There was an old church in the woods.
It had been there since before Sheila moved. She'd stumbled upon it one day, when scoping out the wilderness bordering her backyard. It was an old thing, stony and choked with climbing vines, overgrown with weeds. She knew a horror movie scenario when she saw it, and needless to say, she wasn't in the mood to be jumped by some slasher wearing a mask, so she steered clear of the area and never looked back.
She could see it in the distance from her second story bedroom window, silent and looming over the short trees in its clearing. She wondered what kind of church it used to be, or what kind of people used to go there. How old was it, she wondered, and how long had it been abandoned? She considered calling someone to check it out. It could be of some historical value, but every time she looked for someone who might know what to do with it, she had second thoughts and chose not to.
Her window faced the church, so it was easy to just stare at it in the distance while she tried to get to sleep. That's where it started. 
Several nights ago she started seeing it.
It was a strange, golden cloud of mist, human-shaped, almost like a silhouette. It glittered in the moonlight, the golden radiance shimmering as it patrolled around the border of the old, abandoned church. It would walk around the perimeter of the building a few times, as if keeping watch for whatever was inside, before it walked through the old doors and vanished for the rest of the night.
Sheila wasn't sure what to make of it. The first time she saw it she considered that she just hadn't had enough sleep. But then, when it happened the next night, and then the night after that, that's when she started getting concerned. Sheila didn't have anyone else in the house she could ask to watch it, just in case she was still seeing things, so she took to the internet, hoping that someone in the millions of people on the web would have the answer she needed. If it was a ghost like she assumed it was, it certainly didn't help the horror movie scenario she'd already conjured in her head about the place.
As the sun began to set the next day, Sheila packed a bag. Nothing too extravagant. Just a camera, a flashlight, and a small container filled with pepper spray, just in case she ran into any trouble. She wasn't planning on doing anything with it necessarily, as mace wasn't very effective against spirits as far as she knew, but she knew she couldn't take any chances if there were any human occupants with ill intention. She hadn't seen any vagrants hobbling around the old church, but she wasn't about to let her guard down, just in case she missed them.
Aside from the contents of her bag, she wasn't exactly well-prepared. She had her pajamas on, even going so far as to wear her fuzzy slippers. She wasn't going to be staying in there long, so she figured didn't need to make a whole fuss about what she wore during her exploration.
She exited her house, locking the door behind her. She hurried down the stretch of dirt path leading into the wilderness behind her home, traveling the short distance to the abandoned church. She stepped up to the old wooden double doors and leaned against them. Nothing. She gripped the handles and pulled. The door budged slightly, but remained stuck to the frame. She gritted her teeth, pulling harder, leaning away and letting gravity do the trick.
The door gave way, sending Sheila backward and onto the ground, contents of her bag noisily filling the air as they clattered against each other in the backpack. She scrambled back to her feet, grunting a little in discomfort from the landing. She rummaged through her backpack, producing the flashlight.
"Here goes nothing," she thought, taking a deep breath and flicking it on. The shaft of illumination cut into the dark, abandoned church. She walked inside, the smell of dust immediately overpowering her senses. She curled up her nose and stifled a gag as she cast the beam of light over the dust-filmed lines of pews.
She walked down the rows of benches, the dust-filled carpet beneath her sending up tiny plumes as she paced. She covered her nose with one hand to prevent herself from bursting out into a sneezing fit. She sent the flashlight's beam further, down toward the altar at the end of the aisle.
She saw it and froze.
The golden mist snaked past her ankles, slithering down the carpeted floor and reaching the first row of benches, where it coalesced into a humanoid shape. At first, it appeared as a mere outline of a human being, but then it solidified, growing features, clothes, hair, an entire body. Sheila held her breath, frantically attempting to be as still as she could, but to no avail, for she trembled like a tree in hurricane's winds.
The figure looked male. He had blond hair, almost gold, the same color as the dust he'd been not moments ago. He didn't wear anything too outlandish, which surprised Sheila. If he was a ghost, he should have been wearing something old-fashioned, not the simple black jacket, white button-up shirt and black dress pants. He turned his head, revealing his slim face and blood-red eyes, eyes that nearly made Sheila's heart stop short.
"I was wondering when you were going to show up," the figure said, arrogance lacing his smooth voice. "You've kept me waiting an awfully long time."
Sheila turned her head, trying to see if there was anyone else in the church. There couldn't be. No one else had come and she knew it.
"I'm talking to you, mongrel," the male said, Sheila's head jerking back to face him, the strange yet casual insult giving her pause. "It seems in my absence you've become even dumber than I thought," the young man added, tone turning to that of dull unamusement.
Before her eyes, the blond waved a hand, a golden, rippling light forming where he motioned. Out from the strange, golden light materialized a wine bottle, which the blond grasped and opened. He moved his other hand, a glass forming as he did. Without another word, he poured himself a serving and swilled the wine, the dark, maroon liquid sloshing around the receptacle as he placed the bottle on the pew.
"So, what's kept you?" the young man asked, bringing the glass to his lips and taking a sip. 
 Sheila hesitantly took a step forward, reaching behind her to fish the pepper spray out of her bag. Something was wrong about this boy, but she couldn't for the life of her explain what on earth he was.
"I... I don't understand," she managed, fumbling with the words.
The young man scoffed. "Figures. Tell me," he said, trailing off as he took a sip of the wine, "what do you remember?"
"I don't have any idea what you're talking abou-"
He cut her off again. "Do sit down," he said, motioning to a slightly raised platform that led to the altar across from the bench. "I'm not about to address you any further so long as you erroneously hold yourself above me."
Sheila blinked. Was this guy seriously annoyed at her standing while he sat? Irritated, but still curious, she sat down, stifling a huff of annoyance. 
"Have a drink," he said. He opened another golden, rippling portal, retrieving a wine glass and holding it out to her. She took it and the bottle, pouring herself a small amount. She still wasn't entirely convinced it wasn't a dream. How else could this man conjure things out of thin air and vanish into golden mist? 
She placed the bottle back onto the pew and brought the wine to her lips, taking a small sip. The wine washed into her mouth, tangy and strong, and she shuddered, lowering the glass. She blinked a few times, letting the liquid slip down her throat, a strange aftertaste lingering on her tastebuds.
"How is it?" the young man asked.
"Strong," she muttered. "I don't drink much."
"Have some more," he said, motioning with his chin to the glass. It didn't take a genius to register his tone was less of a request and more of an order. 
She took another sip, growing more used to the taste. She wasn't some avid wine connoisseur. She couldn't tell the brand or the year it was made or what kind of grapes it was made from, and yet, it seemed so familiar, like if she thought hard enough she could remember the label on it. 
"It's been a while," the young man said, and suddenly Sheila recalled his name starting with a G. It slipped into her mind like the wine slipped down her throat, and before she knew it, her glass was empty. She looked down, spotting the fogged-up and depleted glass in her hand. She opened her mouth to say something but she couldn't remember, like her mind had fogged along with the fragile receptacle. The blond young man filled the glass once more, silencing the growing concerns. 
Wine went in and a word came out.
"Archer," she whispered, like she was trying to convince herself. The word, no, the name. His name. That was his name, right? She pulled her lips away from the glass again, eyes wide and blinking owlishly. 
Archer merely grinned, resting a chin on his cupped hand. "Indeed. Indeed."
Sheila took the bottle from him and filled the glass to the brim. A memory. A name. How had that happened? It had to still be a dream, that was why she could remember something that she had no recollection of. It was made up. Imaginary. But yet the wine beckoned with the promise of more. Maybe, just maybe, if she had another glass, the information would be clearer.
And she did.
She downed the glass again, the clouds parting in her mind. Gilgamesh. It was a word, but a name as well. His name. She racked her brains, pouring herself another portion. Another sip. Gilgamesh was his name, and Archer his class. If they'd known he was Gilgamesh then he may have had a disadvantage.
She coughed, clearing her throat, thumping her chest. "That's enough," she said, putting the glass and bottle down. "I shouldn't have any more, that was enough."
A smirk tugged at the golden hero's lips and he shook his head. "Let's not be so hasty. I thought you appreciated my gift. I don't hand them out so easily. You above everyone else should understand that."
But I don't, she wanted to say. But maybe she could. She looked down at the wine, then to Gilgamesh, then back to the wine again. She picked the glass back up, refilled it, and brought it to her awaiting lips.
 "Just one more," she said, voice echoing in the glass chamber before her mouth. "That's it." She spoke it with a flat tone, unsure of who to direct it to, instead opting for both. A promise to herself and a reassurance to the man sitting beside her.
If Gilgamesh said something in response, she didn't hear it. He just lifted a leg and laid it casually over his other knee, fingers knitting together as he watched. Watched and waited.
He didn't have to wait for long.
The drink slithered down Sheila's throat and she shuddered, putting down the empty glass. She shut her eyes, the strong shiver traveling down her limbs, reaching and caressing her fingers with a static fizzle. She leaned her head back, the memories pouring in again. Another name. Another person. Another life.
"Kirei," she whispered. Sheila reached her hands up to either sides of her head, massaging her temples in rough circles.
"What is it, Kirei?" Gilgamesh asked. "You seem... reflective."
Kirei. There that name was again. It was familiar, and as the potent wine washed over her senses, she recalled why. It was her name. It was his name. He was a man, he knew that much. Another memory stirred, and he cast his gaze around the room. The church. It looked old and dusty. It had been so long since the last war, and now he was older. Maybe, in that time, he'd let himself get careless at maintaining its upkeep. He tried not to dwell on it. Kirei didn't look down and see his body. He didn't need to. He knew who he was. The name cut through the lessening mist that swarmed his mind.
Kirei Kotomine. 
The thought sent another ripple of static down his form, and he bit his lip, the alien feeling scuttling down to his legs. He clenched his fingers into a fist, feeling his feet beginning to ache. His feet pinched the sides of his shoes, and he felt them swell, rubbing up against the wooly confines of the slippers, until they stopped, larger than before. 
The changes surged up his legs, grasping them with a vice-like grip. The invisible, clutching fingers remade his legs, stretching them longer and longer, remaking his lower appendages like a potter working with clay. The force slowly packed muscle onto his thickening limbs, leaving them stronger, tougher, more resilient, more than any priest had a real right to be.
Well, maybe more than any ordinary priest. Kirei knew he hadn't been such a man fitting that description in quite a long time. Maybe he never had been.
He looked to Gilgamesh, who merely smiled into his wine glass and continued to watch.
Kirei's stomach tightened, flesh thickening and muscles bulging beneath the straining pajama top. Another set of the hand-like forces gripped him one more, this time in his spine, and pulled. It was not unsimilar to the feeling of trying to pull oneself out of a finger trap with force alone, skin tightening over swelling muscles until the flesh reshaped, growing and sliding and expanding to fit the new surface area. The tightened, trapped feeling gave way and Kirei's spine snapped and straightened, his torso stretching upwards in a single, fluid motion. His sides pressed inward thereafter, his frame narrowing to a far more fitting masculine orientation. He grabbed at his heaving and panting chest with trembling fingers, feeling his pecs toughening, his breasts sinking away into the firm, growing chest. His shoulders slowly broadened, widening his shifting frame.
Another static shock rolled down his arms and he clenched his fists tighter, long nails biting into the skin. A rush of air flew out of his lips, whistling into the near-empty church. His arms shuddered, lengthening like his spine and legs, elongating to match its fellow parts in proportion. His fingers thickened, palms roughening beneath his shaking digits, growing older, larger, masculine. His hands relaxed, the cuts in his fingers his now flat nails had created sewed themselves up, invisible.
He coughed, a dry remnant of the wine clinging stubbornly to the inside of his throat. A small bulge pressed out as he reached to grab his neck, rubbing up against his palm. He coughed again and the wine was gone, and his deep, smooth voice filled the air. Gilgamesh's crimson eyes glinted at the sound, and his smirk grew ever wider.
The changes climbed up Kirei's face, swarming his expression. His jaw creaked, reshaping and narrowing, smooth, round edges hardening into sharpness. His nose broadened, growing and pointing at the tip. His irises darkened, dulling to a muddy brown, his pupils vanishing from sight and leaving him with an eerie, unknowing stare. He ran a hand down his face, fingertips meeting familiar features, a face and body of a man nearing his forties.
Kirei Kotomine.
His hair shortened, although not by much. The color in his black hair lightened, turning a similar brown to his eyes, tugging and restyling, parting in the middle and restyling, dark brown locks fanning out to softly grace his broad shoulders. He adjusted his collar, the fabric darkening as his fingers ran over it, blackening. His pajama top darkened further, turning an inky black. Standard priest attire, albeit without the clerical collar. He shifted in his seat, letting his arms drop to his sides and a sigh fall from his lips. He leaned back, the edges of his black, priest shirt touching and corrupting his short pants into the same color, lengthening them until they reached his ankles. His slippers grew around his larger feet, toughening into black formal shoes.
He cast his gaze over to Gilgamesh, a long, dark purple coat materializing over his shoulders and a golden cross forming on a chain around his neck, dangling against his chest. He lifted a hand, clutched the necklace and shut his eyes, letting the memories wash over him like a wave against a ship in a storm.
"Welcome back, Kirei," Gilgamesh called, the sentence slowly opening the executor's eyes. The Servant grinned with malicious intent, but such an intent wasn't for Kirei. Oh no, no, quite the opposite. It was always so exciting to see what he did, and who he did it to. Images flashed in his glinting blood-red eyes.
Fire.
Darkness.
Blood.
Children.
Magic.
Death.
"It's been awful boring without you," he sighed. "But it's best that I saw you safely returned. You're free to thank me a million times over," he added, relishing in the thought. He poured himself yet another glass of red wine, doing the same for his clerical companion. "Care for a drink?"
Kirei looked down at Gilgamesh's extended hand, a long beat passing before he took the offered glass. He dipped his head in quiet thanks before going to drink it.
Gilgamesh's chuckle filled the old and dusty church. Oh, he couldn't wait to get started again.