Fate/Zero:Prologue 1
8 years ago
Let us tell the story of a certain man.
The tale of a man who, more than anyone else, believed in his ideals, and by them was driven into despair.
The dream of that man was pure.
He wanted for everyone in this world to be happy, that was all his wish was about.
It is a childish ideal all young boys grow attached to at least once, but that they abandon when growing accustomed to the mercilessness of reality.
Any happiness requires a sacrifice, all children learn that much when they become adults.
But that man was different.
Maybe he was just the most foolish of all. Maybe he was broken somewhere. Or maybe, he might have been of the kind we call "Saints", entrusted with God's will, one that common people cannot understand.
He knew that for any existence in this world, the only two alternatives are sacrifice or salvation...
Then he understood that leaving the Sky to be your judge grants you nothing...
From that day on, he set his mind on being the one to tip the scale.
To abate the grief in this world, there was no other, more efficient way.
To save even one life on one side, he had to forsake one life on the other side.
That is, to let the majority of people survive, he had to kill a minority of people.
Therefore, rather than saving people for the sake of saving them, he excelled at the art of killing people.
Again and again, he kept painting his hands the color of blood, but the man definitely never flinched.
Never questioning the righteousness of his acts, nor ever doubting his goal, he forced himself to only tip the scale faultlessly.
Never ever misjudging the value of a life.
With no regard to the humility of one existence, and no regard to its age, all lives weighed evenly. With no discrimination, the man saved lives, and with no discrimination, he killed.
But he realized that too late.
To value everything in equal fairness, that would be the same as not loving anyone uniquely.
Had he carved that inviolable rule into his spirit sooner, he would have attained salvation.
Freezing his young heart into necrosis, achieving his self as a measuring machine with neither blood nor tears, he kept leading a life of sorting those that were to die, those that were to live. There probably wasn’t any suffering for him.
But that man was wrong.
Anyone’s delighted smile would fill his chest with pride, and anyone’s wailing voice would shake his heart.
Anger was added to resentment full of regrets, and his tears of loneliness needed hands reaching out to him.
Even though he was pursuing an ideal beyond reason of the world of men--- he was too human.
How many times was the man punished for that contradiction.
He did know friendship. He did know love.
Even when putting that one beloved life, and the countless number of perfect strangers, on the left and right of the scale ---
He definitely never made a mistake.
More than loving someone, to judge that life equally to that of the others, he had to value it impartially, and impartially forfeit it.
Even when he was with someone precious to him, he would always seem to be mourning.
And now, the man is being inflicted the greatest punishment.
Outside the window, a snow storm froze everything. A mid-winter night is congealing the ground of a forest.
The room is in an old castle built on the frozen soil, but it is protected by a gentle flame burning in the fireplace.
In the warmth of that shelter, the man was holding one new existence in his arms.
It was a really small one --- a body so tiny it could be ephemeral, and no weight that could tell it was ready.
A delicate response can be dangerous, as with the first snow scooped by hand, which would crumble with a mere jolt.
In frail eagerness, the child preserves her body temperature by sleeping, breathing leniently. That is all that the modest throbbing of the chest can do at the moment.
« Don’t worry, she’s sleeping. »
As he lifts the baby in his arms, the mother, resting her body on the couch, smiles upon them.
From the haggard look of the child, she isn’t fine yet, and her complexion isn’t perfect, but even though, her beautiful face reminiscent of a jewel doesn’t decline in any way.
Above all, the color of bliss brightens her smile and erases the exhaustion that should wear out her gentle look.
« She would always be difficult and cry even with the nurses she should have gotten accustomed to. It’s the first time she lets herself be held so quietly. --She understand, doesn’t she. That it is fine because you are a good man. »
« ... »
Without answering, dumbfounded, the man compares the mother on the bed with the child in his arms. Had Irisviel’s smile ever looked that dazzling ?
She originally was a woman of little happiness. Nobody would have thought of giving her that feeling called happiness. She wasn’t a creation of Gods, she was created at the hands of men… As a homunculus, such a treatment was normal for that woman. Irisviel had never had any wish.
Created as a puppet, brought up as a puppet, maybe she never even understood the meaning of happiness to begin with.
And now--- she is beaming.
« I’m really glad I had this child. »
Quietly bringing forth her love, Irisviel von Einsbern speaks, watching over the sleeping child.
« From now on, she will be first and foremost an imitation of a human. It may be tough, and she might hate the mother who gave her such a painful life. But even though, I am happy. This child is lovely, she is splendid. »
Her appearance is nothing unusual, and looking at her she is a lovely baby, yet---
While inside the mother’s womb, a number of magical treatments were conducted on the unborn body, to rearrange it so that, even more than her mother, she was different from humans. Although it was born, its usefulness was restricted, so that it would be a body that is a mere cluster of magic circuits. This was the true nature of Irisviel’s beloved daughter.
