Summoning The Alchemist

“Summoning… engaged.” Leonardo da Vinci called out from her place at the myriad of controls in the large, open room. Machinery whirred and sputtered, as the Last Master of Chaldea and Mash Kyrelight stood at a good distance, waiting with bated breath. The light, as always, was blinding- they shielded their eyes. The Master has to admit that no matter how many times they underwent this, the excitement at the potential of a new face in Chaldea never seemed to subside.

The glittering smoke and golden haze of the ritual quickly dissipated to better reveal the summoned Servant stood on the platform. All assembled let out a breath they didn’t know they had been holding, thankful for a successful operation.

The figure there was that of a man, tall, lanky- and almost unhealthily thin. Dark hair was messily tied back, with tired grey eyes peering back at them through long bangs. His face was of medium-age, perhaps a tad on the younger side but made older by rather gaunt features and a short scruffy beard.

His clothes were of an old style that was seemingly Victorian, yet truly… not. He wore a frumpled, untucked dress shirt with a larger collar; on top of that a seemingly plain dark leather waistcoat. He had a loosened yellow cravat barely pinned together by a small iron medallion bearing a strange symbol, and similar iron pieces- with different symbols- made up the buttons of the waistcoat. A simple belt around his waist held a handful of strange pouches and vials of varying sizes and contents, as well as a large, thick, ancient-looking book bound carefully in a series of straps to his right side. His worn light brown trousers were singed in places, but otherwise whole down to where they poofed out at the bottom as they were shoved into his antique belted riding boots. He had thick cuffed leather gloves that came up to his mid-forearm, but perhaps what was most noticeable of all about the man was his left arm. The limb, partially revealed by his rolled-up shirt sleeves, was withered and blackened, spiderwebbed by strange golden veins that seemed to glimmer and glow, albeit faintly.

As his inquiring and wandering gaze eventually landed upon the Master, his eyes seemed to brighten considerably and he smiled gently, wrinkles forming at the outside corners of his lids.

“Are you the Master who has summoned me?” His voice carried with it a soft but clearly French accent, as he asked the simple first words of nearly every Servant.

The Last Master of Chaldea nodded simply.

Seemingly pleased by this, the Servant then crossed one arm in front of his midsection and the other behind his back as he bowed, deeply and gracefully, to his Master.

“Allow me to introduce myself, then. I am-”

“Nicolas!”

The sudden interruption of the ever-cheerful voice of Chaldea’s resident flower magus startled those present, as they collectively glanced back to see the man himself who piped up leaning against the doorway of the summoning room. Now with the attention on him- the way he liked it- he pushed off the metal and strode towards them, dramatically throwing his arms wide in greeting.

The newly summoned Servant narrowed his eyes, gaze sharpened. “Merlin,” he simply spat in reply.

“I see you’ve finally come, perhaps, to attempt to seize the title of Grand Caster from yours truly?”

“Honestly? No.” The man- apparently named Nicolas- snorted. Merlin’s visage fell into a frown for a brief, almost-missed second.

The Master suddenly cut in before the mage could retort. “Do you know each other?”

“Unfortunately.” The new Servant deadpanned.

Merlin then appeared by his side and threw an arm around his shoulders like they were best friends, to which the man visibly flinched. “Of course, Master!” Merlin pulled him uncomfortably close. Nicolas found himself extremely interested in staring at his shoes, but if the clenched fists and jaw were anything to go by, it was simply as a way to distract himself from the Magus of Flowers’ antics. “This is my immediate inferior, and best friend,-“

Nicolas laughed hollowly, but he went ignored.

Merlin paused briefly for effect, then motioned to his ‘friend’ in an overly grandiose flourish. “Nicolas Flamel!”

From his spot behind the controls alongside Da Vinci and other staff, where he was sitting idle and bored in a hard metal chair, Sherlock Holmes quickly perked up. “... The alchemist?” He questioned, quite rhetorically so, and raised his eyebrows. He seemed perhaps a little awe-struck, but it was hard to tell. Mash made silent note that, even as hard as it was to impress the detective, this man managed to have done it if Sherlock’s reaction to the name alone was anything to go by.

Nicolas took that recognition as his cue to less-than-gently shove Merlin away, where the magus tripped backwards on Fou- not-so-coincidentally in the right place at the right time- and awkwardly toppled off the summoning platform. Da Vinci attempted to, with moderate success, pass her laugh off as a cough. The Master was significantly less successful.

The Servant took another, more shallow bow in front of his new Master. “Indeed- as has already been said, my True Name is Nicolas Flamel. Scribe, famed immortal, and alchemist of legend. And as of the moment, a Servant of the Caster class, as well.”

“And bastard,” said Merlin, splayed out on the floor, but he was ignored. Now entirely devoid of the attention he desired, the magus would silently pull himself to his feet and trudge back out the door, but not before grumbling something very impolite in French under his breath. Mash shot him a glare.

“Wow…” breathed the Master, and they excitedly hopped in place. “It’s an honor to have you here, Mr. Flamel-“

“Nicolas is just fine.” The alchemist corrected with a soft smile.

“Nicolas! Let me show you around, yeah?” The Master reached forward and took Nicolas’ hand- the healthy one- in their own, and began tugging him towards the door. He threw a helpless look at Da Vinci, and was only met with a stare that silently said ‘ All new Servants have to deal with this, you’ll be fine .’ He was, however, smart enough not to openly protest.

The hydraulic door swished shut behind the duo, and the Master thankfully let go of his hand. Either they had a painfully strong grip, or Flamel was much more frail in this form than he remembered… It had been a long time since he had been summoned, after all. In a traditional Grail War, nothing short of his original writings would would do to serve as a catalyst, but Chaldea’s system was obviously different.

As they walked down the long hallway together, the Master chattering away and Nicolas attempting to follow everything they said- easier said than done, but he had to admit that his new Master’s youth and childlike innocence was a much appreciated breath of fresh air. God above, he could already feel his paternal instinct kicking in. Ah, if only his dear Perenelle could see him now… how she would laugh!

“What was that Merlin said about taking his Grand Caster title?” The Master suddenly asked, now that said magus was thankfully absent and they were alone. Obviously, they were more attentive then they let on.

“Hmm? Oh, technically, I have always been third in line to be the Grand Caster if the other two- Solomon and Merlin- are ever indisposed. Considering the former has been, ah… you know , I believe that makes me second now.” The man shrugged his lean shoulders. “Although, that means next to nothing considering Merlin is entirely incapable of dying.” His tone seemed laden with both annoyance and tired resignation.

The Master was silent for a moment, thinking, before piping up again. “So that must mean you’re pretty powerful, yeah?”

Nicolas Flamel nodded. “I suppose I am- but, obviously, not at all in combat.” He grimaced. “I’m a simple Frenchman, little more- certainly no King of Mages or incubus magi.”

“But you’re in the top three for a Grand Servant position!”

Sighing, Nicolas stopped and turned fully towards the Master. “Tell me- how much do you know about me?” He asked simply, pocketing his gloved hands.

Now it was the Master’s turn to shrug. “Uh, you’re an alchemist. Could turn stuff into gold with the philosopher’s stone. That’s about it.” They trailed off, then brightened. “Oh! And you were in that one Harry Potter movie.”

“The wh-?” Flamel began, confused, but then decided against it, shaking his head and waving their words off with a hand. “Nevermind that last part. You described my legend accurately, albeit in the mostly painfully simplistic terms- yet that is only a portion, a fragment of what is the man called Nicolas Flamel. I created the philosopher’s stone, yes- it can turn base metals into gold or common crystals into precious stones. It can also create homunculi entirely by its own power, and most importantly serve as an elixir of life, granting rejuvenation and immortality to both beast and man. It was the single most sought goal in alchemy for centuries. It is the central creation of my craft, symbolizing true perfection and enlightenment.” A wry smile grew on the man’s thin lips. “... And I alone succeeded. The Magnum Opus, the Great Last Work, come to fruition by my efforts. A feat thought to only be achieved by the gods themselves. Master, you must understand, I am not an alchemist.”

The Master’s confused look only seemed to make his smile grow wider. He leaned in close, and the Master could see his tired eyes brighten with the light of an excited genius. Flamel then lowered his voice to almost a whisper.

“I am The Alchemist.”