Author's Note, from Deer-Shifter: Okay, mixed response last time. Fair enough; I'll try to limit info-dumps in the future. Let's get back to present.
Also, many thanks to Universe Creator for her help with Guinevere's personality and most of her lines, because Deer-Shifter has little talent when it comes to writing the soft politics and the complimentary insults that are the weapons of fine ladies and queens. Head over to Universe Creator's profile for 'Arturia & Guinevere: Another Story' - a set of vignettes that show more of Guin, in an alternate universe where she and Arturia manage something of a happier life together.
Chapter VIII: Remember the Ladies
July 527
Once more, she's spent the day deliberately drowning herself in paperwork and bureaucracy, with short breaks for meals that she barely tastes. Paranoid for any odd bursts of energy or emotion that may follow, or any sudden sleepiness.
She watches everyone, no longer willing to focus too long on any one person and risk missing a threat standing in her blind spot. She learns their body language, their fidgets, their fighting styles. Is it enough? She thought she knew Gwen.
She deliberately chooses clothes with impossibly complicated layers of laces and clasps, clothes that will take time to get off, while still allowing her chainmail and quilted leather to fit over them. When she bathes, she keeps the wash quick and efficient – enough to be clean of excess dirt and wounds, but not to expose any vulnerability too long. A dagger remains strapped to her side even at night.
She will never be without a weapon again.
She spars against every one of her guards, and trains with full gear weighing her down, First with weapons, then again with nothing but her body as a weapon. Her sparring partners learn quickly to arm themselves similarly, and not to hold back, for she will show little mercy to them.
She has no mercy for herself.
Each day is a quest, searching for a bone-deep exhaustion to hit her, to push past the constant weariness that is all too easy to work around. The weariness that will ensure her final collapse into slumber – when she can put it off no longer, a time that will eventually force itself upon her – will be deep and dreamless.
But none of it works – because, while she doesn't remember going to bed, doesn't remember what she was doing at all, or even what the date is – she's dreaming now.
Surprisingly, it's not one of the usual nightmares. She's still dressed, still in full armor save her helm, still equipped with daggers and sword at her side. She's capable of moving, and she's doing so. Not that she can see where she's going, because she's a bit blind at the moment. Not from a blindfold – just a lot of light. She squints against it, waiting for her eyes to adjust.
Once, when she was about ten, something went wrong in the baker's oven, and a fire started in the wee hours. It was the dry season, and once the roof caught fire, things moved very fast indeed. She still remembers leading the horses out, trying to keep them calm as they were lead to the other side of the village, while her brother directed the evacuation of the children and elderly. Everyone else was either on a bucket brigade or tearing down other houses before the fire could jump roofs.
It was the brightest blaze she had ever seen or heard for many years, and it is nowhere near as bright or steady as the light she is now faced with from multiple sources. Too bright and harsh for daylight, and missing the crackling and cracking of wood that accompanies every fire. And there's nowhere near the sweltering heat that she would expect, if it were. Smoke may be hidden if one uses the right sort of wood, but heat cannot be disguised. Not even if some spell has turned her blind and deaf.
If this is the start of a nightmare… well, it's a very odd one, that's all Arturia can say of it.
She's standing in an unfamiliar street. An impossible street that could only exist in a dream. For one thing, it is abnormally clean – not a whiff of muck's odor, and no sign of any horses that might create such a smell. Instead, strangely shaped wagons, with metal roofs and doors, fill the streets, moving without any animal to pull them, but swiftly and noisily, and there is an unfamiliar stench of smog. Choking in its filth, but whatever the source it remains invisible to her eye. Thunderous grumbles at the ground level and short, blaring noises that come from no animal she has ever encountered pepper the street cries.
A magus must be involved. Especially since everyone around her behaves as though this is perfectly normal.
And the people! Not a single one of them carrying so much as a dagger or stave for protection. Their attire is equally odd, and frequently scandalous enough to make her blush half to death. They're clean, too, even the grungiest.
The clothes and the cleanliness are shocking. Arturia is no expert on clothes, but this isn't something she can ignore. Everything is fine – very fine, and very strange. Even on those she supposes to be beggars, in their multiple layers and built-up filth – but even the beggars are cleaner than she's used to see.
Short coats, and no cloaks – nothing longer than mid-calf, and most shorter than that, sometimes even above the waist. Fabrics woven more finely than the stuff she sees on nobles, sewn neater than the best seamstress in her employment might manage. Patterns more common than solids, and in colors that shock her when she automatically estimates the cost of some of the dyes. Particularly a very common pair of overhose, blue in various shades. To Arturia, blue is something only royalty and the wealthiest nobles and churchmen might afford – she can only assume that someone here has found a thread that already carries the blue tint, and uses it to best advantage, if the garb is so common. But the way the trousers cling to the skin… It's indecent.
She can't see much of the shoes on the men, but what she can spot in this crowd has a universally high standard of craftsmanship – incredibly fine stitching, well-fit leather and brightly colored laces. Some of the shoes are even partly white. Utterly impractical, yet very common. Which implies… a lack of expense she cannot begin to estimate.
Her eyes and ears may have adjusted, but her head has begun to pound. So. Much. Light. So. Much. Noise. Like a battlefield or a marketplace, but far worse! So many people packed together. The buildings straining to reach the sky. She can only see a small patch of blue. It should be terrifying, but she's strangely calm about it.
Where am I?
No one sees her. Though they do not walk through her, they do not notice her, moving around her unaware. She would halt one to ask questions, but the language, now that she's finally managing to make out a few voices, is not familiar – rough and garrulous though it might be. Not a single word of Latin, nor Frankish, nor any Saxon tongue. Some of the sounds match, but none of the words. She couldn't ask for directions even if they did see her.
It is only when she turns to the riverbank, that she recognizes… Londinium?
But a Londinium like she has never seen. Every building far too high-stretching, dwarfing the churches and watch towers, sure to offend the Heavens the priests spoke of. Light blazing out of every window – not even the richest of her lords could afford the candles for such a display, not even at Winter Solstice. A great wheel dominates one side of the river, but only by size. Beyond it, she can see a few stone towers, construction that is comforting in its familiarity, but stretching high nevertheless. One has a great white circle upon its sides near the top, with some markings on it she cannot make out in this distance.
Even the river is odd – the bridges are bad enough, but why have the boats turned to boxes without sinking? Where are the sails and the oars? She can barely recognize the curve of the banks, but they are unmistakable.
If some enemy has trapped her in a dream and has decided to catch her off guard with sheer incredulity… well, she has to admit they've done a fine job. But no more. Her hand tightens on her sword, ready to seek a foe.
A sudden shout of laughter from somewhere behind her, and the rest of the world seems to hush. It's the spontaneous joy that catches her off guard – though the voices are of a matching age with herself and her foster brother, they carry a pure emotion she rarely hears outside of children. A male voice joins the laughing female's – though she cannot translate the words, they hold a tone of protest, a wish for peace, that remind her of Guinevere in their childhoods, trying to settle spats of hair-pulling and competitions for the last tart on the plate.
Oddly, the reminder is not chased by the moment of nausea she has come to expect after the last weeks.
The King is still ready to face a threat, but also curious.
Turning, she spots a trio, scarcely out of teenagehood, dressed in equally strange clothes as the others but somehow more simple for the boy, and more elaborate for the girls, particularly the one on his left, currently trying to climb over his lap to get at the other girl, who makes a point of playfully ignoring such efforts except to stand just out of reach of the grasping hands. Judging by the boy's efforts to hold still on the bench, the first girl may be tickling him in her efforts to stay balanced, halfway sprawled across him as she is. Though their backs are to her, and their words impossible to catch at this distance, the honest joy in their tone, even the mock-angry growls, is soothing to her.
Nothing about the situation looks decent, for they can hardly be siblings with such different looks and hair color, and only siblings of seven or less would be allowed to frolic so in public, she is sure. But with the boy's red hair, and his companions' brunette and blonde, they are far too different for blood kin. Friends? Does it matter? Their honest smiles and shrieks of rage and laughter, even with their faces hidden…
Even if this were a situation where it fell to her to disapprove of it, she could not frown at such joy. She can only smile.
This city may be strange. But a world where people can openly laugh like that and not need to wear knives for protection… maybe this is the confirmation that she need not doubt? That her world will be worth it, and the better for it, when she succeeds in her dream?
Not a magus' trap. Just her own mind. Finally putting the shattered pieces back together, and remembering what makes it worth it.
When Arturia finally rises from her slumber, on the first day of the new month, it's the first time since her wedding that she hasn't had a nightmare.
She passed out on her desk again, so her clothes are crumpled and her neck is stiff and uncomfortable, but… she's actually gotten rest.
Even if her dream was truly a strange thing.
The iron armlet is cool and soothing beneath her sleeve. She rubs at it in comfort, and goes to find clean clothes.
She scrubs her skin with cold water, but not until it is red and raw – simply until it is clean. She pulls on multiple layers again, grateful that her wife has already risen and dressed. She will have to face her across the morning table, but Kay and Ector will be there as well.
She will push through this obstacle, even if the experience is akin to wading through a swamp in full armor. She will not allow herself to avoid her wife for a nightmare that Guinevere did not create, a crime her Queen did not commit. She will lay blame where it is due – at Morgan's feet, and at her own.
There is no other course for a just King.
…
No one is particularly eager for both food and conversation at breakfast, it seems.
Kay eats methodically as usual; after too many near-ruinations of reports when he attempted to continue working at breakfast, he sees food as a tasteless task, to be chewed through without choking, and then a return to work. At this hour of the morning, whether it follows a full night's sleep or a continuously burning candle, Kay is more inclined to find numbers or ale palatable than company that requires much conversation.
Ector chews slowly. He has good teeth for his age, only missing three, and the rest of them solid – the reward of good habits, general good health, and a great deal of luck – but they are beginning to loosen. He takes good care of what is left, even as he eyes the silence between the couple at the center as unobtrusively as he can.
Guinevere cannot find it in herself to blame him for the stares, no matter the flush of humiliation it provokes in her cheeks.
Far from the cheerful chatter of words and hands and eyes and smiles that he saw in the days leading up to the wedding, and even the wedding eve's banquet, the days between have grown more and more silent. At first, Guin would try to chatter as she had before, about subjects both inconsequential and serious by turns, but slowly her smiles grew weaker. These days, even her best efforts to engage cannot disguise the fact that her husband is ignoring her efforts.
Arturia dutifully entered her wife's chambers each night for the rest of the wedding week, aside from the night immediately following consummation, but had apparently brought work with her. Rather than sleep, she has done her duties of entertaining and administration until the guests left, before continuing her attack on the paperwork, and physically exhausting herself with spars with the various knights.
It was not obvious at first, but it soon became clear that the King was avoiding his wife with a zealot's fervor.
A single night of duty to the realm – more than slightly painful, but not completely uncomfortable. That is the last time she saw her husband smile, or look at her directly without a hand on a weapon. If she had received further apologies past the next morning, in the form of words or gestures, Guinevere might have had an explanation for the awkwardness that would match the guilt she sees in her best friend's green eyes – it is a longstanding bad habit, to take on the burdens of others and shoulder the guilt of all the world, extending back before the King took up crown or sword, before Arthur Pendragon's name echoed in the towns and fields and forests.
If Arturia is guilty, and avoiding Guinevere, it follows logically that Guinevere is concerned with the matter. Arturia is always logical. Therefore, there must be a logical cause.
Guinevere… has no idea what that cause is.
Her uneasy stomach roils, the food like ash on her tongue, curdled in her nose. She pushes her plate away; there is no use trying to eat when her thoughts twist in a perfect storm. The behavior will end when the matter is resolved, surely?
Self-disgust at her thoughts, repeating in unresolved circles of cycling questions, is the only reply in the echoes of her mind.
What kind of a Queen, what kind of a friend, can she call herself when she has so obviously offended, and cannot say how? She cannot offer a blanket apology when she does not know her crime; even if Arturia might accept it, Guinevere would risk repeating the offense she still does not recognize, despite multiple careful reviews of her own memory.
This is not a physical wound, to be cleaned and bandaged and sewn, watched until the risk of gangrene is past. This is invisible. That is the only certainty she has, beyond the certainty that a wound exists.
Worse than the pain of not knowing what she has done to cause this avoidance is the worry that still wells deep and rises quickly within her chest when she sees just how much Arturia is willing to run herself ragged because of it. Still, perhaps today…
Gingerly, her fingers creep across the table until nothing but the tips touch the King's wrist – or, at least, the five shirts she knows swallows it.
"Wart?" She forces a smile to her face, already regretting it; Arturia despises masks of emotion, and has to deal with enough of them from nobles who jockey for royal favor. In anyone else, Guinevere would name such opinions hypocritical, but she knows better. For her husband, it truly is a case that emotional stoicism is a matter quite separate from false smiles.
The King's eyes are masked and wary, a grunt of acknowledgement the only response available with a mouth full of food. Guinevere scowls inwardly. If she had been oblivious to this very moment, that lack of politeness would confirm something to be wrong. Normally, Arturia would chew her food, and then reply verbally.
No more evasion. She needs answers.
"Have you been feeling well?" Five shirts is four too many for anyone not wracked with chills. She's never seen her husband ill, but she wouldn't be surprised to find that King Arthur Pendragon confronts illness with the same mindset used to face any other issue that obstructs the path of ruling: easily defeated so long as determination and proper planning are used. To ignore any fatigue and continue to work as normal would be very much in line with Wart's general behavior patterns…
A nod, after a long moment where she thought the question might need to be repeated.
Not a 'yes', or a 'no, thank you', or a 'quite well, my lady', or even 'I'm fine, thank you for inquiring.' Just a nod.
Arturia has no qualms in shutting down a conversation she is disinclined to continue. But she generally uses firmer measures than a simple nod that may be translated in multiple interpretations by the observers if that's what's intended.
The Queen has a sudden urge to grasp the ribbon tied in the neat braid and steal it back until Arturia gives her a proper answer. Of at least three words. She used to be able to expect that much, at least, in the days when they were limited to letters.
Has Arturia completely forgotten the vows of 'in sickness or in health?' How can a wife support her husband if the husband refuses the aid? If the husband treats her as a stranger who just so happens to cohabit a dwelling?
Patience. That is the role of the Queen, to complement the wrath of the king, and soothe the people's grumbles and qualms to maintain the peace.
She is the Queen. She will be patient, and not scream in frustration or pull hair like a toddler.
So, as a patient adult, Guinevere reconsiders their dialogue, looking for a hidden meaning, or an answer already given, then mentally groans as another explanation occurs. Strictly speaking, she ought to be addressing her husband by 'his' title, or at the very least his proper name. 'Wart' is, as it has always been, a private nickname for private moments, increasingly rare since the coronation and wedding – a name used by the children that they once were.
If she's being answered with silence and body language for a misstep in court protocol at a private morning meal, Arturia ought to tell her that's the problem. Guinevere has no magic to read thoughts, and she wouldn't overstep such privacy even if she could!
But she is a married woman, and must behave as such. No matter how many years her husband has reverted in shyness and childish mannerisms.
Her smile stretched thin, she tries again, ignoring the warning crease in her brother-in-law's eyebrows. She is Guinevere, daughter of Leodegrance, and wife and lady to the High King, Arthur Pendragon – and she will have answers, or company, or at the very least a husband who has the common sense for minimum self-preservation in matters of food and rest.
"Perhaps you should take the afternoon's training session to relax a bit, my lord." Formality seems to comfort Arturia these days; the distancing of status hurts, but Guinevere will be patient and polite, comforted by the certainty that success will come eventually if she persists. "You seem a little… worse for wear." Nothing too criticizing in that phrasing. A little suggestive, perhaps, but her husband is generally oblivious to such jokes, and Guinevere means them in perfect sincerity – she is genuinely worried. She will not make light of this all too serious cloud on her husband's mind.
At worst, she expects that Pendragon pride to flare, in which case she can use it to point out the lack of sensibility in the current behavior, and possibly shame her spouse-with-a-child's-brain into a nap and better humor. At middling, Arturia is actually tired enough that the grunts and nods are unintentional, and Guinevere can glare at Kay until he postpones all meetings for tomorrow so the King can catch up on sleep. At best, she'll get an apology and an explanation, and all will be mended. Maybe she can convince Wart – no, Arthur – to take a walk with her? She misses her best friend.
Arturia stills in her seat, mouth halfway open, about to chase her food with the mug of small ale gripped in one hand. A wild animal, abruptly aware of a watcher, tensed for flight or fight.
Or at least, that's what Guinevere might believe, if she was arrogant enough to consider herself any sort of threat to Arturia Pendragon.
The Seneschal of Camelot shifts in his chair, his usual lazy drawl cutting the tension. "Speaking of relaxing, are you thinking of getting out of the castle today? I heard from the stables that Llamrei's been itching for a ride."
Sir Ector glances between his children in bemusement, obviously aware he's missing something but not irritated by the ignorance. It is not the spectator's enjoyment of tomfoolery at a mummer's play, but rather the eyes of a man who enjoys both a good mystery and watching people in general.
Arturia's eyes turn contemplative; Kay's suggestion is evidently worthy of consideration.
Guinevere brightens in pleasure. It's about time that Kay gave her an opening to lift Arturia's mood. She won't miss the opportunity. "That's a wonderful idea, Sir Kay. I myself would love the chance to see more of Camelot's countryside." Hopefully Kay or Arturia would take the broad hint and offer the invitation to join them on the ride.
But Kay snorts disdainfully. "Unless you plan on worsening the damage to your own mount's hoof, my Queen, you'd do better to spend today, at least, in the forge. Your mare needs a new shoe; she's cast the left front one, I hear."
She blinks, momentarily distracted from her goal. "I rode her but yesterday, and she was still shod when we returned; the grooms mentioned no such problem! When did this occur?"
Kay shrugs.
Her eyes narrow.
The King coughs. "Sir Kay, when did we last check on the order of spare practice armor for the guard recruits training?" It's almost a too blatant subject change, if Kay hadn't brought up the forge.
The Seneschal's eyes flick to his father, then downward. "…Yesterday, milord?"
"What?" Green eyes blink rapidly, shaking away the remnants of sleep, gaze flicking to their foster father. At Ector's confirming nod, the King's disbelief is only more palpable. "That was yesterday? Are you certain?"
Kay stares at her. "I would have thought you'd remember – given that you ordered me to check at the forge at lunch for other customers, so that you could guarantee that the place wouldn't be busy when you visited that afternoon. Yes, sire, that was yesterday."
Ector frowns at Kay's words, eye flickering over to Guinevere, and clears his throat. "Do you need to… hold this discussion in private, sire? I can break my fast elsewhere, if you prefer less or different company for the meal." There's a silent message here that he's picking up, even if Guinevere isn't; she is reminded of a door closed in her face, to keep a curious little girl away from boring men's work.
Secrets and lies. If it were politics, she might expect such; some men cannot see past the skirts she wears to the mind her father trained. But this…
Don't you trust me? Any of you?
A royal hand waves his words aside without a glance at his face. "No, no. I need extra time for the paperwork; this is the last chance I have to see you this morning, Sir Ector."
When Arturia speaks, it is good to listen for the words she says, and the words she does not. She reassures Sir Ector, but not her wife. She does not disagree with the suggestion that less company would be preferred.
"I'll see that a page places your horse for a re-shoeing with Smith Farran this afternoon, my Queen."
That absently condescending sentence – the implication that Guinevere is incapable of giving such an order herself – it's the last straw. One thoughtless moment, one behavior that answers her fears all too well.
There is no logical reason for her to take such offense.
But Guin is beyond logic.
She slides gracefully to her feet, forcing the men to stand as well or be discourteous. She turns to her husband, walnut irises hard enough to crack a tooth.
She does not yell, or air dirty laundry for the servants to hear. But her anger is unmistakable; even a banked fire can still burn fingers.
"With all due respect, sire, I am neither blind nor deaf nor mute nor a lackwit. If I have done something to offend my lord husband, I would pray he tell me so I might make amends." The words are calm, but firm, cutting off escape in denial. "Tell me, what exactly have I said or done to make the trust you held for me vanish? Why do you avoid me like a terrible sickness? Did you really think me dumb enough not to notice?"
Arturia opens her mouth to protest, but the tumble of words is swifter. Guinevere will not give the undefeated King the victory of even one of her tears.
"Fear not, I'll not annoy you further with my presence. Don't bother sending the page; I'll take my mare and myself out of your way. You can avoid me if you avoid the forge; I'm of a mind to meet this smith myself." Her curtsey turns the normally respectful gesture into a mockery. "By my lord's leave?"
Silence. How can one reply to this torrent?
Arturia's eyes are dazed and wounded. Wart's eyes, as the 'lad' attempted to calm Guinevere, coax her out of the apple tree. A promise to catch her when she jumped. A promise Guin finds she cannot believe… and yet, she cannot help but listen to the sweet, sweet lies, woven of sincerity but lies nonetheless. There is a part of her still ready to repair her breaking dreams.
"My lady…"
Shouts from the halls cut Arturia off. One of the guard challenges a visitor outside, before abruptly opening the doors and allowing the man to stagger past.
A common soldier, face streaked with dirt and sweat, clad in light armor for swift riding. He brandishes a watertight leather wallet, sewn shut.
"Urgent news… King's eyes or seneschal's only… from the coast… our scouts…"
Wart is gone. It is King Arthur who turns, and bends to listen to the man. Even as Kay passes a knife to slice the wallet open and retrieve the reports, Ector has taken the Queen's arm, and firmly escorted her from the room.
…
One of the earliest memories of Emiya Shirou, after he left the hospital, that he can be mostly certain is not tinted by the veils of his ideals, is his father and Fuji-nee having an argument.
Fujimura Taiga, still a high school student herself at the time, had decided Shirou needed to find something to distract his mind from his dreams of the fire. Aparently Shinto mythology was not something she felt qualified to explain if her new 'little brother' had awkward questions on some of the geneology and marriages involved, or on religious philosophy in general, so she had had taken to reading him the story of Atlantis – a city that vanished in a single night, under the waves. A disaster that still had fire in its destruction – but an equal amount of water to match.
When Shirou's father found out…well. To say Emiya Kiritsugu was Not Amused would be a significant understatement.
Thankfully for Taiga, they hadn't actually reached the point in the myth where the civilization was destroyed – if she had, Kiritsugu might have revoked her babysitting privileges permanently. Instead, she had spent most of the week describing the city's origins, urban layout of concentric rings, technology level in lights and transport – things that the craftsman in Shirou was fascinated by.
As an older teen, of course, he eventually realized that Taiga was likely drawing on a lot of Star Wars, Gundam Wing, and other futuristic series to give technology detail. She was much better informed on any of those franchises than she was on Plato's descriptions. Still, the flight technology, sailing ships, and pseudo-motorbikes she suggested for him was impressive enough to a boy with no memories of the movies.
Then, during his time in London, he learned where Taiga had first heard the story.
During his time with Rin and Luvia at the Clock Tower, he spoke with El-Melloi II on several occasions. Rin's somewhat-estranged sponsor is not a man prone to rehashing his time as a Master of the Fourth War, but he is willing to admit to a familiarity with the Fujimura clan.
It seems that, one night during the Fourth Holy Grail War, Waver Velvet and his Servant, Alexander the Great, came across the enthusiastic brunette. While most of the night involved helping out a puppy and catching a thief – the professor refused to elaborate on what was stolen, but his face turned very red – Alexander also spent part of it telling the two young people stories he had learned from his tutor Aristotle. Including some recorded by Plato. However, flight tech was added to the story by Alexander – and the description sounded, to Waver Velvet, suspiciously similar to a King of Hero's ship.
Emiya Shirou had laughed at that revelation, but he never believed the memory would hold more significance to him than entertainment; later, it would be remembered as a story concerning individuals that had no tragedy personally known to him, as such things grew steadily rarer. Even as Alaya's dog, the myth of Atlantis is a memory he holds dear. Possibly because it is a story with no heroes – or at least, no individuals named as such. This is a tale, unlike Camlann or the Trojan Horse, that he can read without grieving or cursing either side.
Today, however, he recalls less the myth itself, and more the way that Taiga told it to him. Probably because it demonstrates the way that history can be reshaped through retellings. Something that's become increasingly relevant on this mission.
The man known as Archer Farran to his neighbors is hard at work on the weighted practice armor for the guard recruits. It's nothing big – even castle guards don't wear plate, just leather and chain mail, but Sir Lucan has insisted on a set of gorgets as an addition to the current uniform, so that is his current project – a narrow, upright collar that won't choke the guards breath, and allows room for padding, but still covers the gaps and doesn't interfere with turning their head. He also has repairs to make to one piece, at the shoulders – apparently one of the recruits is fond of blows to the armpit, and his sparring partner found some of the links came apart when he removed the mail.
Archer's perfectly aware that his ability to run his forge without so much as a single apprentice to man the bellows – when most blacksmiths can't say the same – probably isn't helping the rumors that he's got some magic involved in his work, or that he's less than fully human, or both. Unfortunately, he hasn't got an apprentice to do that, so he's had to rig an elaborate system of levers and pumps, all controlled by a foot pedal, to control the great leather lungs that feed his fires with regular pumps of air.
The problems of any job that requires four hands in use at once are not solved so easily as the bellows, but there haven't been many of those yet. Most of the repair business goes to the castle smith, and rightly so – Archer does not wish to be accused of stealing customers. But every bit of work is helpful, even if it's tedious at times. He has to work, or he won't eat, and he won't be able to stay where he can help the only King he's even vowed loyalty to. It's as simple as that.
There's a part of him that scorns the low quality of the armor he's making, knowing what level of protection he's capable of crafting, and that his choice to stick to this time's standards of armor is protection denied to the men who wear it, a chance to be saved that he's refusing to give them – but then he reminds himself that armor only evolves as it is needed to, generally in response to the evolution of weaponry. Plate armor, after all, is something that only got created in response to the bodkin – a nasty, tempered steel arrowhead – in combination with the English longbow. But that's… hm. The Hundred Year's War?
And yet, he sees plate armor here, regularly. Only on the highest of noble knights, of course, but still. Plate armor. Hundred Years' War for initial development, so the 1300s. Over seven centuries away from the moment he's existing in.
Of course, that also matches the timeframe for when a significant number of new King Arthur tales are set down. Most of them side stories concerning the Knights, and sidelining Arthur's role from the middle of his reign in the process.
His lips twitch.
He's heard of the theory before, of how recording the tales of a hero can retroactively reshape the era that said hero lived in. But he never thought he'd get to live through such an experience.
Just as research in his Clock Tower days informed him on how the era that invented hot air balloons and basic planes also added the possibility of airships to the legend of Atlantis, so the French Romances and Sir Thomas Mallory, and even authors such as the Gawain poet whose names are lost to all but the Records, have reshaped this history by including descriptions of armor contemporary to their own lives in their tales.
He wonders how the Atlanteans explained the sudden growth of flight technology in their society.
Probably the same way people in this world explain how armor and weapons used by knights have abruptly had an exponential development in the last two generations, despite the lack of resources for improvement in farming technology. Apparently, history only bends and turns a blind eye when under the force of a Legend. Why should the lives of peasants be the concern of a Hero's Tale when the Hero is a Noble?
That odd here-and-there advancement in unexplainable and unpredictable areas is one of the reasons he's had to work so slowly in making changes – here is one area where Records are less helpful than personal experience. Thankfully, archery still is seen as a peasant's tool, or a noble's hunting weapon, not a threat in war, so it hasn't developed nearly as far. His abilities with the still-unknown longbow are an advantage still. Even in this world.
In this world, Archer's skill as a bowman… probably qualifies him as a wielder of a WMD.
What? If the Second Lateran Council deemed the crossbow 'anathema to God', then his longbow certainly qualifies for such.
Of course, it's a simple shortbow he has on the wall at the moment. He doesn't want to give away the advantage. But even with that bow, a far cry from the one he prefers… he couldn't risk that damned contest. A part of him is still bitter about that.
Funny. Since when does he have a competitive side without getting a look at a worthy prize or opponent first? Is this what Fuji-nee would refer to as a desire to show off in front of a pretty girl?
Lost in his thoughts of the teasing his big sister used to put him through, he barely hears the door creak behind him. "Is the shop open for clients?" the semi-familiar voice of an older man enquires.
What? Is it already time for him to pick up the motorcycle? I haven't done any work on that today… He's about to turn and call to Raiga-san that he'll be just a moment, when the clatter of horseshoes on stone cobbles outside startles him back to the present, and he remembers who and where and when he is.
He is EMIYA, current alias of Archer Farran, not Emiya Shirou. He is in Camelot, not in his workshop in Fuyuki. He is a blacksmith, not the unofficial motorcycle tune-up mechanic for a local yakuza boss.
"…Come in," he chokes out, hoping that he hasn't been silent too long, and hastily moving the in-progress armor away from the fire. He'll have to fix it later; the metal has already started to warp from his carelessness.
The man who steps inside is familiar, if not so much as Sir Kay or Arturia. Or perhaps just as familiar as the two most constant visitors to Archer's forge, in some fashion, for his mannerisms are retained by both the children he raised. Sir Ector has likely never been a handsome man, but his warm brown eyes are kind in the same way as Raiga's, and their codes of honor, though very different from each other, seem to result in similar attitudes concerning responsibility and family. Both men move like fighters who have continued training and maintained a good physical condition despite aging past their prime.
Given Archer's thoughts were lingering on Taiga, he's actually not too surprised that he mistook Ector's voice for her grandfather's.
But where Raiga unmistakably remained in command as head of the family through the last time Shirou saw him, Ector seems more comfortable the further from power he is. He remains as support to his foster 'son' and blood offspring, but it is Kay and Arturia who make the decisions and give the orders on the government, and Ector has never attempted to subvert them or advise them otherwise.
At least, that's the impression Archer's gotten. He hasn't actually met Sir Ector in person since that first day, when he removed a dented helmet to discover the young fool he'd been lecturing was the girl who was his mission. Ector had come with her purse, that day, and had done his best to pass it to the King as unobtrusively as possible. The older knight with deceptively warm brown eyes is a man well aware of the dangerously deep undercurrents of court, unwilling to let there be any suggestion that someone other than the King commanded the realm's purse strings.
Putting down his current project, he nods at the customer. Easier to think of this man as a customer, like any other customer, and nothing else. "If you'll give me a moment to put the fire to rights, I'll be entirely at your service, Sir Ector." No point in wasting fuel, or letting the fire die completely and have to start from scratch, and he doesn't know how long the order will take, or whether he'll want a fire going to complete it.
He carefully turns his body so as to not turn his back to Ector or the open door, but he needs both eyes to find the broken cart axle he needs under the wood chips he uses for kindling. Hardwood, old and dry, the axle will keep the fire burning slow but steady, not too cold, but not the sort of heat he only needs for actual iron-working. Careful not to dislodge the hot embers, he makes sure the wood has caught the flame before he gets to his feet.
"I've seen your work on pulling armor to bits and repairing it in the past, Smith Farran. And I've heard from my son and His Majesty that you've a knack for settling spooked or stubborn horses without anyone getting bruised." Ector glances around the shop, evidently seeking something unsuccessfully.
Archer represses the reflexive shrug. His current body isn't even thirty in appearance; careless insults to a man his superior in both years and class would be trouble that he doesn't need and is actually capable of avoiding fairly easily. But that doesn't mean he's about to play toady, either. "Are you here about a horse, then?" Blacksmithing in general is ironwork, but a farrier's responsibilities are more specific, requiring a knowledge of horse anatomy and at least four years of training – and even then, if a shoeing goes wrong, it can lame a horse for life.
Ector nods, half absently. "May I ask where your apprentice is? You'll likely need him for the job."
"What apprentice?"
"…You can't be serious."
Archer snorts. "Only a guild member can have an apprentice, or the apprentice will not be allowed to enter the guild either. I don't have an apprentice; I'm not allowed one, legally. Sir Kay is trying his best to smooth things out." Both of them were increasingly annoyed for this very reason; some jobs needed four hands at the anvil, jobs Archer could not accept at the moment. In the case of horseshoeing, the apprentice would generally be more useful to keep the horse calm and under control. Archer made do with a lead rope tied to a wall, quick reflexes, and his own knack as one of Wayland's students. It worked so far, even if it was troublesome. "It's never stopped me from shoeing a horse yet."
Ector appears doubtful, but too polite to say much about it.
Unsurprising. Still, horseshoeing is the job Archer took the most care to learn, given the involvement of another living being in the work. He faces that doubt with a body relaxed in complete confidence.
"So, your horse?"
The middle-aged knight sighs; he's evidently heard and remembered enough of Archer's brusque personality to not take it personally. "I should mention, Kay sends a preemptive apology for expecting you to solve things again. Your customer…"
Footsteps tread lightly across the threshold.
When the noblewoman walks into the shop, Archer cannot say he finds anything to be surprised about except perhaps her lack of escort. Average height, slender build, richly but simply dressed in a grey cloak for travel, the dark green of her skirt peeking through the gap along with one sleeve as she lifts her skirt to avoid stepping on the hem. Rich cloth, well-sewn and deeply dyed. Definitely a noblewoman, a lord's wife or daughter or sister at the very least – no matter how rich a knight might be, he couldn't afford to dress his family like that for an ordinary day.
Archer is an expert on iron, not fabric. But he knows enough to call her a noblewoman, even one that apparently thinks she's making a successful effort to 'dress down', to borrow a phrase from Luvia. The outfit lacks even simple ornamentation of embroidery at the hems, but that only draws more attention to the rest of the cloth – silk, perhaps? If so, it's another instance of art reshaping history, because he's pretty sure silk enough for a dress wasn't available except to the richest of the rich at this era; there aren't enough trade routes running the stuff out of China at this point…
He shakes his head. He's missing Ector's words again. So much for not getting distracted by a pretty girl, EMIYA. And you haven't even seen her face yet. Fuji-nee would have so much teasing material…
She lifts her arms to push her hood back, exposing the auburn hair that is braided up and coiled around her head. Married or a widow, he notes absently. Only unmarried girls and prostitutes will keep their hair loose and uncovered out of the privacy of their home on an ordinary day of the week, even for church; but only a married woman would dare tie up her hair and leave her neck bare without even a scarf to cover it.
Trufully, he'd prefer a scarf over her head for a different reason than propriety: loose hair is nothing but a spark-catcher in a blacksmith's forge, and he prefers his customers not to get burned before they even place the order.
But the lack of propriety is another matter; even a married woman should have a chaperone rather than be alone with a peasant blacksmith with rumored fairy blood. It's a good thing Sir Ector is in the shop. But her manservant should really be in here as well, if he doesn't want to be more food for gossip.
Particularly since she's going to have to wait – it's first customer served first.
He's about to tell her that, as politely as he can – and possibly add that, if she isn't a customer, then his forge isn't a tavern for her to lurk in, and that doesn't change even if it's going to rain outside – when he sees Sir Ector slip into a low bow.
"Your Grace, I was about to bring him outside…" the knight says, politely as usual, but with the barest hint of strain in his tone. Archer isn't surprised. He's heard stories about this knight's lectures on good manners; the bow is a display of subservience fit to serve as an illustration for an etiquette book.
Wait… subservient? He blinks, and looks at the woman again.
"Smith Farran, this is your customer for today. I am but the escort. Her Grace is here for…"
"Thank you, Sir Ector, for your escort here, but I am capable of explaining my own errands. Smith Farran, was it? My horse needs a shoe replaced." The young woman steps forward, and smiles, sincerely, up at the man she's never met before, hand extended to the air.
Archer blinks down at her, nonplussed, at the hand she's extended in his direction. He recognizes that smile. That smile that tells him the safest option to avoid wrath is to nod agreement.
…Wow. Here he'd thought Tohsaka had trademarked her expressions. Oh, wait – copyright law doesn't actually exist yet. That's the only explanation as to how scary females and their one hundred percent success rate tactics could have found him in the past.
Reflex suggests immediate retreat at a forced march. Reason sympathizes, but rejects it as an impossible option to implement.
Her hand is still there. What is he supposed to do with it? Kiss it? Bow over it? He's not a knight or a noble. What the hell is he supposed to do with it?
She might sound sincere and welcoming, but he knows that smile. This woman is sincerely pissed off. He cannot try to pacify her, he cannot afford to make her angrier.
No wonder King Arthur married her.
Later. He'll ponder it later. He has a customer.
"…I see." He puts his hammer back in place on the side table, and straightens his spine a bit, gaining just an extra inch of height. "Where is the horse?"
Unlike armor, horseshoeing isn't a project that can be put off for anything but a lack of ready horseshoes for fitting or a hoof that had problems better dealt with by leaving the shoe off. There are tender feet involved, feet that get all too easily clogged with dirt or foul straw or stones that cut at the tender flesh. No horse can go unshod in the city – even ordinary stones lodged in a hoof cut like knife blades if left there.
If this one's missing a shoe… the walk to the forge will have been uncomfortable at best, and agony at worst. The fact that this one apparently couldn't make it to the castle smith a short ways up the hill before it could be dealt with says nothing good; it's far better to get a horse to a farrier it knows than an unknown person who it will be wary of.
"The mare is waiting outside, Smith Farran." Ector's voice is pleased.
The Queen's lips thin, her eyes narrowed at the knight. "Yes. She is." Short, curt words. Quite the contrast from Ice-Queen-School-Idol manners of moments ago.
Apparently, Queen Guinevere is not only 'capable of explaining her own errands', but is the kind of girl who takes offense to someone presuming to speak for her. Archer glances between them, eyebrow raised. Depending on who he responds to, he could all too easily escalate the situation and generate permanent ill-will against himself.
Better Ector annoyed than the Queen, he decides, plucking a leather satchel with his farrier's toolset from the wall. Especially since they've both stated that she's the customer today.
"Let's take a look, then. Did you bring the shoe she cast, or is that missing?" Guinevere will know how long since the last shoeing, if she's regularly involved in her horse's care, as he hopes. If not, he can guess based on how far the shoes have worn down, and how much the hooves have grown since their last trimming. But he'd prefer all four shoes if possible for such an estimate.
Glancing up at the sun as he steps near the threshold, he grimaces. He's close to his usual midday meal time, but if it's a choice between food and working in the best light possible, he'll delay the food.
"That is just it, good smith," the auburn-haired woman states, strained calm in her voice as she steps past his frame, tilting her head back to face him once more, barely restrained annoyance echoing in every move she makes. It's not yet noon, and she already has the face of someone who's having a long day. "The grooms reported no such problems to me directly, and she returned to the stables without incident when I rode her only yesterday. My brother-in-law informed me of the issue this morning over breakfast; the grooms had informed him instead."
Archer frowned. He'd assumed they were out on a ride when the shoe was lost, and had made for the closest blacksmith to help. "…I'm sorry, did I hear you right? Sir Kay sent you here? When the shoe was already off, at the castle?" Disbelieving, he pinches his nose, trying to stave off the headache. "You know, most men think that their favorite alehouse can solve all their problems, via a mug of ale and a listening ear for their drunken rambles. Why have I been deemed listening ear and all-purpose fixer when I most definitely do not run an alehouse?" He'd best check his sign, to see if it still looks like an anvil and not a mug of beer.
Sir Ector chokes behind him. Archer ignores him. His attention is back to the Queen, her face a cross of irritation, curiosity, and intrigued amusement. "I thought you were coming back from a ride into the city, and the shoe fallen off only a few hours ago at most. As grateful as I am for the business, the castle smith would have been much closer. It's a long walk on three legs, and that's neither comfortable nor practical when you're seeking out a smith that the horse isn't familiar with enough to trust. Unless it's an absolute emergency – and again, if it was, I would hope you'd be decent enough to your poor mount to not make her walk farther than she had to, nor insult the closer smith by implying his skill insufficient for the job."
The road from the castle to his forge was cobbles and dirt, downhill from the castle, and nowhere near as clean as he'd like. The smell was…tolerable, compared to filthy London – the less said of those memories, the better – but for a horse, the real problem would be the stones in the unpaved road and other urban filth. What was going on here? Was the castle smith inadequate for some reason? Or, perhaps… Kay had needed Guinevere out of the castle, and manufactured an excuse?
No. His eyes narrow. "I won't ask why you felt the need to do that. But I would like to know why you've come to me, when you had a closer smith who actually has a good relationship with the guilds? Especially when you're clearly less than pleased with Sir Kay."
"Actually, the king recommended you. He intended to bring her by himself, but I didn't want to delay the shoeing while he finishes his desk work." There's a question in her eyes, but he has no intention of taking notice or giving answer.
"Oh? His Majesty's still overseeing everything personally, then? I'm fairly certain that methodology works better in practice when running a business the size of my forge than when running a kingdom." He snorts, wiping a rag to collect his sweat from his face. "But by all means, let's send another order, and push my backlog further behind. I'll be working through the night at this rate… Let's take a look. Perhaps the mare will be easier to work with than kings who want to alienate guilds, for whatever reason." He pushes outside, letting the queen and knight follow.
"And just how close are you to the King, Smith Farran, to question his methods more than his own advisers? Are you perhaps another acquaintance of his from youth, such as myself?"
He snorts. "Say rather, an acquaintance with his youthful idiocy. He may be an adult, but he's yet to outgrow that if he's able to forget to check his own armor before he uses it in a tournament. Ever since I had to pry him out of his helmet, he's apparently decided to send any problems my way that have anything to do with iron. And then come and chat, on top of it. If his advisors are foolish or intimidated to the point they can't question his time delegation, that's a critique of them, I'd say. I don't give my loyalty or trust blindly any more than a horse would."
Suddenly, walnut eyes pierce him, and he freezes at the weight behind them. They are at once irritated and curious, hungry for knowledge with no prey in sight.
They remind him of Alaya too much comfort. That should be impossible.
Time to change the subject, and remind her of the reason she came here. Hopefully it will distract her. "Speaking of horses, let's see about your mare." He walks briskly forward.
There are two animals tied to the hitching posts. A solid bay gelding is saddled and bridled, standing easily on the ground. The other, a Welsh pony of roan color with a white face, stands at least a hand and a half smaller, equipped with only a headstall and a leading rope and the left front hoof bound up with cloth. Archer carefully circles to their front, never getting too close to their hind legs – horses have a nasty kick if they can't see someone coming – stopping casually a bit to one side so the horse can see him. "What's her name?"
"Marianne."
The mare's ears prick up at her name, swiveling to catch the sound. Archer can't help but chuckle at the sight, sharing a smile with the Queen. "I see. Care to introduce us, your Grace?" Leaning down a bit, he adds in a conspiratorial murmur, "I would never dream of daring to get my hands near a lady's hoof without proper introductions. She might kick me in retaliation."
Queen Guinevere coughs, trying not to smile at the bantering tone. "Certainly. Smith Farran, Marianne. Marianne, Smith Farran." Her tone is formal enough for the most sober court ceremony, but shaking with repressed laughter even so.
Archer smirks. "Thank you. Three more questions, and I'll start getting her used to me before I work. First, did you bring the missing shoe with you? Second, when was she last shod? And third, have there been any problems with her feet in the past that I should be aware of?" Curt words, nearly daring discourtesy, but professional for all the lack of courtly graces. He's a blacksmith, a pragmatic archer, not a knight of chivalry. He doesn't have time or use for such frippery. His courtesy is to treat his customer as a rational person of adult years, and he prefers at least that much respect in return.
The walnut-eyed queen removes a small bag from under her cloak, a stray shoe rattling against a few nails inside it. Archer takes it, removing the shoe – it's clearly worn down, with the nail heads worn away until nothing kept it on.
"She's never had problems with her feet before, to my knowledge, and I've ridden her for two years," Guinevere says firmly. "And she's due for another shoeing in five days; she's regularly shod every six weeks."
All regular, then.
For about ten minutes, he simply walks around Marianne, one hand on her at all times, absently stroking, getting her used to his touch as he moves his hands over her, checking if her hooves are level, looking for cracks or any damage, watching for growth and taking notes on what needs trimming in his head. She slowly relaxes. When he finally taps her tendon, the mare shows herself well trained, and lifts the hoof.
A farrier has two jobs while shoeing or cleaning the hoof, one for each hand: one wields the tool, the other helps the horse to balance on three legs. If two hands are required, the best option is to brace the hoof between arm and torso, or between the farrier's thighs. Either position requires hunching over to better examine the hoof – and leaves very little chance to run, if the horse becomes anxious or feels unbalanced, and decides to put its hoof down.
Worse, while the farrier is at work, he will have very little warning should the animal kick him – and, should it connect to skull or torso, a horse's kick can be fatal at worst, critically injuring at best. An arm or leg would likely be broken.
Some men might curse the horse for its self-preserving behavior. Archer finds himself envious of their instincts to live, and appreciative of their honesty: horses learn fast, remember long, and are brutally honest in sharing their opinions of other creatures. It's more than can be said for many humans. Small wonder that men like Alexander would honor their mounts with tombs of their own; Bucephalus earned his dues as much as any decorated officer.
Marianne, unlike some horses he's had to deal with, doesn't play tricks to force him to take more of her weight and wear himself out so he'll put her hoof down quicker. Nor does she kick, or try to take her foot back; a monument of patience, she waits while he picks out dirt and stones on her right front foot, wanting a comparison look for any signs of wear on a shoe still in place. Since he hasn't shoed her before, it's a remarkably quick display of trust.
He speaks half to the mare, half to Guinevere, as they set a price, and discuss the sort of terrain Marianne's been traveling in recently – mud, grass, roads of packed dirt or cobbles. Anything that could cause different effects on the shoes. They agree that a full set of new shoes is best at this point – there's just enough growth in the hooves and enough wear on the shoes to justify it. He removes the remaining shoes, nails and all, and pares down the dead growth with a hoof knife.
Finally, he's ready for a hot shoeing, untying Marianne's rope, and leading her closer to the forge. Every second counts while metal is cooling, and the distance is one he cannot afford to travel.
"The next bit is one I'll need my concentration for, your Grace – I won't be able to chat and work at the same time. You can either wait outside the forge, quietly, or you can go and come back for her in a couple of hours when she's ready. Half payment now, and half later, I think we agreed?"
She nods, and drops some coins on the table. He nods, and turns to select a few iron bars, ready to be pounded flat and then curved into the right shape. Then, he crouches next to the fire, and begins to build it back up.
"I'll return, then. Take the best of care with her, please, Smith Farran?"
"Of course, Your Grace." He stirs the embers to flame, and moves the bellows, grabbing the hammer and punch he requires.
She's about to step out, when she pauses, and turns back. "Tell me something, Smith Farran."
He looks up, somewhat annoyed at the further delay when he's right next to Marianne and all ready to look at the hoof, to see her brows furrowed; he can't guess what she's thinking. "Yes, your Grace?"
"Why… why do you treat me as you have?" There's no ire, only baffled curiosity.
It takes him a moment to process the question, and then another while he shifts the words in a futile attempt to make more sense. "…I don't understand what you're asking me, your Majesty," he's forced to admit after a moment.
Impatience flickers under the queenly mask. "You did not refer your questions to my escort, but directly to me."
He's still not sure what she's getting at. "Er, yes?" His voice trails into a question. "You're the customer, and the one paying, your Grace. Both you and Sir Ector said so."
A single brow arches. There's an art to control that fine over a person's facial muscles, and Archer's impressed at this woman's natural talent for it. "Most men," she informs him, slowly and deliberately, as if to pound the words through his head at a precise angle, "would prefer to speak only to other men, regardless of a woman's presence." She pauses, adds as if in afterthought, "Or her rank."
He blinks, then shakes his head, reminded once again how very different this time is. "Rank doesn't mean an absence of idiocy or a presence of wisdom, your Grace. I prefer to speak directly to my clients; the fact that you're a woman really isn't that much of a concern when doing business. And besides…" He chuckles, thinking back to those days, an honest smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, rather than the usual smirk that only twists his lips in self-mockery.
"I've been fortunate enough to be a brother, an adoptive nephew, a spouse, and a friend to some truly wonderful women over the years, and I've been honored to know them. And I assure you, I am not ashamed to admit that, had I ever treated them as though they had less of a capable mind than myself at any point, they would have reeducated me on the matter immediately. I will not disrespect their memory or their lessons by treating any woman as less than a person."
He pauses, lost in the memories for a moment. Taiga, chasing him with Tora-shinai. Ilya, with her devilish eyes and angelic smile. Sakura, smiling at him from beside the rice cooker. Rin and Luvia, throwing gems and casting spells as he attempts to dodge. Saber, teaching him the art of the sword in his father's dojo.
Somewhere beyond his awareness, an auburn haired young woman in a grey cloak wonders who the man is thinking of – and takes note, for good or ill, of the woman's role he did not name.
Then the moment is over, and he smirks as usual. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it never does to keep a horse waiting; otherwise I'll have to pick out her hoof all over again before I put the shoe on, and hot-shoeing needs to be done quickly in any case. She'll be ready for you in a couple of hours." He bows his head.
"I leave her in your capable hands, then, Smith Farran." The Queen curtseys, and leaves him to build up the fire, and grab an appropriate bar of iron.
Behind her, the smith's shoulders release an immeasurably small amount of tension, but not enough to fully lose himself in the work as usual.
Hopefully, she's ended with a favorable impression of him. He didn't say a word of opinion that he didn't honestly believe… but his words were hardly chosen at random, either.
How might my own course have changed, if enough people had caught onto the Moebius strip that forms my own mind early enough? Caught on, and sat on it, and got me help, even if they had to drag me out of self destruction to do it?
Most of the problems in his case formed because he based so much of his identity around first his father's path – or rather, the path of Emiya Kiritsugu as perceived by Emiya Shirou – and then around Arturia's ideals – again, as perceived by Emiya Shirou.
Far too many of the problems in the original myth came from members of Arthur's court subsuming their own dreams and identities in an effort to further live up to the King's impossible ideals.
Hence, Archer's strategy to force the Round Table and the King's inner circle to forge their own paths, separate and equal. Each person he diverts even slightly from that original course is another person more likely to call Arturia out on being an idiot or self-destructive, if they only have the confidence to do so – without choosing to walk away, as Tristan did. Each success, another advisor who has the power to critique the King.
Of course, that plan was formed before meeting Queen Guinevere in person. Now…
"And just how close are you to the King, Smith Farran, to question his methods more than his own advisers?"
Now he sees a woman who has her own burdens, but places them aside for a mask of politeness. Much more emotional than her 'husband', but with the same regal presence, soft tones and courtesies turned to diamond-sharp weapons and a pleasantly warm smile made into armor. A girl, expected to act with a woman's responsibilities, who obviously cares about her spouse.
Tohsaka's smile. Eyes like Alaya's avatar.
He can't decide which possibility is worse – if his mind is playing tricks on him… or if it's not.
Either way, he dares not underestimate this woman again. He thought her a weak spot, her main danger in the chance of exploitation by Arthur's enemies. Now… now he knows a player in her own right. One with a sense of humor… and at least as dangerous as Merlin, in her own way.
The Fifth Holy Grail War in its endless repetitions has let you develop bad habits, EMIYA. Lazy habits. Time to remember that assessing a game and its pieces requires personal field observation, and not simply reports of others. Even if those reports are the Akashic Records.
But how accurate are my own perceptions, to supplement those records…?
Author's Notes:
I'm sure all of you recognize the dream location. And the time. Fun fact about clothes – until buttons and buttonholes were invented around the 13th century in Europe, skin-tight clothes weren't really possible to make. Consequently, everything was a lot looser. It's one of the reasons Arturia is so shocked at jeans – even the looser cuts are much tighter than she's used to seeing.
The myth of Atlantis was first recorded by the Greek philosopher Plato, circa 360 B.C, but the events themselves took place supposedly 9,000 years earlier. Aristotle, one of Plato's students, would certainly have been familiar with the work, and likely included it in his lesson plan for Alexander the Great.
Alexander and Waver's encounter with Taiga is depicted in the drama CD 'The Outsiders' Performance'.
Archery and Medieval WMDs: Prior to the Hundred Year's War, archery wasn't a large part of European battles – the shortbow was too short a firing range to be effective against mounted armed cavalry, and the arrows were not powerful enough, so it was mainly seen as a hunting weapon. Hence Gareth's insistence last chapter that Gaheris has to be lying – because he believes that there doesn't exist a bow or an archer that could make that shot at such a range.
To give a size perspective: Longbows are 6 feet long from end to end, with a 300 yd maximum range in the hands of a trained archer, a possible fire rate of up to 20 arrows per minute, and a punch force that can go through mail coats – especially if the arrow is tipped with a bodkin, an arrowhead made of hardened steel and designed specifically to penetrate armor. However, a trained archer with sufficient muscle strength is needed to handle it… and his training can take a lifetime, with another skilled longbowman to help train him. One suggestion to get the best longbowman possible? Start by training his grandfather.
By contrast, a crossbow (European version first shows up in the 1200s) can be learned in about a week. A small bow mechanism mounted on a stock, it includes a mechanism to hold and release the string once pulled back, and is physically undemanding enough for conscript soldiers to wield, as well as being cheap to produce. With a maximum effective range of 60 yd, and a firing rate of about 10 quarrels per minute, it wasn't as tricky as the longbow – which allowed any peasant to become an archer skilled enough to take down a nobleman. Hence the choice of the Second Lateran Council to attempt to ban the crossbow as a weapon that was 'anathema to God' – not that anyone listened!
EDIT 7/20: My apologies for an earlier misprint that replaced 'shortbow' with 'recurve bow', which is a compound bow as opposed to a single piece of wood, and has led to several people rightfully correcting me on archery history. And one more analogy for the road: the crossbow is archery's version of an assault rifle - deadly, easy to use, and little training required. The longbow is a sniper rifle: much deadlier, but the person firing it needs more training time/cost than the weapon took to produce for the highest possible performance.
