===Jeanne===
The first golden rays of morning light broke across the misty hills, casting a quiet stillness over the battered group as they stirred from uneasy rest. Dew clung to the grass, and the scent of wet earth hung thick in the air. Birds sang cautiously from distant trees, as if uncertain whether it was truly safe to welcome the dawn.
Jeanne stood watch at the edge of the camp, her banner planted firmly in the earth beside her. Her eyes were set on the winding dirt path ahead, though her thoughts lingered on her missing lover.
Her grip on the banner tightened slightly.
Behind her, one by one, the others stirred. Rin rose first, composed as ever but with a weariness in her eyes that hadn't been there before. Shirou stretched in silence. Luviagelita muttered something about bugs and wet grass, and Illya yawned loudly. Emi simply got up, and started making something to eat from the supplies Godrick had stolen. Even Cu Chulainn, ever alert, took a moment to enjoy the breeze before checking the perimeter.
It was Jeanne who noticed them first.
Two figures appeared on the road ahead—staggering, broken silhouettes limping toward them through the low morning fog.
Jeanne's hand flew to her sword, ripping it from its scabbard.
The others rose to their feet, readying themselves as the mist parted just enough to reveal them.
Artoria Alter—bloodied and pale—was dragging herself forward, carrying Mordred Alter's barely conscious form slung across her shoulders. Their armor was cracked, their faces bruised, and their presence was a ghost of the commanding power they once radiated.
Artoria Alter stumbled to a halt a dozen paces away.
"I... have no weapons. I seek no fight," she said hoarsely, her voice dry and cracking from exhaustion. "We barely survived Avalon's collapse. I had no choice but to bring her to you."
Mordred groaned weakly, eyes fluttering open just long enough to recognize her other self—her 'rival'—before falling unconscious again.
The group exchanged uncertain glances.
"Why come to us?" Artoria asked cautiously, stepping slightly in front of Shirou.
"Because you're the only ones left who might be willing to listen." Artoria Alter lowered Mordred slowly to the ground, brushing sweat-soaked hair from her forehead. "Godrick has snapped. Whatever humanity he once had is gone. He destroyed Avalon. He nearly killed us."
Jeanne took a slow step forward, eyes narrowing.
"What do you want from us?"
Artoria Alter looked up at her—there was no malice left in those eyes. Only pain.
"Help," she said weakly. "He needs to be stopped."
Silence fell.
No one lowered their weapons yet, but Jeanne saw it—the hesitation, the spark of doubt, the recognition that this war was not so black and white anymore. She looked down at the wounded Mordred, then back at the once-fallen king.
"You expect us to help you?" she asked, her voice sharp with restrained fury. "After what you've done?"
Artoria Alter didn't flinch. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one more labored than the last. Blood matted her silver hair, and her armor hung broken and twisted around her frame. Despite it all, she managed a dry, bitter chuckle.
"What's stopping us from killing you where you stand?" Jeanne continued, stepping closer. The other Servants remained tense behind her, but none intervened. There was an edge in the air—fragile, dangerous.
Artoria Alter looked up slowly, her violet eyes gleaming beneath the shadows of her hair. "You won't kill us, because you know the truth," she rasped. "Even if you don't want to admit it."
Jeanne's sword twitched in her grip.
"You don't know what kind of monster you're dealing with," Artoria Alter said, her voice quiet but unwavering. "When he loses control…"
She faltered then—not from fear, but from the memory. Her shoulders sagged under a weight far heavier than Mordred's unconscious body.
"He turns into a beast," she said at last. "Not metaphorically. Not just in his rage. He becomes something else—something beyond even what we Heroic Spirits were meant to be. Something not born of the Throne, nor forged by man."
Her voice cracked, pain creeping in. "It doesn't matter if you're friend or foe. You simply become his next kill."
Jeanne said nothing for a long moment. Behind her, Shirou's brows furrowed, and even Cu Chulainn lowered his spear slightly. Luvia crossed her arms, tense but watching carefully.
A long silence followed. The wind stirred the grass around them, brushing against Jeanne's tabard and gently tugging at the corners of the broken cape on Artoria Alter's back.
Then, slowly, Jeanne turned.
"She needs healing," she said, nodding toward Mordred. "And if you're lying—if this is a trap," She said, turning back to the Alter. "I will make sure you're the first to die."
Artoria Alter gave a slow, grim nod. "Fair."
Cu sighed and slung his spear over his back. "Well, guess we're taking in strays now."
Heracles said nothing, but stepped forward to lift Mordred carefully in his massive arms. The wounded knight groaned faintly, blood dribbling from her lips.
As the group began to move, Jeanne lingered, watching Artoria Alter try and fail to rise on her own.
Without a word, Jeanne extended a hand.
Artoria Alter stared at it for a long time—too proud, too haunted to take it. But she did, at last, and Jeanne pulled her to her feet.
Not as enemies. Not as friends.
But as survivors.
===Godrick Alter===
The world had become too quiet.
Not the silence of peace, nor the serenity of solitude—but a suffocating, hollow stillness. The kind that clung to scorched earth and blood-soaked ruins. The kind that followed in the wake of catastrophe.
Godrick Alter walked through the remnants of yet another nameless village, the charred husks of homes groaning as they collapsed under their own weight. The stench of smoke, steel, and scorched flesh hung heavy in the air. His armor, though unscarred, was streaked with the red of too many. His halberd dripped blood as he dragged it through the dirt, a trail of ruin marking every step.
He didn't speak. He hadn't spoken in days.
The whispers were growing more desperate now—soft, curling tendrils of thought that slithered through his mind, weaving into the hollow places left behind by what little humanity had remained in him. They were gentle at first, soothing even. They told him what he wanted to hear.
"They abandoned you. They fear you. They betrayed you. She betrayed you."
His fists clenched until the joints of his clawed gauntlet groaned in protest. Jeanne. He could still see her—rushing to the sea, dragging that pathetic version of him into the depths like some twisted imitation of salvation. The warmth he once felt in her presence had curdled into something monstrous.
"She made her choice," he growled to no one.
A half-burned scarecrow loomed in a nearby field. Without hesitation, he launched his halberd at it, causing the field to explode.
The whispers grew louder.
"You are a god among insects. Claim what is yours. Finish what was started."
He no longer remembered the names of the people he had killed—if he ever bothered to learn them in the first place. Knights, villagers, beasts—it didn't matter. None of them were Jeanne. None of them were him. The other Godrick. The thief. The coward. The pretender.
He looked to his right hand, the obsidian skin pulsing faintly with red, jagged veins that twisted like roots under rock. It was no longer just an arm. It was a promise.
A harbinger of what was to come.
"The Left Hand of Ruin", the whispers cooed. "Take what is rightfully yours."
He recalled and lifted his halberd slowly, gazing at the edge. A flick of his wrist sent a crimson arc through the air, flicking the blood of countless beings from the weapon.
With every step, every kill, every whisper in the dark… he moved closer to what he was meant to be.
===
The fortress stood like a relic of a forgotten age—its alabaster walls still gleaming under the pale sun, banners of blue and gold fluttering in the wind. The stone was unmarred by war, the gates unbroken, and the air carried the scent of blooming herbs instead of ash.
It disgusted him.
Godrick Alter strode forward, the iron weight of his steps echoing across the courtyard as the outer gates opened cautiously. Rows of guards lined the inner walls, watching him with uncertainty. They knew who he was. They felt the pressure radiating from him—an aura that made the air grow heavy, the light dim.
At the foot of the central stairway stood a tall man in gold and black goat themed armor, polished to a mirror sheen. He had a crew cut, and his black was beard was tied beneath his chin with a sharp steel circlet. His gaze was steady, sharp, regal.
Anthrax. The warden of the Southern Plains. One of the last loyal knights of Camelot.
But he did not kneel.
Godrick stopped a few paces away, halberd still resting lazily against his shoulder, obsidian arm gleaming with faint crimson threads. He tilted his head slightly, eyes unreadable beneath his helm.
"Anthrax," he said, voice calm but steeped in venom. "Your queen is dead."
The knight's brow twitched, but he said nothing.
"I killed her," Godrick continued. "Buried Avalon atop her."
A flicker of emotion passed across Anthrax's face—pain, perhaps, or disbelief—but it was quickly replaced by cold steel.
"You lie."
"No," Godrick replied, stepping forward to look the big man in the eye. "I offer you the truth. And a choice."
The air thickened.
"I am not as weak as my mother." He said, raising his clawed right arm, letting the red veins pulse visibly as if responding to his will. "I am the heir to something far greater than her petty ideals. I am Ruin incarnate. And I have no use for old men with stiff backs."
He lowered the halberd, it's blade burying itself in the cobblestone beneath them both.
"Pledge yourself to me, Anthrax," he said, voice dipping low, thunderous. "Or watch this fortress burn, and your men with it."
Anthrax was silent for a long moment.
"No man claiming to be king threatens his own people."
Godrick tilted his head.
Anthrax continued, his voice steady despite the dread in his men's eyes. "I trained with your grandmother, bled for her. Then I realized my mistakes and changed sides to your mother. She was many things, Godrick. But she was not weak. If she is truly dead… Then so is Camelot." He said, grabbing his massive warhammer from his back.
"And if you were the one to kill her, then I must, as her loyal knight, avenge her."
There was no dramatic gesture. No roar of fury.
Godrick simply raised his halberd and swung.
A silver arc ripped through the stone courtyard, splitting the ground and sending soldiers flying like broken dolls. In the stunned silence that followed, the whispers in his head hissed in satisfaction.
"Then die," Godrick answered simply.
And the massacre began.
===Godrick===
The wind rolled in over the cliffs, briny and cold, carrying with it the scent of sea salt and steel. Godrick stood motionless at the edge, staring out at the gray horizon where the ocean met the sky. The silver sheen of his right arm catching the morning light.
He had grown used to the power. Airgetlám no longer burned like it had in the beginning; it felt like part of him now—an extension of his will.
Behind him, he heard the soft crunch of boots against gravel.
"I knew this would pull you toward her," Jalter said quietly, stopping a few paces away. Her voice lacked its usual bite. "It always does."
He didn't turn right away. He'd come to recognize when she was being genuine.
They had shared more than just silence these past few days. Nights filled with whispered confessions beneath flickering torchlight. Her voice—quiet, trembling—recounting the horrors his Alter had inflicted on her. Not just the scars on her body, but the ones buried deep in her mind.
He had listened.
He had sat beside her, sometimes in silence, sometimes in rage.
He still didn't love her. But he didn't hate her, either.
"I've made my decision," he said. "I'm going back to Jeanne. To the others. It's time."
She didn't argue. She didn't cry.
But her hands clenched at her sides.
"I know," she murmured.
Jalter looked up at him then—eyes no longer burning with hatred, but with something softer. Sadder.
"And what about me?"
Godrick paused. The wind shifted. His cape fluttered behind him, brushing against her shoulder.
"You're coming with me."
She blinked. "What?"
"You and Morgan. You're both coming. I don't know what'll happen when we reach them, but I'm not leaving you behind."
He saw the disbelief flash across her face. "You think she'll welcome me?"
"No," he said honestly. "But… she'll have to be okay with it. For now at least.
Jalter swallowed hard, eyes lowering. "You feel sorry for me."
"I feel responsible," he corrected. "You were broken by someone who wore my face. That's not something I can ignore."
From the small shack behind them, Morgan stepped into view, arms folded, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "Well," she said, "it's about time."
Jeanne Alter didn't look at her. She kept her gaze on Godrick, searching his face for some lie—some cruel trick. But there was none.
"Then let's go," she said finally, quietly. "Before I lose my nerve."
Godrick turned back toward the sea, then toward the rising sun. "We head inland. If they're alive, they'll be heading north."
The three of them began their descent from the cliffside, the sun casting long shadows behind them.
===
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