once. And yet the boy replied to that silence as though he had received a response.
"No, I definitely don't think it's Saber, too soon for them to come out." He picked up another piece of fish, examining it slightly before popping it into his mouth. "In fact, if I had to guess, I'm thinking it's either Assassin or Lancer."
Again no one replied to his words. The one nearest to him had begun to list slightly from their chair.
"Gods, you're all such a bore." He pushed back from the table with more force than necessary. "This is why I can never keep friends. You people just live in your own little words, seriously."
He threw his chopsticks into the now empty bowl, the ceramic ringing with the impact, and jumped down from his seat. His feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and for a moment he simply stood there.
"I guess I should stop dilly-dallying though," he said, his voice casual, for it was going to be a fun couple of days, maybe even weeks. "After all, we wouldn't want the class I'm pining for to get stolen. Now would we?"
He left the four at the table. They would keep, he was sure of that at least.
The living room was less than two meters away from the table, separated only by a sliding screen that had been left partially open. The house itself was modest by any standard. Dante had chosen it random, like he did with most things actually, variety was the spice of life after all. The previous occupants had objected to his presence, of course. Their objections had been noted and overruled, Dante had presented a lot of good arguments after all.
On a low table, lay three pieces of cloth, each differing from the last. One was rough wool, stained with what might have been wine or might have been blood. Another was finely woven linen. The third was a simple strip of leather.
Three catalysts. Three possible Servants. Three chances to find the perfect partner for his particular brand of madness.
Dante raised his hand to his mouth, pressing the soft flesh of his palm against his teeth. He could feel his pulse, it excited him. Such a fragile system, a person's body. Such an easy thing to interrupt.
He bit down.
Hard.
The biological reaction that should have prevented self-harm, the instinctive flinch, the jaw refusing to close with full force, simply did not exist in Dante Fraga. Whether this was because of his Origin or despite it, even he couldn't say. His element was Madness. His Origin was Madness. Every fiber of his being had been woven from the same cloth.
His teeth tore into muscle and flesh, cutting through skin and fat and sinew until they nearly reached the white gleam of bone beneath. Blood filled his mouth, hot and thick, and he gulped it down without hesitation. The taste of metal almost familiar to the boy.
His Magic Circuits activated, and the blood responded. It was, after all, one of his Mystic Code. Every drop of crimson fluid in his body had been refined and enhanced over years of careful cultivation, transformed into something closer to liquid mystery.
The dripping came to a stop as Dante willed it so. The blood that had been falling toward the floor simply... stopped, suspended in mid-air. Then, slowly, it began to move.
Tendrils emerged from his wound, coalescing from individual drops into thin strings that twisted and writhed. First one, then two, then three, each growing thicker and more complex as they inched toward the relics.
There was a small twinkle in his golden eyes as he watched it occur. Such beauty in blood. Such poetry in pain. For it was the one thing that made him sane.
The crimson threads crawled onto each catalyst, wrapping around them with almost loving care before lifting them from the sofa. As the blood continued to expand, three separate summoning circles began to take shape in the air itself, suspended on platforms of solidified blood, each relic positioned at the exact center of its respective array.
The boy's lips parted, and so began his chant. An eerie feeling befell the house, the temperature dropping several degrees as Prana gathered from every direction, drawn to the ritual.
"One, two, three,"
The circles began to glow, each pulsing with its own distinct color, gold and crimson and deep, arterial red.
"A race to get to me,"
Power surged through the blood tendrils, and Dante felt the Grail's attention turn toward him like the eye of some vast, sleeping god stirring from slumber.
"Which of you is the best of thee,"
The catalysts trembled. He could almost feel them now, three distinct presences, each racing to reach him and have their own wishes fulfilled by the Grail.
"One, two, three,"
His voice rose. This was what he lived for. This was the only thing that made the endless grey tedium of existence bearable.
"Join me, for the madness must grow silent,"
The madness in his blood, in his origin, in every thought and breath and heartbeat, it was loud. So terribly, endlessly loud. And the only way to quiet it was to drown it in something even louder.
"Join me, for Victory must be assured,"
But as Dante felt the flow of Prana, he realized his mistake. The Grail supplied the cost for a single summoning, that was the established mechanism, the contract written into the very foundation of the Holy Grail War. But he was attempting to summon three Servants simultaneously, and the Grail, did not appreciate having its rules bent.
His Od began to drain, flowing outward to supplement what the Grail refused to provide. The cost grew with each passing second, doubling and then tripling as the three rituals competed for resources.
The boy, however, smiled.
"Come to me."
In his bleeding hand, a short sword materialized. Fragarach, the Answerer, the Noble Phantasm of his family, the blade that could strike before an opponent's finishing blow was even launched. He rarely used it. He thought it such a bore.
His eyes closed as he extended his senses through the blood tendrils, feeling the flow of magical energy as intimately as he felt his own heartbeat. The Grail's power was distributed equally among the three summonings, but that distribution could be changed. The blood was his, after all. It answered to his will.
With a thought, he began to redirect the flow. Magical energy that had been streaming toward the first catalyst suddenly diverted, rushing instead toward the second and third. The first summoning flickered, its circle dimming as the power was stolen away.
And then Dante did something unwise.
The short blade in his hand moved in a single, precise arc, severing one of the three main tendrils of blood. The first summoning collapsed instantly, the circle dissolving into wisps of crimson mist.
Whatever Heroic Spirit had been reaching toward that catalyst was cut off, sent tumbling back to whatever place they normally slumbered.
But the magical energy that had been feeding that summoning, did not simply vanish. It had nowhere to go except forward, and forward meant the remaining two catalysts. Power surged through the blood with enough force to make Dante's teeth ache, the twin summonings growing brighter and more intense as they absorbed what had been meant for their lost sibling.
He did it again.
Fragarach moved through the air, cutting the second tendril. Another presence vanished back to wherever Heroic Spirits went when they were denied entry. And again, the energy redirected, all of it now flowing toward the single remaining catalyst.
The Celtic cloth. The Rider-class catalyst.
The final summoning circle blazed. The Grail, whether by design or by accident, had provided enough energy for three Servants. Dante had simply... consolidated that investment.
A booming sound echoed in his ears, loud enough to make his skull vibrate. Wind blasted through the house, tearing at screen doors. The people at the dining table almost toppled from their seats. Thankfully, the walls held, the ceiling held, placing Bounded Fields before doing this had been a smart move after all.
And in the final summoning circle, a figure appeared.
She stood amid the fading light. Her hair was the color of blood, the same as his, which Dante noted with distant amusement, falling to the lower end of her back. A golden crown rested upon her brow. She wore a white cloak that unfurled at her back, paired with a white corset and a red skirt that matched the crimson of her hair.
In her hands she held a sword and shield. The sword however was much more beautiful in Dante's eyes.
The boy smiled as he watched the command seals bloom, on the back of his hand, three red marks in the shape of intersecting swords. As he stared at his Servant, her parameters appeared in his field of vision, manifesting in the same manner as his own parents had graded his homework since Birth.
Strength: ??? Endurance: ??? Agility: ???? Mana: ???? Luck: D NP: B+
Some were disguised, but that was all according to his plan. The blood still coalesced around her, suspended in the air where the summoning circle had been. Her eyes found his, golden meeting green.
Dante closed his outstretched hand into a fist.
The blood smashed against her from all directions at once.
Any normal liquid would have drenched her, would have run down or sunk into her clothing and pooled at her feet in an undignified puddle.
Instead of soaking her, the blood merged with her, the magical energy from the Grail still in it, sinking into her.
Crimson lines began to appear across her body, from her legs to her face, tracing patterns along her arms.
In his field of vision, the Servant's parameters shifted.
Strength: B Endurance: A+ Agility: A+ Mana: A Luck: D NP: B+
He had accomplished it, he had boosted a servant's parameters, this brought a smile to his face, however he sensed it. The boost was temporary, it was already beginning to decay, but it would last long enough. Two weeks. Less if he pushed her to the limits of her new parameters.
All of this had happened in mere instants, too fast for the newly summoned Servant to process. She opened her mouth to introduce herself, to give the traditional greeting that all Servants offered their Masters upon manifestation-
And Dante began to laugh.
"HAHAHAHA!!! It worked! Stupid Grail!"
His laughter echoed through the ruined house, wild, it almost sounded like the boy was cackling and howling at the same time, a mix between a hyena and a wolf.
"Master," the Servant said, finally able to speak, once Dante quietened down. Her voice was steady, though definitely not calm. Her eyes swept across the room, and then returned to the boy she had been summoned to serve.
A child. Fourteen years of age at most, with red locks the same shade as her own and eyes the color of molten gold.
Something stirred in her chest at the sight, a feeling she had long since put aside in favor of duty. The feelings of motherhood. She had borne children once, daughters who had suffered horrors she still could not speak of, and this boy, this strange, laughing, boy, awakened that side of her for some reason.
Then her gaze fell to the tendril of blood seeping from his master's hand, from which he still held a short blade. The weapon vanished between one blink and the next, but the wound remained.
Those maternal feelings transformed into immediate worry.
"Master, what have you done to yourself?" she asked, closing the distance between them in an instant and raising the boy's hand to inspect it. The flesh was torn, the wound deep enough that she could see the bone beneath shredded muscle. Blood didn't seep from the injury though. "This needs treatment immediately. Do you have bandages? Clean water? Someone who can-"
"Oh, this?" Dante interrupted, his tone casual, almost dismissive. He waved her off with his uninjured hand, seemingly unconcerned by her proximity or her grip on his wrist. "Not to worry, Rider. I am more than okay."
The tendril of blood that still connected to his wound began to move, retreating back into the torn flesh like a serpent returning to its den. As it did, the wound began to close, the blood itself hardening into threads that stitched muscle to muscle and skin to skin. Within moments, all that remained was a thin red scar, which would fade in the coming days.
"Now come," the boy added, already walking back toward the dining table where the four others still sat. "I am sure you must be famished. And we have plenty of food."
Rider followed, her eyes widening as she took in the scene more clearly. The 'people' at the table, had missing eyes. Their flesh was sunken, their skin bearing frail. They were corpses. All four of them. And they had been dead for some time, judging by the smell that she only now noticed beneath the aroma of cooked fish.
The boy pushed one of the bodies aside with casual disregard, freeing a chair for Rider to use. He then walked to his own seat, stepping over the corpse.
"Master," Rider began, her voice carefully controlled. "Why are they dead?"
"Don't know," the boy answered, taking one of the plates from in front of one of the corpses. The fish was cold now, but he didn't seem to care, picking up fallen chopsticks and beginning to eat with evident appetite. "They were like this when I got here."
She could not tell whether this young magus was telling the truth, but in spite of that, her heart ached for him.
"Oh, Master," Rider said, moving forward to embrace him. Her arms wrapped around his small frame, pulling him against her chest in a gesture that began to asphyxiate the boy judging by how he began to throw his hands around wildly. "You must have been so alone. This mustn't do. No, this can't do at all. A child like you should have been showered by love, not... not this."
She gestured at the corpses, at the blood-stained floor, at the general atmosphere of casual murder that permeated every corner of the house.
"I am showered by love," Dante replied, his voice muffled slightly by her embrace. He pushed away, taking in one deep breath. "Now sit, Rider. I'm sure you're quite hungry."
Rider obliged her master's wishes, though her maternal concern did not diminish. She took a seat next to him, accepting a plate that he pushed in her direction, and for a moment, silence befell them. The rain continued to fall outside. The corpses continued to stare at nothing.
"Master," Rider said finally, breaking the quiet. "What are we planning to do?"
"First," the boy said, pausing to swallow a mouthful of cold fish, "we are going to wait until every Servant is summoned. There's no point in moving before the board is fully set. Second-" he pointed a chopstick at her, his golden eyes sharp with sudden intensity "-you are not calling me Master. Call me Dante, for that is my name."
"Dante," she repeated, the foreign sounds sitting strangely on her tongue. It sounded Roman, that almost overrode her maternal instincts for the boy, in fact she asked. "Are you roman?"
"Nope, my blood is much older than that, Age of Gods and all that."
"That is good," Rider answered, her worry at the fact that he could have been part of the country she hated so much dissipating into smoke, with a smile gracing her face. "I am-"
"I know who you are, Boudica," he interrupted, his smile returning with unsettling warmth. "Queen of Victory. Or Queen of the Iceni, if we're being historical about it. You're the one who is going to win me this war."
He set down his chopsticks, his expression shifting to something almost calculating.
"Especially since I enhanced your parameters. Temporarily, of course, the boost will fade over the next two weeks or so, but that should be more than enough time for the war to conclude. I diverted power from two other potential summonings into yours, you see. The Grail didn't appreciate it, but what's it going to do, complain?" He cackled again, shorter this time. "I do wonder if I took too much from it, though. Eh, I'm sure it's fine."
Rider, Boudica, had no idea what Dante was talking about. The Grail had given her enough information but only the basics but not nearly enough to comprehend the dynamics of what the boy had done. But as she looked down at the red lines that littered her body, she thought she had an idea.
Her Master had done something reckless. And he had done it for her, to make her stronger, to give her the power she would need to fight and win in his name. She smiled at the thought, a child was a precious gift.
This however also gave her an idea that her Master was quite a strange one. The corpses, the blood magic, the casual admission of having stolen power from the Grail itself, none of it painted the picture of a stable, healthy child.
But he was a child, and Boudica had never had a son before.
A/N: Another chapter down, 3.4k words this time, but good enough. This is probably going to be the last summoning, I'm not going to show the rest cause they are boring. Time to get into bloody shenanigans lmao. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter cause Dante is gonna be our main man, or in this case boy.
That's pretty much it. Send those stones. Thx for reading. Author out.