The Maid of Orleans, The Sword of the Church

[Aleister Grigori]

In a hidden, subterranean room of the church only accessible through the courtyard sanctuary, a forbidden ritual was about to take place. Specifically, it was a ritual forbidden by any member of the clergy, because magecraft was undeniable heresy. Yet, when the doctrine of the church was directly contradicted by the words of God's Messenger on Earth, the Pope, then there was no helping it. The Pope's orders were, after all, considered absolute by all Burial Agents of the Church, even if they did not share the faith. As for Burial Agent Seven, Aleister Grigori, he did share the Catholic faith, but he believed that it was not the Pope's authority he was beholden to: it was God's will on Earth that mattered...and it was that will Aleister would fight for, about all else. He was not simply another living weapon of the Church; Aleister Grigori was a holy man whom had his own interpretations of The Word. And so, it did not matter to him in the first place if the policies of the Church contradicted His Holiness's orders; this was undoubtedly the will of God.

Keeping that in mind, Aleister offered a short, silent prayer within himself. He asked for guidance and deliverance. There was no denying that was Aleister was about to do was considered magecraft. And the Bible itself condemned the use of witchcraft. Yet, Aleister just couldn't believe, though, that an omnipotent being such as God could not foresee the needs of man in his own name. He felt as if God had brought him to this point, before this summoning circle. In his mind, it had been God whom had delivered unto him the sheathed blade of Jeanne, and it had been God whom had bestowed the position of "moderator" upon him for the duration of the already started Heaven's Feel.

Then surely, The priest thought to himself, with little doubt in his mind or heart. It must be the infallible will of God that I answer the call. It is God's will that I summon a holy Servant, to ensure that things don't get out of hand this time. Perhaps even the Holy Grail's malfunction enabling more than seven Servants to be called forth is a blessing from the Father? He was unsure about the last portion of his thoughts, but he had received the wisdom he needed: God wanted him to summon a Servant, and allow the Church to moderate the Holy Grail War in God's name. It was the ideal called "God" that mattered most to Aleister, not the words of an old man or an older text.

It was time.

"Ye first, O silver, O iron." Aleister declared to the empty chamber. Even with his guard down now, no one could enter the church grounds until this Servant was summoned and he lowered the sealing sacrament upon the church's main doors in the worship hall. As he spoke the opening lines of the default summoning incantation, he felt the slight heat released from the elaborate pattern as it became more visible upon his right arm. The crimson glow of the command seal was faint, but as he began the summoning mantra, the aura would intensify gradually as his mana began to fill the circle, which also released a bright red glow. "O stone of the foundation, O Archduke of the Contract. Hear me in the name of our great teacher, the Archmagus Schweinorg."

Aleister proceeded with the summoning incantation, despite the fact his heart held no sincerity in regards to the last line he had uttered. He didn't believe in magecraft, usually...but these were the orders of God, and so the prana released by him kicked into overdrive. The normally stagnant air within the abandoned chamber began to swirl more intensely now as the command seal's shape took form: a cross, clearly. Around the cross, a serpent. And above the cross, a three-point crown flanked by small wings. An appropriate symbol for a number of reasons, but that wasn't his concern. The growing, burning pain in the region of the command seal was negligible; his faith gave him strength and dulled the pain.

His golden eyes fixated themselves on the Lady's sword, and he began to realize just who he was summoning. Rather, the sheer fame and glory of who he was summoning moved him now: a pure heroic spirit...Jeanne D'arc. In her presence, this newly appointed priest was laughable, as was his piety. Still, he could not allow himself to waver now. He knew he must bring honor to God, and allow this beacon of light to again enter the world. Only this time, she would be guiding a rather "green" priest than an established nation such as France in her time.

"Let the descending winds be as a wall. Let the gates in all directions be shut, rising above the crown, and let the three-forked roads to the Kingdom revolve. Shut. Shut. Shut. Shut. Shut. Five perfections for each repetition. And now, let the filled sigils be annihilated in my stead! Set. Let thy body rest under my dominion, let my fate rest in thy blade. If thou submittest to my calling and if thou wilt obey this mind, this reason, then thou shalt respond."

The command seal now gave off a brilliant light as it burned itself firmly into his arm, only now starting to cool and dull since it had reached its apex. The wind in the chamber continued to churn, and in response the loose papers and old religious texts covering the few work tables in the chamber began to scatter freely as if a tornado had spawned within the practically enclosed area of granite stone.

"I make my oath here. I am that person who is to become the virtue of all Heavens. I am that person who is covered with the evil of all Hades. Thou seven heavens, clad in a trinity of words, come past thy restraining rings, and be thou the hands that protect the balance-!" Aleister declared now, his raised voice dropping in volume, out of solemn respect for God and the Servant whom would answer the call. He considered Joan of Arc a manifestation of God's presence within man, and appropriately he knelt down at the edge of the circle, his head hung low and a hand secured about his crucifix. The churning wind caused his hair to blow in the breeze, but he did not look directly into the circle itself.

“'Do not come any closer,' God said to Moses! 'Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.' Then he said, 'I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob.' At this, Moses hid his face, because he was afraid to look upon the face of God!"

[Jeanne D'arc]

Her parting sight in life had been a simple wooden cross, held aloft by a loyal priest in the moment of her death. It had been nothing ornamental, but beautiful in its stark plainness, its rough uncrafted oak, lashed cruelly to a pole with crude rope.

What she was looking at now was so far from that last sight. Her first sight, after a blazing light accompanied by a rushing wind, was a cross, a crucifix showing her Saviour’s torment, but it was grossly overdone, as all things seemed to be even in her day. Gold covered it, no it was composed entirely of that most precious of metals…

So strange that she would have a vision like this now. She was dead, or almost dead. But God saw fit to give her one final vision, in this strange place. She had known it was not France the moment she had seen the floor on the first opening of her eyes. It was crafted as if a solid piece, but was unlovely compared to a wooden floor, or piecemeal stone. The light did not help its appearance, since it was dim after that brilliant burst.

But she was not here to stare idly at her surroundings. She felt a strange urge to turn around, and utter incredibly specific words. Pushing it away, she slowly turned, fully garbed in her armour, and flowing amethyst dyed kirtle. Turned as words assaulted her ears. Biblical verses twisted towards her in ways she never would have wished them to be.

“'Do not come any closer,' God said to Moses! 'Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.' Then he said, 'I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob.' At this, Moses hid his face, because he was afraid to look upon the face of God!"

It was a young man lying prostrate before her. Surprised, she let out a sharp breath through her teeth and stepped towards him, armoured but not armed, her greave rustling with the familiar sound of steel brushing against steel accompanying her first step as her eyes quickly took in his appearance.

He was a young man, with dark hair, and his voice was tinted with what seemed to her a strange accent. A crucifix was clutched in his hand, and he wore a cassock, although far more rich and less flamboyant than she had seen. Well made, but not bright or garish. He was light framed as well, and his body suggested flexibility over strength. His eyes remained hidden from her, however, and she wished she could see them, to get the measure of him.

…

The appearance she could see reminded him of Jean De Metz, the one who had woken her from her visions what seemed like hundreds of years ago, and her first supporter. In all things other than this impious declaration, comparing her, a mere messenger, to God at the burning bush.

“Exodus 3:5-6. Moses did not believe he could serve God, as he was weak in speech, and was disabused of that notion by the Lord Himself at the burning bush.” He believed himself not worthy? Or incapable somehow of serving her? All were unworthy to God, but He often saw fit to use them, even in their unworthiness for his greater glory. But her? She was nothing, no one should ever be afraid of not being worthy before her.

She stepped forward again, and then knelt herself, her bare right knee pushing out of the layered kirtle and onto the cold stone floor. Gently putting her gauntleted hand on the prone man’s shoulder, she continued with her gentle chastisement. “I am not God, nor any Angel. I am not a Queen either, so please I ask of you do not lower yourself before me, as you would them. I am but a woman, and a messenger. I am a mere servant of the Lord, like you, deserving the same as any other person. Do not hold me so high and approach blasphemy, for I would hate to lead you to any sin. Look at me, I will not blind you.”

There had been so many wanting her blessing, approaching her over God’s ordained, touching her hoping for healing, praying to her as a saint. She had asked for none of that, but it had been given to her. She tried to turn it away, but now here it was for the first time in a vision. All her others were clouded with war and death, but this seemed so simple, so much more refreshing that the beginnings of a smile lit up her face.

One of her nightmares had never happened; she still took joy in not being around death. That was more than enough for that bare bit of a smile to her. A peaceful vision accompanying a violent death before her soul was ushered to heaven. Yes, that thought brought her heart comfort. Before she had shouldered the burdens of France she had seen visions of death and war, and now she saw visions of a chapel, accompanied by a humble priest.

“Rise, young priest…” She said, offering him a steel shorn hand to his feet, “I suppose it is a little strange for me to say young considering my own age…” She paused, with that slight attempt at humour, and then continued, moving on to the topic that distressed her. “And I have to ask this question, please forgive me but it is burning in my mind,” She had never before felt an urge like this, a need to ask something. She had been curious before, yes in fact she had been curious often, it was part of learning. But this felt like a pressing weight on her chest that tightened every breath she went without asking it, “But… are you my Master?”

[Aleister Grigori]

Truth be told, "Father" Aleister Grigori had no real knowledge of the Heroic Spirit he had called forth from the Throne of Heroes. Well, nothing more than what he had studied when he was a child. And, in his estimation, St. Joan was not simply a projection of the famed hero. He fully recognized her - as a member of the one Catholic and Apostolic Church - as a priest, who lived in heaven with God and all people who were alive in Christ. To Roman Catholics, a "saint" was not by their own power greater than an ordinary human. On the contrary, the miracles and unshakable piety of the honored saints were testaments to only one element of the human condition: faith. That was the only thing the saints themselves could be renowned for to their own credit, because anything a man had and could boast about truly came from God. But still, for Aleister, this moment was perhaps the most exciting in his life: he had called forth from either the Throne of Heroes or the Throne of God a Heroic Spirit.

The chamber Jeanne had been summoned into was certainly not becoming of the wealth of the Church. It was as modest as the manger into which the Son of God had been born into the world. The flooring about the room was of cold, gray stone. This chamber had once served a sinister purpose during the Holy Grail War...more specifically, between the Fourth and Fifth Heaven's Feel, this room had served as a chamber to hold the living dead. The poor souls whom had been found in this room...they had endured static life on the verge of death, their life force sucked from their shells of bodies. There had been no way for Father Grigori to save them; Kirei Kotomine had drained them of all being, though the Church had never figured out just why he had done so until an investigation had taken place. After discovering the truth of this basement area, the Church had taken the bodies and administered proper burials, out of pity if nothing else.

Jeanne would be allowed to see everything in this now mostly empty stone chamber without great effort on her part, if she so desired. The stone floor matched stone walls and a stone ceiling. The only natural light came from the doorway at the top of some stone stairs. A handrail had been added to the stairs on both sides, and a few tables decorated the basement area. This crudely fashioned storage room, regardless of whatever purpose it might have once served, had been converted into a study by Father Cornello. Aleister intended to use it as an office for work and prayer when need be, and had seen no need to close the door during the summoning. But aside from the natural light let through the doorway, only flickering torches provided any actual illumination. The glow of these torches flickered and wavered upon the walls and paperwork-covered desks, letting shadows dance playfully across the undecorated walls.

And Aleister remained focused intently on the floor, briefly unwilling to look upon his Servant. In his mind, she was truly an embodiment of the word "faith." This woman had been burned at the cross, and yet her entire life had been filled with nothing but faith. Even with his limited knowledge of Joan's history, he knew that much. She was a venerated saint and he was not worthy to look upon her. He was almost afraid to, because the pressure he felt from her was vast upon her summoning, and his command seal which anchored him to her had dimmed. The flow of prana was constant now, the leyline established to allow Jeanne to maintain her form and presence.

Before the presence of God's Servant, he had to stop himself from trembling with fear or excitement, maybe both. This was the reason for Aleister gripping his crucifix, and while he had not meant to compare her to God...he did believe that she among all people could reflect that divine glory. He could feel her eyes upon him as he knelt before her, taking no care to not dirty his cassock. Then, to his great surprise, she spoke to him. He couldn't have said why he was surprised...but, he was. No, maybe he was just awed by her voice. That was it. Her voice was beautiful, and more gentle than he had expected from this woman. To Aleister, her voice resonated gently and had an almost soothing effect as she spoke to him.

“Exodus 3:5-6. Moses did not believe he could serve God, as he was weak in speech, and was disabused of that notion by the Lord Himself at the burning bush.” Her words hit home, resonating within and around the priest as he felt his own body begin to lose tension. His body began to relax, if only a little. Was he not unworthy to look upon the face of this, God's messenger, without her permission, which was effectively the consent of the Father? He had thought so, and for a moment longer kept his gaze glued upon the floor. At this, she continued speaking to him, her words those of a faithful and pious woman.

"I am not God, nor any Angel. I am not a Queen either, so please I ask of you do not lower yourself before me, as you would them. I am but a woman, and a messenger. I am a mere servant of the Lord, like you, deserving the same as any other person. Do not hold me so high and approach blasphemy, for I would hate to lead you to any sin. Look at me, I will not blind you.”

She made a request of him, that he not humble himself before her in this manner. She spoke of being nothing more than a messenger, a role which he already had mentally allocated to her. But she was a messenger of God, and he faith had proven to be unshakable. He still could not help but feel unworthy in her presence, for before this woman his faith was nothing. He was a Burial Agent of the Church, entrusted with fulfilling the will of God. Aleister was a well-spoken man, and a man of God. He had true faith, but at the same time he was as much a sinner as any person; he fell into temptation, thoughts of sin which translated into committing each contemplated sin, and wavered in doubt and despair before his own human faults. Yet, she spoke to him compassionately, urging him to look upon her form and not revere her as God.

Upon her insistence, completely unwilling to disobey the request of a saint, the dark-haired priest lifted his head slowly to look upon her. He was greeted by a lovely sight: a young girl, adorned in armor, but no less feminine or graceful because of her attire. Beneath light blue eyes of gentle appraisal, he noticed a small smile upon her features. And if she gazed upon her new Master, she would see the uncertain look etched upon his face. His own dark gold hues reflected this uncertainty, and his expression was far from stony; his eyes moved hesitantly from her feet to her face and back and forth.

It seemed as if he was forcing himself to look upon her, and to any of his congregation back home, this sheepish behavior would convince almost anyone this young man was not Father Grigori. The newly appointed priest was a prodigy and a faithful follower of God, but now he felt shaken to his core. Gradually, however, as a result of Jeanne's gentle words and her beauty and the warm atmosphere she gave off, Aleister began to calm down. She seemed to be evaluating him through her eyes, though he did not know the reason for the sliver of a smile now resting almost naturally upon her flawless features.

“Rise, young priest…” She insisted gently, a gauntlet-clad hand lowering into his field of vision. With less uncertainty than before, Aleister released his grip upon the fine, golden cross about his neck and reached out with a slightly trembling hand. He let his own pale fingers slide into the embrace of steel, barely tightening his hand as he stood, accepting any support from her as he did so.

“I suppose it is a little strange for me to say young considering my own age…And I have to ask this question, please forgive me but it is burning in my mind, but...are you my Master?"

Aleister Grigori knew the line uttered by Servants first brought into this world and plane. It was typical, the Holy Grail dictated that they confirm their contract with a human magus before giving them the final go-ahead to remain as Servants in the world. When met with this question, Aleister gazed into the eyes of this shorter, young girl. Beautiful blue eyes separated by the armor of her helm, lovely blonde hair hanging gracefully about her face. This young girl was the venerated saint? It was almost unbelievable to the priest, that all of the stories spoke of this young girl. Even so, he wouldn't express his disbelief...there was no doubt that the sword used as a catalyst had called forth the proper hero.

"I am...Father...Aleister Grigori, an ordained priest in the employ of the Vatican and in service to God the Father, his son - our savior - Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit. Not in the name of the Pope, but in the name of God, I tell you this..." Aleister Grigori extended his right arm, revealing to Jeanne the command seal upon the back of his right arm. His eyes were now locked with hers, and he spoke calmly and coolly, in English accented by a light Italian accent.

"I am indeed your Master, and have called you forth into the world by the grace of God and on orders from His Holiness. Saint Joan, O unwavering woman of faith and chosen savior of France. I ask you to bestow upon me but one blessing: your willingness to stand alongside this unworthy priest, that we may together attempt to maintain balance in the name of God...even in this war among magi." Aleister's modest tone of voice was sincere, his self-flagellation not done for his own betterment in her eyes, but out of a sense of genuine insignificance before Saint Jeanne D'arc.

[Jeanne D'arc]

His hand trembled as it reached hers, but she paid it no attention. She simply clasped it, and helped him to his feet as he looked at her in awe. That would fade eventually, it always did, but for now she was willing to accept the small victory that he was no longer prostrate at her feet.

When his eyes finally met hers she easily saw his measure, flickering irises of gold brown that betrayed much of him, and his worries that weighed upon him but showed no deceit, falsehood, or blasphemy in his soul. She had once had a priest tell her that the eyes were gateways to the soul, and one that read eyes read people. This was advice she had long taken to heart.

"I am...Father...Aleister Grigori, an ordained priest in the employ of the Vatican and in service to God the Father, his son - our savior - Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit. Not in the name of the Pope, but in the name of God, I tell you this..."

He pulled back his sleeve and held his arm up, baring the back of his hand as confidence suddenly took hold of his body. There was a strangely shaped burn there, and she tilted her head slightly to the left as she looked at it. It was the perfect form of a cross, wreathed with what looked like a stylistic servant, and accompanied by a triune corona. It had to be a brand, but who would brand someone with the Holy Cross? Blasphemers and adulterers, in a disgusting ceremony, were branded in her time, but with letters. Few would believe, even if they thought their ritual right, that God’s glorious symbol, a method of execution turned into a sign of hope, should deign anyone, let alone a sinner.

That burn surprised her more than any claim he made, more than him calling her the saviour of France, and she was still absorbed in it when he continued.

"I am indeed your Master, and have called you forth into the world by the grace of God and on orders from His Holiness. Saint Joan, O unwavering woman of faith and chosen savior of France. I ask you to bestow upon me but one blessing: your willingness to stand alongside this unworthy priest, that we may together attempt to maintain balance in the name of God...even in this war among magi."

He was saying such strange things, but she had heard and seen greater oddities in her other visions. She had almost hoped this vision would be peaceful, but clearly God had other things to show her than times of peace. A war among magi? She… was not fond of them, to say the least. They went against the words of God… and she had slain many of them, or… she saw herself kill many of them in visions. Striking down even those as far fallen as them was something she would not do.

“I suppose believing I had won a time of peace for myself was too prideful for me to wish for.” Those words were more mused, rather than for the priest. She turned around, looking back at the engraved circle from which she had stepped. On the ground was something glimmering in the wavering light. She could feel it, the familiarity of it.

One of the torches flickered in an errant gust, leftover pulses of wind whipped from her arrival, and sprayed dim light upon the surface of the sparkling-

“Lis…” She said, heart aching with familiarity. The blessed Saint’s sign that she should take up arms to lead France to the end of the Hundred Years War. She knelt down once again, this time to reach for the blade. It was duller than she remembered, having lost the light of its purpose and owner. But she knew once her hand touched it, it would remember its fallen purpose. This similar scene she had seen before, a few times. But this time it felt like forever since she had grasped the hilt of the Heaven sent blade she had returned to Saint Catherine’s Ecclesia.

Steel touched steel as her fingertips touched the perfect Damascus Cross on the blade. And in that one moment, the whole room pulsed with light again, like the blade itself had caught the glare of the sun.

Five blades slammed into the anchor points of the inscribed circle she now knelt in, materializing from thin air, showing her once again the truth that this was but a vision. They easily bit into the cement, and stood, waiting for her touch. No two of the blades were the same save that each one caught the glow from Lis and reflected it through the room, lighting it far more than any of the numerous torches dared to do.

Two delicate, yet impossibly strong chains came into being; hanging from the crosspiece and glittering like silver as she lifted the sword off the ground, and then slid it into a newly formed sheath of crimson velvet that hung from her waist. Instantly the chains wrapped around the sheath, tying it to the crosspiece unbreakably, and only then did the light of Lis fade.

Then she moved, clockwise along the inscribed circle, drawing the first sword, the furthest from the priest… Aliester Grigori he had said, from the stone floor. “Lierre.” She spoke fondly, and sliding the simple soldier’s sword into its plain sheath. Romarin followed, and shortly thereafter Rose, Tournesol, and Poinsettia. She murmured each name softly as she returned each sword home, leaving perfectly smooth draw marks in the floor as she removed each one. They were not as great as her banner, or even as great as Lis, but she was still fond of each one, as they each sat unstained by any blood.

Six sheaths adorned her waist now, with Lierre, Tournesol and Lis on one side, and Rose, Romarin, and Poinsettia on the other.

Finally she once again turned to the priest, her small ritual complete. The circle they had sat in worried her, it looked all too familiar, but she ignored it. She was all too interested in the mark on his hand, in the priest himself, rather than markings on the floor.

“I apologize for that distraction, it must lower your opinion of me to see me hold such love for things designed only to kill, but I promise you that they have broken no commandment, committed no murder. And I am sorry if this is strange or an affront, Father, but you said you called me forth? I have been called forth many times, but never by a person. Always I was sent these visions by God, and I doubt this is any exception, though it may be pride to think like that. But I will always serve Him, and as you are a priest I will stand alongside you in any task He requires of me, do not worry.”

She paused, wondering if it would be an insult to speak of his brand, but her curiosity overwhelmed her, since he had shown it to her, and obviously expected her to gleam some meaning from it. “And Father, you clearly showed me your brand apurpose. If I may ask, though, what is that purpose you meant for me? For I know nothing of it, save its appearance. Who would burn a cross into a priest’s hand?”

[Aleister Grigori]

Truly, standing before a young woman who was the historical "Maid of Orleans," Saint Joan, Father Aleister Grigori felt awed. To him, meeting this surprisingly young female hero of France was more of an honor than meeting a leader such as the American President or other world leaders. Perhaps such people with modern day prestige would one day enter the historical archives as heroes. But Saint Joan was already a hero, and a true pillar of faith. So, no one could fault a newly appointed priest of the Church for being in awe of this spirit's presence. True, a feeling such as awe would eventually fade away or at least become less apparent over time, but that would only be natural.

He could feel the almost surreal gaze of Saint Joan reaching past his own. In a sense, Aleister - whom had been trained to read people and utilize his impressive charisma to deceive others or interrogate prisoners - could tell that he was being analyzed. Still, nothing he said to Joan thus far could be called deceitful by any measure, and truly he was humbled to be the presence of a saint. So, at her request, he did not look away from her; Aleister looked into her eyes with only a touch of hesitance, but the golden hues of the priest indeed could not mask the true thoughts plaguing him. He was perhaps the Burial Agency's most skilled agent, despite being one of its youngest. At the very least, he could read people with little effort...and now, he saw what it was like to be on the other end of the all-seeing eyes.

Yet, he did not feel fear. Because he hid nothing, and refused to place a filtering lens upon his expression. The look of hopeful conviction, that expression from which Jeanne perceived a tinge of doubt and uncertainty...it was genuine. Aleister did not tear his gaze from her, because when a saint requested that you look upon them...it was hard to deny the request. So, he allowed this Heroic Spirit to analyze him thus, and he was almost sure that even if he had wanted to hide anything from her, he would not have been able to. He remained silent, standing with his left hand in her right, and his right held up to show that command seal. He saw the look of curious fascination upon her face, but he carried on and accepted the role of her Master, knowing if he did not she would not be allowed to feed off his prana.

"“I suppose believing I had won a time of peace for myself was too prideful for me to wish for.”" Jeanne said aloud, though as a priest who had overseen many confessions and observed many people deep in thought, Aleister knew that the words were mostly spoken by the Heroic Spirit, for the Heroic Spirit's own sake. After she had said those words, causing the still-wavering priest to bite his tongue from making manifest a thought, she turned to face the circle, and the artifact that had been used to summon her into this world as a Saber-class Servant.

She spoke the name of the blade. Well, Aleister assumed it was the name of the blade. He could speak fluent French, but he knew that language would only be a trivial issue for a Servant, least of all one from France. He wasn't sure if she spoke in any Japanese dialect, but the Holy Grail usually allowed Heroes to utter the languages they knew in life, and the languages of a local area into which they were summoned. If nothing else, the fact Jeanne had understood his English thus far demonstrated that she was a natural omniglot in life. He briefly pondered if the name of her blade, "Lis," had anything to do with the Fleur-de-lis coat-of-arms. However, his brief lapse of attentive thought was ended when he witnessed the young girl interacting with her sword.

Is this girl really her? It a pointless thought, because Aleister Grigori knew full well that the armored woman before him was none other than Jeanne D'arc. Still, that conviction is what created the questioning thought. This young girl, who looked to be his age if not younger...she had - by this time in her life - already served a most glorious purpose in the name of the Almighty Father. He had called her, given her visions and sent her into service. And she had answered the call, reflecting the human likeness of God in which all men were made, but from which so many men had seemed to fall. He was deep in thought and awe, but the harmless darkness of his thoughts was blown away by a radiant surge of light. He refocused on the woman before him, her sword releasing a beautiful but apparently powerful light upon being wielded once more by its owner. Then, five other blades manifested upon the summoning circle, the base of which was certainly a pentagram.

Five swords appeared simultaneously as if on cue, and a cacophony of steel flawlessly penetrating stone sounded. Yet, the blades would remain unharmed by the Earth, because they were Noble Phantasms. They materialized, but still seemed as if they had fallen from heaven itself, since each blade ended up lodged in the ground of the basement room. The light of the torches on the walls had been swallowed by the brilliant light of Lis, and the presence of the five sibling swords only reflected the glory of that instrument five times over. Aleister's eyes reflected the sight with an expression of awe...that really was a redundant feeling, but that was word for it: awe. A young woman wearing armor, in the midst of five swords, each blade reflecting the glory of the first one now held in her hand. Truly, this sight was a vision not only to Jeanne, but to Aleister as well. This was the Heroic Spirit Jeanne D'arc, called forth to fight once more in service to God.

Then, before his eyes, the nearly blinding light was sealed away for now, in response to the will of the young woman. She began to walk about the circle, drawing each blade in turn. Had Aleister not known any better, it seemed to him that each sword pulsed with glory and eagerness, waiting to be drawn by the gauntlet-clad had of their master. Jeanne sheathed each sword into a scabbard that did not exist before each blade had been drawn from the ground. Then, at last, each blade had been reunited with its master, and they all hung from Jeanne's side. He had no desire to speak and interrupt the ritual, so he had waited until each blade had been put away and Jeanne turned to regard him once more. This time, he did not bow. He looked upon her with reverence, and dutiful attentiveness. He was standing like a soldier, resolute and ready to be addressed by his new Sergeant...well, Servant, in this case.

“I apologize for that distraction, Jeanne said unto Aleister, seeming sincere in her apologetic tone. Aleister had no idea why she would apologize to him, but thankfully his thorough Servant took care of that small issue. "It must lower your opinion of me to see me hold such love for things designed only to kill, but I promise you that they have broken no commandment, committed no murder.

Oh, so, that's why. Of course. She truly is a saint, isn't she? I guess in comparison to her, my heart must be filled with darkness, then. The priest contemplated, thinking of all the vampires, demons, and magi he had killed over the years. However, now wasn't the time to focus on such matters: his Servant and a venerated saint of the Church was speaking to him, and so he dutifully listened.

And I am sorry if this is strange or an affront, Father, but you said you called me forth? I have been called forth many times, but never by a person. Always I was sent these visions by God, and I doubt this is any exception, though it may be pride to think like that. But I will always serve Him, and as you are a priest I will stand alongside you in any task He requires of me, do not worry.

...

...

...

Wait. Had he heard her correctly? She believed that this experience was a vision from God? He hadn't expected such a notion to cross her mind, as he had been given the impression Servants were aware of their status. Though...due to what Jeanne suggested this experience was, Aleister considered his answer for a moment. He would not - no, he could not bring himself to - deceive her. But she was expressing worry and doubt, and as both a priest and her Master, it was his job to ease the tensions of his Servant. Before that, though, it seemed Jeanne had one more question.

“And Father, you clearly showed me your brand apurpose. If I may ask, though, what is that purpose you meant for me? For I know nothing of it, save its appearance. Who would burn a cross into a priest’s hand?”

Ah. So something was wrong. Well, Aleister did not judge her confusion as "wrong," but he did not want to confuse her any more than necessary. As a priest, Aleister was used to giving judicious, well-spoken, and thoroughly contemplated answers to worried or doubtful parishioners. When asked once by a fellow cleric if he felt that he possessed the power to forgive others, Aleister had responded with one simple statement.

"It is solely within God the Almighty's domain to grant forgiveness for one's sins. I simply grant peace of mind."

Here and now, he felt that giving Joan "peace of mind" was his dual duty as priest and participant in the Holy Grail War.

Judge not your fellow man, lest ye also face prudent judgment come trumpet sound and paradise on Earth. I assure you, O maiden warrior and Saint of God the Father, I pass no judgment upon you. It is not my place to do so, and you are known to be a warrior and a saint who answered the call of the Lord. And as for this experience being a "vision,"... A brief pause, though it was only short enough to allow him to catch his breath, his gentle - almost fatherly - tone prone to having a calming effect on the nerves of his audience.

"I can tell you that from my perspective, none of this can simply be called a 'vision.' Though, I do not feel that this point of view detracts credibility from your theory. To me, this is the real world. I was born into this world, grew up in the care of the Church...I have committed many sins, slaying creatures of the dark and those who turned their backs upon God by endangering their fellow man. But hear me, saint Joan...Jeanne D'arc...we both recognize the omnipotence of God the Father, and so while this is the real world to myself, I do not feel that God is so limited he could not make my reality or your vision one-in-the-same."

Another pause, another quiet but quick breath as the priest fluidly resumed his monologue.

"It will be your judgment that determines if this is a vision, Jeanne. But it is not my place to say you - who are much wiser than I may ever be - are wrong in your interpretation of divine providence. I only ask you this: reserve your judgment, saint. Your vision and my reality are one in the same, and though from my perspective you were summoned forth by forbidden magic, that God would answer my call as I answered his proves any number of possibilities truly exist in this world."

He smiled at her, confidently and wisely, speaking with a conviction of wisdom and understanding far beyond his years.

"'Be still and know that I am God.' Through him, truly all things are possible, Jeanne. In this world, magi have prevailed within the same secret existence you knew them to live. They remain hidden and quiet about their art, and we in turn do not bother them unless they bring harm to God's children. But almost three centuries ago, magi concocted a ritual, known as the 'Holy Grail War.' They fight, of course, not for the true cup of Christ, but a powerful, wish-granting device. We, of the Church, have long moderated this war between magi, working to keep the existence of magic secret when certain magus do not see fit to do so themselves. We conceal this heresy from the masses, for imagine their reaction and fear should magic be discovered."

This pause came with a free grim expression, though it was briefly lived.

"Traditionally, seven magus called 'Masters' call forth Seven Heroic Spirits, 'Servants.' Then, they proceed to compete with one another for the Holy Grail in what may also be referred to as a 'Heaven's Feel.' This is simply part of their elaborate quest to reach the Root, their belief of God, in a sense. We do not see fit to stop them, and it is doubtful we could without unleashing war not only between the Church and the Magus factions, but also involving innocent humans. That, of course, is out of the question. So, this go-around, His Holiness St. Paul saw fit to assign me a pivotal role: to call forth a Heroic Spirit and ensure that the Will of God is kept. Do you know the name of the Heroic Spirit I called forth from the authority of this 'Holy Grail,' dear saint?"

His kind, fatherly smile remained upon his lips, and he still held her hand, only now releasing it to support his right arm and keep the sleeve down as he held it out straight in front of him.

"This is the mark of a Master...and it just so happens mine manifested as this unusual but surely symbolic sigil. The heretics say that these mantras form in relation to a Master's personality. So, this 'Command Seal' is your anchor to this world, to this 'vision,' you see. You have manifested before me as a Saber-class Servant, and together Servant and Master..." Another pause, this time to clarify something. "Ah, I assure you, I consider myself more a steward of Yahweh than the Master of a saint. Anyway, Servant and Master shall work on behalf of the Church...no...on behalf of God. That is, if you will once more take up your sword. The creatures you will inevitably stand against are also ethereal manifestations of heroes. This will not be easy, Jeanne. "

Aleister's voice dropped in volume during that last statement, and his eyes were no longer confused...they were pleading.

"I am scared, saint. Very. But he has called upon us. We must answer...at least, I feel I must. But if you wish to be returned to your slumber, I can make that happen. This is your one chance to leave this plane, Saint Joan, without completing the mission I've been given. But I am as Timothy to Paul, and seek your sword, your wisdom, and your support." He concluded, still looking her in the eyes, though now his honey-flecked hues reflected a mixture of fear and bravery...a willingness to answer God's call, despite that fear.

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