[center][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/271031448755109888/452429537993818112/AchBanner.png[/img]
[h2]’Lancer Prime’[/h2]
[h2]Foreigner’s Lowlands[/h2][/center]

The hero of the Trojan War continued to run throughout the city as fast as his legs could carry him, uncaring about any buildings destroyed in his wake, concerned only with reaching his Master’s current base of operations quickly so that he could discuss just why she had not thought to tell him about his teacher, and just [i]how[/i] he would be able to deal with him.

Trauma or no, hellish training or no, Chiron was someone ‘dear to Achilles’ heart’. That was an undeniable fact, and he could not bring himself to raise his spear against the man, even if he had thrown his lot in with whoever had called forth Troy. The fact of the matter was — he had always been the kind of idiot that absolutely could not fight those he had already deemed as ‘friends’. Perhaps some would be able to kill that feeling, but the bonds he had formed were not something so easily ignored.

And that was without mentioning the rush of suppressed memories that would have him staring at the ceiling for quite a while following his return. At this point, he just wanted to get back.

However, something caught his attention, and the ‘comet’ shifted its course ever so slightly to pass by the two Servants having a battle so near their base. Perhaps one of those his Master had mentioned, allied to the Matou, or just simple coincidence? Regardless, he did not have time to—

For the second time in the same day, Achilles forgot how to breathe.

That shield.

His legs came to an abrupt stop, the force of the sudden deceleration enough to crush a man, yet not even phasing the greatest Achaean as he beheld a macabre spectacle.

He knew that shield. He knew the man holding it. He had laughed beside that man. He had trained beside that man. He had fought and bled and killed and cried beside that man.

He had been friends with that man.

His cousin, Ajax — another of the great heroes of that War, who had distinguished himself as much as the other, whose name still echoed in eternity as that of a great hero.

He knew that man, and now he was seeing him bisected by the sword of an enemy, his faithful shield powerless to stop it. His grip on his own spear tightened, but that was nothing compared to what came after — the flash that signaled the arrival of a new Servant, and the release of another Noble Phantasm.

His cousin had [i]died[/i], right before his eyes, before he had even known he was here, too stunned to try to save him, too baffled to try to stop them, too absorbed in his own worries to act promptly, too—

[i]—too late to save anyone, again. But that’s a theme with you, isn’t it? Always losing sight of the most important things—[/i]

“—And nothing but regrets to show for it.” He muttered, taking a step forward, gaze fixed on the woman that had turned his cousin to ash.

In some dark manner, it must have been amusing. He, the fastest of all heroes, always too late to help those that needed it, always too slow to save those that mattered, always a step short from being able to protect what he loved.

He had never been a hero that saved people. His legend had been built on the corpses of his enemies and his loved ones. However, before he could wander down that path, a memory assaulted him.

A moment, shared on those beaches during a quiet night.

[i]”You’re thinking of [b]what[/b]?”

“Hey, Rules Fifteen and Thirty-one, cousin. Besides, it’s not like you can talk about how we use our equipment. I really believe this can work.”

“. . .I suppose. You always did live up to expectations, as well.”

“Heh, well, gotta come up with my own way of keeping up. Teacher’s training can take us far, but what makes or breaks a hero comes afterward, Ach. It’s in what we live, and what we reach at the end of the road. But we’ll manage it.  After all—”[/i]

“—Rules One-Hundred and One-Hundred and One: Rise, Strive.”

The hellish memories associated with each one were oddly absent — or rather, something he had dismissed as a matter of course due to the situation. How could he afford to care about such petty things now? How could he live with himself if he let that get to him right at this moment?

The answer was that there was no way. Plain and simple. He had failed him, he had failed plenty of people but—

That just meant he would have to fight for what he had left all the harder. That just meant he would have to treasure those memories all the more. That just meant he would have to honor them as best as he was able.

The hero named Achilles was never one that looked at the past, he was not one that pondered about the what-ifs and sighed while endlessly thinking about missing opportunities. He would do what he had always done, the swiftest hero in the world would run forward at full speed, looking at the future.

There was no cocky smirk, there were no taunts. His mouth was set in a thin line, and his gaze was firm, focused and ready.

The traumas would not overcome him. The pain of loss would not hold him back. His regrets would not drown him. His anger would not cloud his mind.

They were things that did not matter. Thus—

“Rule number Ninety-Five: Concentrate.”

What did he have left?

The gifts of the gods.

The skills he had been taught by the greatest teacher in the entire world.

The abilities he had refined over the course of ten years of war.

And a body forged for victory.

Plenty to work with.

A single breath, the eternity between heartbeats, and Achilles had [i]moved[/i]. There was no warning, and he offered no quarter — almost as if he had teleported, he had appeared right by the side of the Saber — [i]Yamato Takeru[/i] — spear poised to gouge her side with all the quickness that the fastest among heroes could muster. 

[@addamas]