Two Souls.
That was the rule.
.
.
.
It smelled faintly of wildflowers and cut grass. She thought there was a breeze blowing. And there was sun.
Yes, sun.
Her eyes fluttered open, slightly squinting in the bright light.
Where am I?
She shot up, eyes zipping to her surroundings.
This is not Britain.
Long grass tickled her ankles as a warm breeze teased her hair.
This is not Britain.
Confused as she was, she could at least tell that this was not real. Not the azure sky, nor the warmth on her skin, not even that innocent butterfly perching on the edge of her drawn sword.
This is NOT Britain.
She found herself testing the illusion, stepping on the grass like she would have tested the chill of a lake in spring. It didn't ripple. The vast landscape of a false paradise remained unchanged, reminding her that she was alone. Again.
Nothing would ever change that.
Why am I here?
It was as if her mind had been replaced by a ball of fur. It bothered her to no end that she was both clueless and exposed here, out in the open.
Kings are most vulnerable in ignorance.
Her eyes closed as she willed her thoughts back. What came to mind was pain, the presence of Sir Bedivere, and Britain.
Oh. Britain.
It all dawned on the young King.
I failed.
Her death flashed before her eyes, taunting her… torturous.
Again…again on that bloody hill. Scattered remains of enemy and comrade alike, with the body bearing her own face at her feet. And then…Bedivere…and…a wonderful dream…I…I…
And then for a fleeting moment, the pain was gone, banished by a flash of yellow orbs, and a naïve head of ginger hair.
Shirou...
She willed his image away, her brow creasing. Her jaw tightened visibly as she clenched her teeth, head hung in sorrow, shame, and resent for herself. Her hands went to her head as she sunk to the ground, tears threatening to spill. Her breath hitched.
"Dear Britain...Forgive your unworthy King."
The corners of her lips pulled downward, as the tears freely rolled down her cheeks.
Forgive me.
She begged.
Forgive me.
She pleaded.
Forgive me.
She blinded herself with hope that they could hear her; that they could forgive her. Though she knew it was foolish to believe in that false, impossible hope. As if they would ever forgive her for failing.
They would be merciless to a King who failed twice.
And they would definitely curse one who did it on her own free will.
She destroyed that which would bring them back their glory.
She tasted salt as a new torrent of her sobs washed over her. Her tears marred the beauty of her face, and without looking she knew her eyes were red.
"Forgive me..." she choked out as she desperately wiped away her never-ending tears. Her voice was cracking. How pathetic a King she is indeed.
Do Kings cry? Ridiculous!
She rubbed at her eyes, willing the tears to stop but they wouldn't stop spilling. They couldn't. She hugged her legs, face flushed from crying, the claws of guilt crushing her heart in its grasp.
Two chances to undo the past.
The first time, her chance was stolen away by her own master.
The second time, her blade put an end to that cursed cup.
And though her tears told how excruciating it was to accept how she left her homeland…
She did not reg—
"Saber?"
Her head snapped back at the mention of her name. She knew that voice. Green orbs met amber ones.
"Lan...cer?"
They held their gaze in silence. Saber broke away from his eyes, hands frantically wiping away her tears. "You...did not see me-" Saber said between breaths.
He stared at her with a comprehending sadness beyond his honey-coloured eyes.
So it's true that even Kings weep. The Irishman thought.
A pair of green eyes glanced a moment at the hand that was offered to her, before meeting the eyes of the handsome man before her.
A small smile graced his lips. "It's been ten years, King of Knights."
Saber's hand hovered over his with uncertainty, and Diarmuid took it upon himself to close the gap between their fingers.
He hadn't changed.
Chivalrous as always, Saber thought to herself as he pulled her up gently.
"You have my thanks, First Knight of Fianna." Saber bowed a little, lowering her eyes as soon as they met his to hide the effects of her tears. He didn't seem to mind.
"You do not don your armor, Saber?"
His words took her by surprise. Arturia herself did not even notice. A long white dress replaced her usual blue garment. Her feet were bare and her ankles and wrists adorned with delicate silver chains. Her hair was loose, but she wore a thin, simple, silver circlet encrusted with small sapphire gems. On her right hand, was the silver ring of the Pendragons, with no heir to pass it to. She was dressed simply, but elegantly. Only in death did her country recognize that she was a woman.
"This is what they had me wear when I was buried, I suppose." Her eyes went back to Lancer.
Wait...then why is Lancer...?
A dead man can feel no pain, so they say, but the anguish Lancer felt was in his core. His gaze was distant. He was turned to the right, giving Saber a clear view of his profile. The Irishman was covered in cuts and bruises. His clothes had remains of his blood that looked like only rain had washed it away.
Even dead men suffer from a shattered heart.
He looked so...broken. She wanted to console him, relieve him of his pain, but what would she say? What could she say?
"It has come to mind that perhaps Saber knows of my name but not my origin," He turned back to her. "Would the honourable King of Knights care to hear the tragic tale of Diarmuid O'Dyna?"
There was no joy behind the curve of his lips. It was a bitter, sad expression that she knew all too well.
She mirrored him, sadness lacing her lips.
"Only if he wishes to share it."
(A/N)
All right, first chapter's up. Hope you guys give this fic a chance, it's my first one. :) Well, at least, the first I have uploaded. Please review, I'd like to know what I should improve. :) Feel free to message me. I'll try to respond as soon as I can.