Congratulations! You made it!

Made it where, you ask?

Remember back in the chapter 8 A/N where I said my stories are jigsaw puzzles? Last chapter I finally dumped all the pieces out. That means we've made it past Peak Confusion! I'm kinda excited, in my previous story we didn't get to this point until literally the penultimate chapter. It's exciting for you guys, too, because it means all those questions you probably have are finally going to be-

Well. Let's just say I've been looking forward to this arc in particular. Enjoy!


Drums guided the crew. Black waves crested the vessel's prow. Lightning crackled overhead, and rain splashed men's necks, yet on they rowed. Through their exhaustion and through their crippling fear: they rowed.

They had no choice.

"Patriarch! Patriarch! The Terror comes!"

"Heed it not! Shield the women and children! To the light! We sail to the light!"

This was their moment of truth. Like all the others, this clan undertook the impossible. They escaped to the seas, into the dead oceans separating the ruined mainland from the holy isle beyond.

These disparate peoples—

A crystalline spire ruptured the waters off their starboard side. It pierced another ship, lifted it high above the ocean's swell. The men on board jumped from their seats with broken shouts and cries, and grabbed their weapons for a frenzied final stand.

—were the Anglo-Saxons.

"The Chieftain's boat!"

"They are lost! They are lost! ROW! ROW!"

And in this world, they were not invaders.

Twin armored warriors descended from the stormy clouds. They whisked away the doomed vessel's occupants, bounded to the soaked deck. Fearful clansmen fell from their arms. Red-cloaked otherworlders followed the warriors' leads; the Patriarch resisted a cheer of relief, for the appearance of these divine beings signified the impossible.

They had made it to the defensive line. To the coast.

"Ave!" one of them barked.

The word took the refugees by surprise. A furred lion's helm swiveled from face to face.

"Imperial!" one of the men realized. "It speaks Imperial! Cyneric! Do you live?!"

A man scrambled his way to the warrior's feet, his head to the floor.

"A-Ave!"

It muttered Latin to the man, and at his nod took the skies with its compatriots. A massive, spiraling lance flashed to its hand.

"W-We've arrived!" he rasped through his tears. "The promised land beckons! The Otherworlders protect us!"

The Patriarch hoisted him to his feet.

"Where do we go? How do we approach?!"

"Sail into the light! The spirits guide us through!"

...

The Patriarch turned to the Chieftain.

"F-Father...!"

The Chieftain spit out sea water and stood on shaky legs. "It waits! We've not escaped yet! Row, men! Row to the Sacred Isle!"

The hollers of combat mixed with their cheers; eldritch explosions and wrathful cries spurred the oarsmen onward. Drums in his ears, the Patriarch turned to the aftward apocalypse.

A hole parted the clouds. Dozens upon dozens of red-cloaked otherworlders emerged from the breach, their shapeless forms billowing, and on silent cue manifested their ethereal weapons. An Anglo-Saxon flotilla fought against wave and crystal to reach the invisible perimeter their vessel had already crossed. Some would make it. Many others would not.

A terrible, glassy mass floated beyond the horizon. A foreign world unto itself, it corrupted all it touched, seemingly impervious to any attack the otherworlders conjured.

It dueled against a monstrous Leviathan, a beast from tome and legend. The serpent alone halted the entity and bought them time to pass.

And then, with their black and white lances pointed to the heavens, the two warriors roared their hallowed command.

"RHONGO—"

The skies parted before the Anglo-Saxons. Monsoon gave way to golden resplendence, and for the first time in their wretched lives, the clan aboard that vessel beheld the promised land.

A heavenly dome, a solid sphere of light, covered the entirety of the British Isles.

At its center: a column of true ether.

The Tower.

An army of thousands, legendary champions of past, present, future, all stood on guard at the Reality Marble's borders.

They awaited the end of the world.

The incessant drums surrounded the Patriach. He bowed his head, and prayed to his ancestors for the salvation of his people.

For salvation from the TYPE.

"—MYNIAAAAAAD!"

The Tower erupted.


"So."

"So?"

Gawain shot Lancelot a knowing sideways glance.

"Who is Guinevere?"

...

"Who?"

"Oh ho! Playing coy, are we?"

"'Tis impossible to play coy when one knows not the woman of which you speak."

The noble's jaw dropped. "What, seriously?"

And Lancelot blinked in return, utterly lost. "Aye. Should I know such a wench?"

"My good mercenary, you spoke her name like a man wronged, sniffled as though you'd shat thy trousers, and promptly tried to hurl thyself into that Servant's arcane death orb. A woman so fine you'd rather forget, perhaps?"

"Truly? Hmph! Nay, I cannot recall anyone by that name. For the better, methinks. 'Twas just his witchcraft twisting the mind."

"Aye, aye, of course. Arthur shall handle it."

"I worry about him, Gawain. His thoughts for his friend will lead him down a treacherous path."

"Be that as it may, 'tis nothing we can do to change his mind. I daresay no one else aside Uther's damnable court wizard could hope to match that creature. Tch, to the pits with it all. What a conundrum we find ourselves in."

Lancelot shifted his weight on the horse.

"There must be some weakness we might exploit. He was a man, surely, not some daemon. What was that oddity he wore? Some sort of iron container?"

"Armor, I believe, but far more intricate than anything I've ever seen. A sword could not pierce it. I spied no flesh."

"What about a rock?"

Gawain sputtered. "A rock?!"

"Aye. Drop a rock on him. Metal stops the bite of a blade, not brute force."

"Oh, why, yes, of course, Lancelot! How brilliant! Let us just drop a large boulder upon the man who jumped a hundred paces! Surely!"

Lancelot harrumphed, and took a passive-aggressive swig from his pigskin.

"I do not see you offering any better ideas."

"I have no better ideas! I lost my better ideas when he slaughtered those poor bastards by the thousands!"

"They perished in peace, at least."

Gawain sighed. "Not a bad way to go, I suppose. Perhaps a bit melodramatic. I'd rather someone lob off my head and be done with it, personally."

"If we play our cards right, I'm sure Camelot would oblige."

"Oh?"

Lancelot simply gestured into the treeline. An aged, Roman-era wall stood off in the distance. The hustle and bustle of the city drifted past the gate.

"We're here, I assume."

"So we are. Come, let's—"

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Eh?"

Lancelot cocked an eyebrow. Gawain processed.

Processed.

Proces—oh. Ohhh.

He raised his cloak's hood.

"Right, thank you."

"Of course."


"I wish to e-express my d-displeasure with the current arrangement!"

He'd learned over time that Artoria's verbosity increased proportionally with her anxiety. If it got high enough, she started swearing like a sailor.

They weren't at that point, not yet. But getting there.

"What's wrong?"

She sniffled. Her lip quivered.

"She insulted my ponytail, Saber!"

...

"I merely informed her of its disadvantages in combat, Shirou," Arthur countered.

...

The deja vu Shirou felt in this moment rivaled some of his Counter Guardian deployments. Why was it that Artoria's mortal enemies always turned out to be other Artorias? Was this the Chaldea cafeteria? Was he about to witness yet another Pendragon food fight?

Were sword and scabbard really that similar?

Honestly. All he could do was sigh. "Now, Saber. You can't just harass someone for their personal preferences. Artoria's fared well so far. There's no need to fix what isn't broken."

"'Tis for her own benefit, Shirou. It takes but one lucky grab to enter mortal peril."

"You'll be in mortal peril if ya don't shut uuuup!"

She really wasn't helping.

"Artoria," he warned.

"She started it!"

"Yeah, but you don't need to continue it. A suggestion's a suggestion."

"A recommendation," Arthur corrected.

"A suggestion is a suggestion, and you don't need to follow it if you don't want to."

Arthur, obviously, hated admitting defeat. "Accepting criticism is an important part of improving oneself, Shirou."

Artoria peeked her head around his side.

"Thy face is a criticism!"

Arthur's cheeks reddened; she opened her mouth to retort.

Alright, they weren't getting anywhere. He hoisted the King of Knights over his shoulder.

"Sh-Shirou?! Unhand me at once!"

"Nope. I'm putting you two in time out."

"I am not a child!"

"You are, technically, younger than her."

Small hands rapped against his back.

"Age is a number!"

Said the one gifted partial immortality.

"Uh huh. Whatever you say, Saber."

Artoria blew a raspberry as they left. He deposited Arthur on the other side of the clearing.

"What is it with you and your alternate selves?"

She dusted herself off, crossed her arms.

"'Tis not my fault they're all unkingly."

"Saber."

"Yes, Shirou?"

"For the entirety of 'summer', you walked Chaldea's halls wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a cape."

...

"'Twas appropriate wear for the season. And how do you know about that, Shirou?"

He stared at her.

"Because Archer fed you."

...

She turned away, blushing.

"How... how much did you see?"

"All of it. I was there, technically. As him. It's complicated like that."

"Then you are aware of how strange she is, Shirou!" Arthur stressed. "She is a doppelganger! If I did not know better, I would assume her a pseudo-Servant! I cannot relate to her. I hold more in common with the Lancers... nay, with Alter than I do that girl! Who is she?"

An inevitable conflict. So alike, yet so different. The human and the king couldn't coexist.

But even so, Artoria had figured out a way to accept Alter. And if she could work with Alter's memories, he hoped she and Arthur could find some common ground. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually.

"She's who you would've become had you denied Caliburn, Saber."

...

"I do not understand, Shirou."

To tell her that was to declare the sky was no longer blue. Impossible. Couldn't happen.

"She mentioned Arthur, right? Not you, the other one."

"Aye. Her... brother. I have no siblings, however."

Well, outside Morgan. But Morgan didn't count.

"He's you if you were a man. He's the chosen king in this world. Artoria's the one who shouldn't exist. The role's already taken."

"Then why is she here?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out. We're hoping Arthur and Merlin can give us some answers. Try to imagine it from her perspective, Saber. You're the destined king. What would you do if that was taken from you?"

Her answer was immediate. Swift as a horse.

"It cannot be taken from me. It is who I am, Shirou."

"And yet it was, Saber. You can apparently exist without it. She's the proof."

She had no reply. His gaze softened.

"Listen, just try and get along, okay? We're doing this for your knights, too. I'm gonna go calm her down."

He left without waiting for a response. Across the clearing Artoria busied herself with, well, food. She gnawed on a rabbit leg, like some starved animal.

"Stress eating's bad for you."

"'m naht—"

"Chew your food, Artoria."

Chew, chew, swallow.

"I'm not stress eating, Saber! I am think-eating!"

"Do tell."

He dodged the thrown bone. Throwing things ranked a solid seven on the 'Artoria mad' severity scale. Any higher and he'd need to forcefully reboot her with a hug. He sat beside her. Time for damage control.

"Alright, what's wrong? What's this about, really?"

"She's. So. Uptiiiiiiight. Make her stop, Saber! 'Tis driving me insane!"

They meshed about as well as oil and water.

By virtue of Arthur's upbringing and hopeless idealism, everything was to be done to the absolute height of perfection. Emotions controlled, combat techniques flawless. The ideal king, with zero room for error. Objective.

Artoria, meanwhile, hated the very concept of nobility. She was a village girl, a free spirit. Someone who ate when she wanted, burped when she wanted, laughed when she wanted. Subjective.

Both the same person, taken to two opposite ends.

"Even Alter was not this bad!" she rambled. "'Twas easy to understand her reasons, at least! But Arthur... she's just... ngh! Gods above!"

"C'mon, she's not that terrible."

"Yes she is! Always prim and proper! She scowls at me if I sit wrong! How does she do that, anyway?! Do her legs not tire from kneeling all the time?!"

"It's a habit she picked up during her time as my Servant. It's meditation."

She pouted. "'Tis weird."

He rolled his eyes. "She thinks you're the weird one, so I guess the feeling's mutual."

Artoria shuffled closer, so she could knock their shoulders together. Shirou sighed.

"Listen, you two can't see it right now, I get that, but in the end you're the same girl. You've never seen the way she gets flustered, and she's never seen the resilience you have for your ideals. You're in her and she's in you. Both sides are just overshadowed by the dominant aspects."

Artoria took a quick glance in Arthur's direction. The King of Knights stared a disapproving, if not jealous hole through her head. The bodily contact, probably.

"Somehow I doubt that," she blanched.

"Your opinion might change if you sparred with her."

She tilted up her nose. "I refuse!"

"Why?"

"For no reason in particular!"

Ah, yes. Afraid she'd lose. Afraid Arthur would gloat. Pot meet kettle, and all that.

"You'd learn more from her than you could me, you know. Nothing beats the original."

Emerald orbs flashed. "I wish to receive instruction from you alone, Saber."

He attempted to reply; Arthur beat him to the punch.

"You disparage thy rightful abilities?"

She towered over them, all five feet of her. Indignity radiated off every cell.

"They are mine by choice, not by right," Artoria snapped. "And this time, I've chosen something else!"

"A foolish decision, certainly. I was among the strongest in the Grail War. Isn't that right, Shirou?"

Ah, shit.

"Under Tohsaka, maybe," he joked.

"Nonsense. Please do not sell yourself short. You are a wonderful Master."

Artoria's pressure against his shoulder quintupled.

"'Tis quite unfortunate he is not thy Master anymore, then!"

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

"You fool yourself. A true Master-Servant bond extends far beyond paltry command seals. You would do well to recognize that fact, lest something unfortunate befalls thee, Artoria."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

"Hoh? Living in the past, are we? Unable to face reality?"

"'Tis not the past if we both yet live. I am his Saber and he is my Master. That is the way of things."

Alright! Fine!

A pair of training swords dropped to the ground.

"Just beat each other up, already! Get it out of your systems!" he pleaded.

They stilled. Potent scowls, twitching fingers - but behind it all, hesitation. On both sides.

Shirou was flummoxed.

Artoria was one thing, but Arthur? She was a Servant, one backed by countless decades of experience. Why would she—

Oh. Ohhhh.

Shirou smirked. "It'll be fine, Seiba."

Arthur's brow twitched. His amusement grew.

She feared the one thing locked away from her Servant container: the Dragon Core. That look on her face confirmed her knowledge of its presence. Not only that - Artoria was a mystery. Just like him, Arthur never knew herself at age eighteen. She understood her own body, she understood the adult Lancers.

But this?

This was new.

Artoria chewed her lip. "But... Saber..."

"Shirou..." Arthur began.

Nope. He'd made his decision.

"Winner gets second servings."

...

They lunged for the swords. The catfight was on.

"The food is mine!" Artoria snarled.

"Hmph! We shall see!"

The weapons collided; dust plumed. Artoria emerged first, backing away, and Arthur pursued low and fast.

"Haaa—!"

The Servant's prana surged. It spilled out of her core, up into her arms and fingers. One horizontal swipe; Artoria jumped.

...

Well, there went that tree.

"Art thou mad?!" his Master jeered. "You'll ruin the camp!"

Arthur took a breath and continued her pursuit. "He can project another tent! 'Tis fine!"

"Saber is not some conjuration contraption to be abused, you bewitched lunatic!"

Ah yes, another major difference: perspectives on efficiency.

King Arthur used everything at her disposal to hold back the Saxon invaders. Seized funds and weapons, drafted villagers, the whole nine yards. Majority over minority. Ends justified the means.

Artoria lived her whole life in the same town. Knew everyone by name, had an extended, unofficial family larger than Chaldea's Servant list. She valued what she had and prioritized their well-being over everything else, and for some reason - ugh - he now, for better or worse, topped that list. Minority over majority. Means before the ends.

She was overprotective, to say the least.

"'Tis fine!" Arthur implored. "Right, Shirou?!"

A draconian roar followed her words. One Shirou recognized.

...

"S-Saber?" he whimpered.

"Aye?!"

"When was the last time you—"

Bang. Crash. Bam.

"Not since my arrival, Shirou!"

Like a bull in a china shop. Or a lion chasing a gazelle.

"N-Not at all?!"

Seiba hungry.

"Gawain cannot cook, Shirou!"

Seiba famished.

So famished, in fact, that he didn't trust her with a sword. Nothing more dangerous than a cute, starving king with a magical weapon of mass destruction.

Their training blades vanished with a thought; the two girls continued regardless. Swings became hooks, stabs became jabs. Arthur grabbed a fistful of Artoria's tunic, and to the ground they went.

...

Two Artorias wrestling.

"I shan't let you steal my chef!"

"Then earn him!"

"Ngh...! You little—!"

...

Keep it together, Shirou. Imagine Kotomine in his underwear.

Arthur yanked Artoria's ponytail. "Ha! Do you see?! 'Tis a combat liability!"

The other girl grit her teeth, flipped them over so she was on top. She reached for Arthur's ribbon.

"Like yours is... any better...!"

Both hairstyles unraveled; golden locks fell to their shoulders, and Shirou cursed his heart's sudden lurch. As they were now, both girls reminded him of a certain missing someone.

Artoria leaned in close, and bared her canines with a ferocious, teasing smirk. Her eyes glinted yellow. Prana drenched the air.

"Hoh? You pretend to be a man, yet keep thy hair long?"

Arthur's scowl was at odds with her blush. She planted her boot's sole against Artoria's midriff.

"Like you are any..." And shoved. "...different!"

The burst of energy sent Artoria flying; Shirou moved without a thought. He broke her fall, caught her easily enough. Job done, he moved to separate.

But she refused. Her back pushed into his chest.

"Mmm... this is lovely."

...What? Bodily contact reduced her to a blubbering wreck! What was she—

Golden irises ate him up. She flashed him a playful grin, then returned her focus to the stunned Arthur.

"Oh, but we are different, oh noblest of lieges. Unlike you, I am quite in tune with my inner desires. Continue to ignore your emotions, by all means. I shall do the opposite."

Shirou sensed no corruption in her signature, no perverted blackening or signs of the Grail's influence. Her eyes held confident warmth. But her skin had paled all the same, and that silly vertical strand of hair was nowhere to be found.

He'd thought it was only the memories she'd absorbed.

Wrong.

Alter Artoria coiled around his arm. Her cheek nestled against his shoulder.

"Allow me to state the things you won't, Arthur. First and foremost of them being the acknowledgement that this man... the man you gave away..."

Her hand brushed up his chest; a pale index finger traced his Adam's apple, danced higher to flutter along his chin.

"...is perfect."

Ho-kay, problem solving time. Across all his known lives, there were exactly two ways to de-Alter Artoria Pendragon. Option one: Rule Breaker. Couldn't use that for obvious reasons, which left option two: the Carnival solution.

Embarrassment.

Arthur sputtered her weak rebuttals. Poor girl couldn't win this fight, judging by the way she blushed and trembled.

"Wh-Wha... wha... what art thou..."

"I am explaining the obvious," Alter Artoria continued. "You may hesitate all you like. We are, of course, the same girl. I know what you feel. You are unsure of thyself. Unwilling to take the plunge and admit you made a mistake. If you shan't act, I shall take your place, aye? Because if there is one thing I've learned so far, 'tis that my Saber prefers women over kings. And I am quite comfortable..."

Said girl pushed a certain part of herself more fully against his arm. Artoria was a shy introvert; her Alter side appeared to throw that away - mostly. He saw his opening in the slight tinging of her cheeks and ears.

"...with being a woman."

Like Tohsaka and Luvia all over again. But cuter, and with less property destruction. He cleared his throat.

"Artoria."

She perked up. "Y-Yes?"

Archer charm: on. Lean in. Slowly.

"Seeing as I am your Saber, would you mind..."

Closer. Cloooser...

A bead of sweat traced her cheek.

"...if, from now on..."

He cupped her chin. Closer still. His breath teased her lips.

Artoria shook.

"...I called you 'Master'?"

A cloud of eldritch smoke plumed in his face. Something popped.

"Ma-Ma-Ma-Ma-Maaaamamama—"

It dispersed to reveal a very non-Altered Artoria, face cherry red, quivering in place.

Shirou stepped back and plopped his conjured helmet over her head. Artoria grabbed at the metal, stumbled away.

"Eeeeeeeeeeee—!"

She tumbled into the frost and rolled to and fro. Mission accomplished.

"Ma-Ma-Ma-Ma-Maaaamamama—"

...

Shit. She overheard.

Arthur clutched at her face. Blood dribbled from her nostrils. He gulped.

"Saber? A-Are you..."

"Sh-Shi-rou as m-m-my S-S-S—"

She fell over.

Oh no. Seiba fainted.


"'m showwy!"

If she didn't chew her food she would choke on her sniffles.

"Artoria."

She gulped down the bite of venison like a vacuum cleaner.

"I am sorry, Saber!"

He shrugged. "Apology accepted. Now: what happened?"

"I know not! 'Twas like... like a sudden bout of confidence! Like I'd lost all my inhibitions!"

"Yeah, I noticed."

An oddly adorable whimper died in her throat.

"Alter is far more than a confidence boost," the dejected Arthur muttered from her corner. She sipped at her tea, knees pulled to her chest. "'Tis not so easily undone, likewise."

Shirou felt for her, he really did. Whether it be a subconscious rebellion against the kingship or an intentional display of pride, Artoria weaponized her physicality. She was aware of it. She took advantage of it. And in this case, Arthur was the victim.

It cut especially deep, Shirou assumed, when paired with the knowledge that she would've gained it all with a mere additional three years to grow. It was one thing for her to meet the Lancers and not know when it would happen; it was quite another to realize she'd missed its beginnings by *that* much.

He keenly remembered Saber's issues with her body, her apparent masculinity. From an outsider's perspective, like Tohsaka's or even his own, it at first seemed silly. The girl was downright dainty. Everyone knew she was a woman at first glance. But for Saber, raised as a man among grizzled knights, it'd been a very real thing to overcome, and now Arthur, too, faced that battle.

Saber had the benefit of the unknown. For all she knew, she'd finished growing. Her battle was purely mental. That same mentality now stared Arthur down, and the reality of the girl Artoria - three years her biological senior and wow - made it all the worse.

A cruel fate for someone so eager to prove herself.

"Maybe 'tis due to Alter being a shard? Like myself and Arthur?" Artoria wondered.

Wait, what? "Who told you that?"

"Merlin. Man Merlin, I mean. The one from Alter's memories."

...

Uh.

"He approached us during your Reality Marble troubles, Shirou," Arthur clarified.

Ah shit, not this again. He winced and rubbed at his neck.

"And... what did he say?"

Arthur set down her ceramic cup and crawled to him, brow set and cheeks puffed.

Oh no. Seiba pout. His mortal enemy.

"Saber?"

"What do you know of Avalon, Shirou?"

...

Fffffffffffff—

He glanced at Artoria. She too fixed him with a potent stare, waiting.

—ucking Merlin!

Why was it always Merlin!

"Avalon created the blade works."

Arthur's jaw dropped. "How?"

Jig was up. No use hiding it anymore. At least this time they could figure things out without goddamn Gilgamesh breathing down their necks.

"Old man Kiritsugu used it as the catalyst for the Fourth War. Its ending caused a massive fire in the city, and he used the relic to save my life. It's been with me ever since. My Origin's 'Sword'. Avalon changed my affinity to 'Sword' as well. That created the Reality Marble. Scabbards hold swords, and all that."

Artoria caught on quickly. "Wait, 'catalyst'? Then... is that how I..."

Shirou grinned, a tad bit resigned. "Avalon will always recognize Artoria Pendragon as its rightful owner. Doesn't matter which Artoria it is, I guess. That's the secret. Sometimes the Servant has the catalyst, not the Master."

She ran her fingers over her command seals.

"I literally drew a sword."

"Yeah."

Arthur edged closer still. "May I see it, Shirou?"

His finger twitched, and the relic emerged. Light refracted about and around its hovering form; an entity far beyond that of man and god, a construct dancing with the concept of impossibility.

Magic, in the truest sense of the word.

Arthur reached for it, but paused.

"It's... it's not mine."

...

"I shouldn't have it," Shirou admitted. "I returned it to her a long time ago."

"Her?"

"To Saber. The alternate you."

"What do you mean, Shirou?"

"Saber is not just your Master, Arthur," Artoria explained. "He's all of them fused into one. Remember what Merlin said? That thing about the shards, aye?"

Arthur processed the information in no time flat. An easy concept to understand for a Chaldea veteran.

"How many King Arthurs did you know, Shirou?"

"Thousands. But I'm looking for one in particular."

"The owner of that Avalon?"

"Yeah. She's just... I've searched for a long time, is all. It's hard to figure out. She's not a Heroic Spirit. She ended her contract with Alaya. She's not dead, I don't think, but I can't exactly call her living, either."

It struck Arthur like a lightning bolt. She fell back on her rear, holding her temples.

"Gods above, I'm such a fool. Gods, gods, gods...!"

He blinked. "Eh?"

"May I request a detour in our destination?"

Shirou let Artoria answer. She was still the Master, after all.

"To where?" she asked. "And what for?"

"We must speak with Vivian. She knows more about the scabbard than I do. She might confirm my suspicions."

He scratched his cheek. "Suspicions?"

"Aye, suspicions. What happened between us, Shirou? Between you and my alternate self?"

...

"I don't want to make things awkward."

Arthur blushed with the implications. She was innocent - inexperienced, really - but not stupid.

"S-Say it in a sentence!"

"We fell in love."

...

So many indescribable emotions crossed her features. Her hands clenched in her lap. Artoria, meanwhile, fiddled with his helmet, eyes shadowed.

"'Tis as I suspected, then," Arthur whispered.

"Saber?"

"When I returned to Camlann after the Fifth War, I was given two options. I could venture into Avalon, or ascend to the Throne. I chose the latter, and with it became aware of many other lives. All included you, Shirou, but I know none in which we... we..."

She took a breath.

"But you are not a liar, which leaves us one other option. 'One day, someone will appear who will free you'. Do you remember telling me that, Shirou? As Archer?"

...

Wait.

"Yeah."

"If Archer's memories are always sealed, how did he know that?"

The only possible way would be—

"How many times have I been deployed?"

"As your completed self, just once."

Just once. Once before. This had happened before, and if Alaya governed access to Archer's memories, and for just a split second loosened the chain...

"This - all of it," he breathed. "It's intentional. It needed us to ask questions. That thing, that orb, the way it started talking—"

"Alaya talked to you?" Arthur asked.

"That's the thing, Saber. I think the Counter Force knew it was the only way I'd agree to another contract. I needed to know that information, for whatever reason, so Alaya created some sort of stupid avatar for representation. It told me I've done... this... once before. So if Archer was a part of me then like he's a part of me now, he'd have the knowledge to pass on to you. Archer knew what happened between me and the other Saber. How did you get here, again?"

"From a duel with Alter. And Alter was empowered," she stressed. "Who gave you that Avalon, Shirou?"

"The Counter Force did!"


The World itself was guiding their party. Its mysterious goals aligned with Shirou's own.

Gaia gave him her scabbard. Alaya gave him the information.

All of it, to lead them to—

...

...

...

This is the tale of that legendary, final adventure. The one told in hushed whispers. The one never recorded.


"Listen, Shirou. The me you are trying to find... I imagine she is alive in Avalon. She has not been recorded in the Throne; 'tis the only place she could have gone."


To unlock it, you must complete three separate journeys.

FATE | IDEALISM
UBW | REALISM
HF | NECESSITY

All three sharpen his focus.
All three strengthen his resolve.
All three merge into the final path forward.


"The isle and the scabbard are connected. Merlin's appearance, that strange sword, your Reality Marble's changes... her Avalon's return is the cause. It must be."


The ending of all things.
The breaking of the cycle.
The salvation of two people.

The grand finale.


"She is behind all of this. Alaya and Gaia are helping her. She cannot directly contact us, so she sends messengers instead. Avalon - it is a beacon. She is tracking you, Shirou."


What would you sacrifice to sever fate itself?


Fate/ess

This is the story of how Shirou Emiya and Artoria Pendragon reunited.

Hardbreach - 2

All of them.

"I'M BACK, SABER."


"She is trying to find you."