FATE\Deus Decipit

Chapter 116: The Two Who Became One

...

There was a strange silence. The vines ceased their assault, and the sky was clear of the oozing bodies that had been falling.

-

Once again, Geryon's hand drifted aimlessly to the wound in his chest, the one that had nearly pierced his/her heart. It was almost healed now. But then, his concern had less to do about the wound and more about what it represented.

The cut in his/her face he had left untouched, aside from a single stitch to the forehead where the bleeding was at its worst. He was using too much energy. He simply couldn't afford to spend anything more on healing; he had long since given up on repairing his armor, seeing as it would do no good regardless.

A change in strategy was necessary.

If prioritizing defense was going to leave him dead, then he'd simply have to prioritize his offense. He'd have to go all out. Double or nothing. Even if he himself couldn't live to see another day, he had to ensure that Dionysus didn't have that chance either.

As he made his silent vow, Caster's voice echoed through the Parthenon, as if responding to his resolve,

"Those eyes of yours... they're quite peculiar, aren't they? They are not the Mystic Eyes of Petrification, as Medusa had; not what I suspected..."

Athena's face contorted with disgust behind the mask, "Show yourself! Let's end this!"

But Caster continued as if he had heard nothing, "The Eyes of the Gorgon turn the body to stone, but your eyes target the link between body and soul, severing it, trapping the soul within itself, with nothing to do but consider its own reflection.

"Yes... your eyes pierce all illusions; nothing in this world may deceive you. When gazing into the eyes of another, they are forced into the realm of their own design, where they cannot even deceive themselves. What shall I christen thee, oh dreary eyes of the charlatan's demise? Why not the 'Mystic Eyes of Providence'? For the hypocrite, one sight of them would be a death sentence..."

A great purple cloud rose from the cobbles, covering the stones and surrounding the tabernacle in the shape of a great, horned demon, it's manifold arms rising like tentacles from the earth; holes in its fog created the appearance of golden eyes and a matching, malevolent smile.

It was an illusion, but not one meant to deceive. No, it was a show of power.

The voice seemed to emanate from the fog-demon, "...But you know better now, don't you, dear Saber? Did you think I was a hypocrite? Did you think I was the type to fly at the sight of my own shadow? Why should I ever fear the prospect of being trapped within my own mind? Precious Saber, poor girl-

"We already are! The Parthenon! The entire city and half its populace! Soon, with the Chalice in hand, the entire world will be nothing but Myself, and all will live forever in the great dreaming of my soul! You bore me with such crude concepts as 'true' and 'false' and 'lie'... Fool! There is no truth in the land of dreaming! Here, in my dream- the truth is whatever I dream it to be!"

A mad cackle shook the very ground; the entire stone table on which the Parthenon was built. At first, it was assumed to be a kind of illusion, it took a second longer to see that it was no trick, nor was it any practical effect from the acoustics of the Parthenon-

He looked down. The oozing, viscous, semi-solid bodies which had fallen from the sky were all shambling to their feet. They were the color of wine, part red, part purple, part black, but each of these colors differentiated themselves in turn, forming exact portraits of Caster himself, with his horns and hooves and tails. They laughed and laughed, infinite, shark-like teeth chattering in the frigid night; their wild purple eyes looking with shock and awe at nothing in-particular. With his eyes, he could see that these were not, as one might suppose, clones or copies of Caster himself. They were no replicas, indeed, it would be better if they were. Each of them carried the essence, the signature, of Caster himself, but not purely. Within each of these false-gods was a positive cocktail of souls: not one of them was Caster himself, but neither were they distinct from him. They were like arms and legs: a mass of tentacles crudely grafted onto his concept, and designed to be cut down; sacrificing himself to himself in an endless cycle of empty, aimless narcissism.