When I said updates might slow down, this is what I meant. Last three weeks have been utter hell at work. Twelve hour days back to back! Agh! Sorry for the wait! This chapter's a bit on the shorter side, but at this point I'm just looking to get something to you guys.
Raiv0n: Thank you for the constructive criticism! Reviews like yours are my favorites, because I'm always looking for ways to improve as a writer. I understand what you mean by blitzing, and I agree that the story's ambitious. There are quite a few moving parts I've needed to introduce throughout the various chapters, if only because I at least need to get them on the table so they're there for later use. Villains, ideas, concepts, etc. They all have a part to play in the coming chapters. This one introduces the final things I need, and I can reliably say that following this point the story will actually begin to slow down. Not to a glacial speed, but one that isn't so damn frenetic.
I know that seems impossible with the insane pace so far, but I consider it a necessary evil; if I didn't establish these things early on, we'd be at, say, chapter 50, and Tiberius, for example - a core villain - would be making his first appearance. Beginning with this chapter, we start to revisit and explore previously introduced concepts. We've also lacked our expositional vehicle for all this time, which also changes this chapter, and with it finally in the story we can begin to make sense of the information overload, as you call it.
rhomanion: You're correct in that Archer's Saber destroyed the Grail. She kept looking, however, because he didn't save her heart, and how and why she eventually made her wish is something that will be detailed as the story progresses. You'll get your answers!
The second omake's finally come! I had a blast writing this one too, and as always, I hope you all enjoy!
I fall to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
Salter has released me. The ringing in my ears fades to silence.
Aye, silence. I hear my own pained wheezes, and nothing else.
My heart races, I blink away the stars.
And as my mind clears, shame fills the void.
—What was I thinking?
Had they truly almost convinced me?
Am I that weak? That fragile of mind?
"Haa… haa—"
I drag my knees beneath me, tuck my forehead into the mansion's floor.
The attempts to gather myself fail. I cannot calm down.
Those things she said, the reason I am here, in this place…
"I-Is… that… t-true…?"
It takes what little energy I still have to fall back into a sitting position.
Every muscle cries for air. Never before have I felt this kind of exhaustion.
Apathy has returned to Salter's face. Whatever frustration she showed me has already vanished.
Her posture, however, is drenched in resignation.
She faces me with something more than a breath, but not quite a sigh.
"Our destiny is immutable. We are ordained to become the King of Knights, enslaved to a higher calling. You see it in the way they act, do you not? Removing our shackles requires naught short of a miracle - or a wish."
Her fanciful words go in one ear and out the other.
"I… recall… doing no… such thing…"
"'Tis unsurprising for a creature such as yourself. You and he were both reborn through powers not your own. Just as Shirou refuses to remember who he was before he became our scabbard, so too do you refuse to remember the person you were before your erasure. Pitiable child."
—I shan't take this lying down.
Despite the cruelty of her words, her actions have aided me.
My mind is my own.
The influence of my other selves has waned.
She does this for a reason. I need to know why Salter continues to help.
She is not like the others. She has never tried to corrupt my thinking.
Why does she act in compassion, if she is the King of Knights at her cruelest?
I struggle to my feet.
A dull throb pulses in my mind.
They are locked away. I shall deal with it later.
"Why are you… helping me…?"
She glares a hole through the nonexistent ground.
A mixture of pain and hope churns within her golden irises.
"—Because I am curious."
"About what?"
Salter huffs.
"The day I drew the sword, I suppressed the girl I once was beneath a wall of iron and magic, but I did not kill her. Yet here you stand, a separate person. In you I see myself, but you are also a stranger. That idealistic child is not strong enough. She cannot stand by herself as a complete person. It is not possible. Why, then, are you alive in this place? Why are you still here, if your wish upon the Grail should have annihilated you, down to your last spark of prana?"
The icy stare washes over me. Disgust crinkles her nose.
"You are a fake, Artoria. Twisted. Ourselves, but forcibly reversed. Thy beliefs are not thine own. We… I… would never choose him over our country. Both he and I know that. We accept that. Everything you are comes from the Grail's corruption. You are a facsimile born of that wish; from you it stripped all that makes you Artoria Pendragon. Your pride. Your passion. Your goals. You cling to him because he is the one thing irrelevant to the crown. He belongs to the girl, not the kingdom. He is all you have left."
Seething, I blow a wayward strand of hair out of my eyes.
He told me to find something we all share in common.
I think I am beginning to understand.
It is hypocrisy.
"You claim you would never choose him, so why did you not agree with the others? Sending him back preserves your—"
"My kingdom is gone."
…
A quiet admittance, heavy, tinged with all the world's weight.
Here she stands alone.
Scarred, blackened, all her efforts in vain.
Her Britain will never be saved.
Salter steps forward, her sabatons clanking.
She cradles one of my bangs in her palm.
"Your wish is our own. Were I to make it, I would forget everything. I would become you. That is unacceptable. As long as my memories remain intact, my country shall survive. You and I are quite compatible, Artoria. That is why we get along so admirably. We are both former prisoners of the Grail, both corrupted, both betrayers of our Master. But we know something the others do not: we know he can be selfish. The more I think of the day he showed me his merciful knife, the more I come to the realization that I wanted to be his Sakura. I am better than her. I deserve him. I want him for myself. He is a suitable reward, is he not? One worthy of fallen kings such as we."
"—I have never and will never betray him, no matter what you say. How I arrived in this place has no bearing on the person I am now."
That is my truth.
The words leave my lips irrespective of my thoughts.
I care not about this 'past life'. I remember nothing.
'Tis one more of my alternate selves.
And if I did abandon him, it is not worth recalling.
"Denial always comes first, child. But fret not."
Salter tilts her head. Her armor burns away, replaced by a frilly black dress.
A chilling smile curls her pale lips.
Chilling to others, perhaps.
For me, it is a cool drink on a sweltering day.
She and I, I realize, are kindred spirits.
Abandoned in time's weave, lost and forgotten to all save him.
"For if you are a fake, so too am I," she admits.
"We are both Altered distortions of that woman in Avalon. The mud has burned away those chains called King Arthur. So if those fools continue to stumble on the ruinous path we have already trekked, we need only to force them off the road, and…"
She leans in and nudges my bang away.
Salter whispers in my ear, like a fellow village girl spreading a debased conspiracy.
"…convince them otherwise…"
A shiver rushes up my back.
My counterpart pulls away.
Her index finger traces my jaw.
"After all…"
Her smile grows maniacal.
The memories of my Saber self play out behind her.
Those two men, clashing in that church.
The realization they - and now she - have made.
"Nowhere does it state a pair of fakes cannot surpass the originals."
Artoria woke up screaming.
The kind of scream vocalized by a person on death's door. The kind of scream he heard from every direction as he stumbled through the blaze that claimed his original family. The kind of scream he refused to hear from the girl at his side.
Desperate for reprieve, both for her and for himself, Shirou did the one thing he could, and pulled her into a crushing hug. She spasmed and twitched in his arms, her shriek muffled by his tunic, and he closed his eyes and held her steady as she dug her nails through his tunic and into his back and shoulders.
Needless to say, something had happened. People didn't just wake in the middle of the night howling bloody murder. Her terror gave way to choking gasps; deprived of air, she pulled away, gulping down breath, eyes wide and unfocused. Shirou forced himself into her field of view. He needed to return her to the present.
"Artoria!"
She blinked once, twice. Artoria's gaze focused - and then she recoiled, as if struck. A low wail built in her throat.
"Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry—!"
It started soft and grew louder with each mumbled apology. A stream of one word, something he didn't understand, yet for some reason loathed all the same. Why was she apologizing when she hadn't done anything wrong? What had she seen? He had many questions, and not enough answers. Shirou squeezed her shoulders, noting her pale skin. Altered again, for reasons unknown.
"Artoria! Saber! What's wrong? What happened?"
Her reaction was the opposite of what he intended and expected. Shirou recognized the flickering pain in her wide, golden eyes, that thousand yard stare.
Trauma. Post-traumatic stress. And 'Saber' was a trigger word. Hissing at his own foolishness, he pulled the girl back in to his chest and wrapped her up in a protective bear hug. He tried - failed - to ignore her panicked wheezing. His mind raced through all the conceivable possibilities, searched for anything with the potential to cause such a drastic change in the span of a few hours. He should've known better than to assume her merge was flawless. He'd done the same, after all: in that life, he pushed and poked at Archer's arm until…
—Tch.
"We're okay, Artoria. Focus on my voice."
She was never one to physically cling, across all their lives, but she did so now. Like she feared his disappearance or abandonment if she let go. Something wet his tunic. Tears?
"I'm not going anywhere, I promise. I'm right here."
A shudder wracked her body.
"Th-They—S-Salter stopped them…! Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry—!"
…
They always did this. They always moved too fast. Jumped into the deep end of the pool before learning how to swim. She couldn't reconcile her memories, she couldn't forgive herself. And the presence of her Altered state likely meant…
Shit.
"What did Salter stop?"
Another rasping gasp. Her yellow eyes took his person in, committed him to memory. An existential crisis, he guessed, judging from the way she tried to ground herself in the present.
"They… they thought we should send you back! I tried to tell them no, but… but…!"
—He thought the trigger would've been something related to Britain, not him. How touching.
"Of course they thought that. It's the correct choice, given the situation. In order to send me here, Alaya had to sacrifice thousands of timelines. It's not just about us, Artoria. Those people matter too."
She balled his tunic between her fists.
"Do not say that! I do not care about them!"
…
Shirou couldn't understand what had her all worked up. He'd long ago made peace with his situation. He tried to keep his head up and keep sight of the positives. Sure, he was technically a mass murderer. Sure, those people had families. Sure, it was theoretically possible to save them all without bloodshed, given the butterfly effect and the potential for earlier interventions. But the past was the past, his presence was necessary, and for every person he culled, a thousand more would continue to smile. By no means was that what he had in mind when he started on his long path, but… in the end, he preferred being a Counter Guardian over just wasting away, feeling sorry for himself.
"If I'm sent to kill people, Artoria, it's because if I don't, billions more will die."
"Then that taskmaster should send someone else! Surely it has more than one Guardian in its employ!"
"It does."
"Then why must it be you?!"
He didn't know. The question was moot, pointless. If Alaya had conscious thought - and that was a very large, very doubtful if - then it operated on a level far beyond mere humans.
"…I don't have the answer to that."
Nor did he see a way to tell her that her alternate selves… weren't her alternate selves anymore. At least, not without deepening her existential crisis. Salter, Saber, the Lancers - they had a name, and that name was 'Artoria Pendragon'. Her. The 'Salter' who she claimed stopped the others was, in truth, just the trembling girl in his arms confronting her own logic far too early, and then recoiling in horror and fear. So she did the one thing she thought safe, and disassociated herself from the roles she held in other timelines. She wasn't the King of Knights, she couldn't be. They were the King of Knights.
But she was they, and sooner or later, she needed to confront her demons.
Shirou internally cursed his own stupidity. He saw it coming a mile away, but naively thought that somehow, Artoria as she was now could handle the burden. Saber did the same thing, back then. For the longest time she denied the girl inside her. The king attempted to save her country through a method of last resort - the Holy Grail, metaphorically and literally - without realizing her selfish wish belonged not to Arthur Pendragon, but rather Artoria, the girl hiding within the armor. Born from the same vehement denial that now plagued her in this life, she charged headlong into her idealism and not once considered the consequences. The village girl refused to believe her country could suffer such a violent death. She refused to believe the endless sacrifices she made time and time again were, in the end, pointless.
'I'm not good enough. Someone else can definitely save Britain.'
One final sacrifice, suicide through eloquent means. She willingly marched to her own demise, and it took everything he had - up to and including the confrontation of his own past - to pull her back from the brink. A pair of hypocrites, the two of them, and that was why he loved her.
Here they both sat, in an ironic reversal of that treasured journey. Just as the king denied the girl, the girl now denied the king. Artoria refused to believe she had it in herself to sacrifice her dearest companion for the sake of the nameless multitude. She refused to believe she could abandon him for her ideals, or raze a town to protect ten more, or sacrifice a family to starvation and a bloody death on the battlefield so the vast majority could live in ignorant peace. And no matter where she looked, no matter which of the four lives she recounted, the answer was always the same:
Yes, she could. Yes, she did.
And she did so countless times.
She squeezed herself against him and buried her face in his tunic with the same desperation with which she clung to her memories as Saber Alter. The insanity on his face as he condemned an entire world for one girl's sake, the steel gleam of his ruined body as he leaped in front of Excalibur's blackened release, the grief she probably saw as he lowered Azoth into her chest. She knew by now that they mirrored each other. Their minds worked in the exact same way. Logic, then, told her that any worldview he possessed, she could also adopt.
She wanted to be that way, too. She wanted to be greedy.
"Artoria."
She stiffened, wheezed out a moan. He flanked her apology before she could see it prepared.
"I'm not going to leave you."
She hiccuped, his tunic became damp. Shirou was glad that in this life, at least, she allowed herself to cry.
A cruel twist, one he wouldn't wish on even that asshole Gilgamesh. Her bleakest life, her darkest memories, had become her light at the end of the tunnel. She swam a similar path down a different river, but both connected to the same, vast sea, the one called Avalon. Once she learned to accept herself, once she found a way past all her lifetimes of guilt, the memories of those fifteen days awaited her as the reward.
Both the king and the girl needed to learn how to become Saber.
"Y-You… will not go b-back?"
Shirou ran his hand through her hair.
"No. I've decided to retire and settle down somewhere nice."
Not like he had much of a choice… though if he was honest with himself, he enjoyed Alaya's parting deployment more by the day. An eternity of slavery? Yeah. His interventions rendered pointless and those timelines marked for incineration anyway? Not exactly a fan, but yeah. And his reward for suffering through all of this stupidity? For dealing with one too many mental breakdowns and more personal deaths than he could count?
Her arms tightened around his waist, an insecure girl laying claim to the one possession she'd ever truly owned. Artoria sniffled. His soaked tunic muffled her small, childish whisper.
"With me?"
His reward for all of the bullshit was the clingiest version of Saber yet, and a chance to find his guiding star.
Worth it?
Shirou fought off his smile, though his lips still quivered. Now wasn't the time to laugh, so to distract himself, he focused on tracing gentle circles between her shoulders.
"Sword and scabbard, idiot…"
She replied with a short, crisp nod. He snorted.
Hell yes, worth it. Let it burn.
"It came from over here."
The moment passed with a distant third voice carried on the night's wind. Soft-spoken, masculine, unfamiliar. Shirou frowned and made to stand.
"—Stay inside, Artoria. You're still recovering."
Her panic returned; she grabbed at his sleeve.
"S-Saber, but…!"
He flashed her a soft smile.
"They're coming this way. I won't go far, don't worry."
He left through the tent's flap. The stars shone high above late winter's trees, twinkling but also fading, for the coming dawn's glow peeked beyond the horizon. A new day was about to emerge, and with that new day…
"—Ah."
…came a man.
A young man on adulthood's cusp, identical in height, a bit thinner in build. Held himself with the self-assured confidence of a warrior on a mission, one trained well in the things he would need to see it to completion. Green eyes and blonde hair.
Despite this first encounter, Shirou Emiya recognized the stranger immediately. He knew his name. He knew his deeds, his legends, his myriad feats. He knew the battles the man would fight, and the things the man would sacrifice, and the look upon the man's face as he died on a hill by his own son's blade. To call him a 'stranger' was equivalent to calling Artoria just another person on the street.
…
…
This meeting, between these two men…
"Y-You're…?!"
"My apologies, I heard a damsel's shout, and…"
…was never meant to happen.
…
…
And the wind tousled their hair, and rustled their clothes. And the witch Merlin watched from the trees, and Artoria, in spite of Shirou's insistence, poked her head out of the tent.
These four people - these two men - would together accomplish miracles. The songs would echo for millennia.
Of the legendary king, the savior of humanity, who asked:
"What is your name?"
And of his high spark, his inspiration, who replied:
"Shirou Emiya."
…
"'Tis a pleasure. I am—"
"—Arthur."
The girl approached. Gold met green, twin met twin.
"You are Arthur Pendragon."
The young knight took a breath, his exhale condensed. Into the silvery skies it swirled, lost amongst the stars and the rising sun.
"If you know me, then… you are my sister, Artoria Pendragon?"
His hand came up, offered at once, and she replied in kind. The man's eyes sparkled, so very full of hope.
"I… am glad to have finally met you!"
She buried her somber regret within a curtain of cheerful delight. So many lost, so many crimes, all to unfold again. Artoria masked her pain, as to not ruin the moment, and instead offered her brother the prideful nod that had seen her through to her world's ending, time and time again.
"Yes. Likewise."
So met the Once and Future Kings, under the red knight's watchful eye.
Bedivere felt like a man-shaped pile of steaming horse excrement.
Not unexpected. Yesterday's training lasted longer than normal, what with the preparations of the coming retaliation against Cornwall and the Mad Duke. Swordplay, strategies, meetings and assignments and the fitting of armor. It was completely normal to be this exhausted; Bedivere experienced similar fatigue many times over his life, he knew what to expect and how to recover. Warm meals, lots of rest, and if needed, two mugs of mead.
"Haa… haa…"
The inner fire broiling his heart and lungs told Bedivere that whatever plagued him now was not the typical soreness of overwork.
Every breath he took sent agonizing chills down into his toes. Simultaneously too hot and too cold, the air stung his lips and dried his sinuses and pounded against his temples. Pressure mounted against the stump that used to be his right arm. His muscles screamed whenever he tried to shift positions. Everything ached. He was miserable. And so he lay there, that human pile of feces, and mulled over the potential source of his sudden woes. He'd not felt this way yesterday. Training didn't cause it. Was it something he ate? Had those Cornish folk poisoned him? Had the devil entered through some wound he'd failed to notice?
He stared an exhausted hole through the barrack's wooden ceiling. Bedivere fought against his eyes' closing. He didn't want to sleep, because the pestilence brought with it disturbed, demented dreams.
"Getlam! Getlam, get up!"
He struggled and he wheezed, and with a wrathful shout punched the rubble off his body. The pollution swirled around his right arm. Flickering lights momentarily blinded him, but a hand reached down to offer support. He took it; an ally hoisted him to his feet. Armored head to toe in some unknown ashen metal, the man offered a resigned, tired nod. A pale green square outlined the helmet, foreign words he somehow understood appeared from nothingness. The display named this man 'Gilfaeth, Second of Eight'.
"We need to leave," the warrior rasped.
"Did… did it just—?"
"Ash and rubble, Getlam. They're gone."
"…Where's Bouteil?"
He didn't recognize his own voice. Deeper, burlier, world-weary, stoic. Too much death, too much loss. In one fell stroke did the towering humanoid render old humanity extinct, and he didn't feel a thing. All they could do was fight to their last breath, kicking and screaming into the black night.
To honor the High Spark, who had given them everything, they needed to try to survive. They owed him that much.
"I'm here. Take your time. Not like Jupiter's gonna kill us any second or anything, no sir."
Off to his left, another knight watched them whilst levitating an entire city's worth of rubble over their heads by means of the pollution's tendrils. The display repeated the process, marked this one 'Bouteil, Third of Eight'. He allowed himself an inkling of relief - his family lived, his Seat survived to the next calamity. His right arm aimed at the sky, fist closed.
"Flash."
The rubble disappeared, vaporized in one titanic burst of directed energy. Bouteil sighed and slouched.
"Thanks."
"How long was I out?"
"Not long," Gilfaeth huffed. "Amhren and Eneu went to scout our exit. Bedrawd went with them to keep them out of trouble."
He didn't bother surveying their surroundings. No survivors. There never were. His periphery caught the Aristotele's ominous shadow, stretching over the horizon, as black and tainted as the monstrosity itself. One attack razed the bastion of the Last Seeds to the ground. Just the tainted remained now, the Liners and the A-Rays. The Grain claimed them all.
A buzz in his ear disrupted his thoughts. It heralded a jovial voice, one he knew well.
"—Getlam Air, are you there?"
Notes' ink, how he hated that damn…
"Do you need to say it every single time, Ginus?"
Ginus Lon, First Knight of the Second Seat, well known for his aloof humor and nihilist cheer. If he didn't laugh, he would cry. So he chose the former.
"I've news, ol' Bedwyr."
Using his given name and not his title meant the news was bad, not good.
"And that is?"
…
He felt it as his fellow knight spoke. That chill. That ominous, frosty wind. So he turned, and in the distance…
"Edem's coming."
…saw a bloodied young man, a lone survivor, digging a black rifle from the rubble.
Bedivere's eyes snapped open, he jolted awake. No breath greeted him, something clogged his throat. He choked, gasping, pulled himself into a seated position so fast he nearly threw out his back. His stump throbbed. His body felt heavy; something weighed it down, something invasive. It shouldn't be there, he didn't want it there, it needed to leave—
"Ngrrk—!"
Vomit slashed against the floor, silver in color. Pain lanced up his chest and into his right shoulder. Twitching, Bedivere lost control of himself; he howled. The noise awoke Tristan in the bed next to his, who leaped to his feet in nary a second, head on a swivel. Sleep's caress left him with one look at Bedivere's condition.
"Bedi—by the gods, man, what…!"
Tristan fetched a candle, then scrambled to Bedivere's side. Once lit he used it to illuminate his fellow's features; Bedivere flinched away from the light, but that was the least of the redhead's worries. He hissed in worry.
"Christ Almighty…"
Metallic muck dripped down Bedivere's chin. Not a sickness, not in the slightest, but something far more ominous indeed. Tristan pressed the back of his hand to the sick man's forehead. Hot to the touch, like wood in a fire. Scalding. Another choking cough splattered more of the stuff along the floor and the bedpost, so Tristan removed his tunic and pushed it up against Bedivere's mouth.
"Use this, here. I'll wake the others."
"N-Nay, I… I d-don't…"
"Palamedes! Palamedes, on your feet! Bors!"
The two men grumbled and blinked themselves awake with speed befitting soldiers raised in perpetual conflict. Bors pushed his thumb and index up into his eyes, shook his head, stood to find a weapon.
"—Th' Cornish…?"
"Nay! Bedivere!"
More retching. It coated the entirety of his throat, stole the air his lungs needed. It weighed on his very bones. Tristan's shirt darkened under the strange vomit's taint, and that was all Palamedes needed to see to start barking orders. He scrambled to the window to check the stars; the sun stained the horizon orange.
"Just before sunrise. Bors, fetch Medraut, have her bring two pails, one with water! She'll be up at this hour!"
"Aye!"
He scrambled out the door. Palamedes turned to Tristan.
"Are you sick?"
"Nay, not yet. I've no idea how long he's suffered."
Bedivere bowled over at the waste. He heaved, he shook. Palamedes dropped into a squat, to make eye contact.
"Bedivere! Bedi, can you hear me?"
A weak nod was the response.
"Can you breathe?"
He shook his head and gestured to his lower throat. Palamedes scrambled onto the bed, wrapped his arms about the man's torso, and shoved his locked fists up into his diaphragm. Nothing. Again. Bedivere coughed up something reminiscent of a phlegm-like hairball, which spilled onto the floor, into the pool of silver vomit. He gasped for air, took a painful breath. Tristan wiped at his mouth with the ruined tunic.
"Th-The devil…!" the one-armed man wheezed. "'T-Tis… the devil…!"
Tristan scowled. "Something he ate, perhaps?"
"Nay," Palamedes countered. "We'd have seen them slip something. Bedivere, when did this start?"
"Last… night…"
"Where do you ail?"
"My… my bones, my chest…! They shan't stop… burning…!"
Bedivere thought himself a dead man. He knew not what cursed him so, he just knew it hurt. His soul burned in a never ending inferno. In his chest, down his extremities. Pulsing, throbbing, a muck that sought to drown him. Sweat dripped into his eyes and pooled against his upper lip. Palamedes' beady eyes narrowed.
"Tristan, help me get his tunic off."
"Aye."
They yanked it off his person in one quick motion. Bedivere's pupils spasmed and dilated. Both men flinched away.
"Wh-What in the—?!"
"Jesus Christ!"
The sound of feet on floorboards bled in from beyond the door. It slammed open; Bors and Medraut stumbled in with the pails, only to recoil in horror at the sight before them.
Someone with a layman's knowledge of twenty-first century medicine, someone like Shirou or Rin - were they to look at Bedivere's ailment, they would first think it cancer. These men and women of the sixth century knew little of the human body and its typical functioning. Disease was attributed to possession, to acts of faith or the lack thereof. But despite their lack of information, they did not lack common sense. They were not stupid barbarians. And in their guts and in their minds, they knew whatever afflicted Bedivere was, in a word, wrong.
It was wrong. Incorrect. No disease, no bacteria, no parasite or fungus or act of God could fundamentally alter a man in so little time. It stained his skin, it shifted visibly within his chest, surging as it descended his arm and legs. His muscles coiled, his blackened veins twisted around his palm and fingers. Whatever eldritch tumors lurked within his body had already contaminated every facet of his being. No cell, no nerve, was left untouched.
Medraut lowered the pail, lest her shaking hands spill the water.
"Oh, I'm gonna puke…"
Bedivere hyperventilated. He risked a look at his body. Tristan blocked his view.
"Don't look. 'Tis fine, Bedivere. You're… you're fine…"
"It… it h-hurts…" he stammered. "What… is…?"
Despite the warning, he turned his gaze lower, to where the contamination bubbled against the scarred stump that was his right shoulder. Silvered, liquid metal oozed from its mangled ruins.
"Aaah… aaahh—!"
His subconscious mind flipped a switch. It hurt. He wanted it to stop hurting. He wanted it out… and so, all at once, it ripped and tore through the scarred tissue in one almighty, sickening river. The silver squelched, flowed, merged with his right shoulder, until it resembled little more than an amorphous blob extending down to his thigh. Bedivere couldn't take it; he collapsed to the floor in a panic, overwhelmed by the strange substance. A crazed scream fought past the remaining liquid still clogging his throat. He grabbed and pulled at the mutation, all to no avail.
"No, no, no, no, no no nonononoooo—!"
History may not repeat, but it does rhyme.
Chief among those tried-and-true patterns is humanity's will to survive.
No matter the origin of the apocalypse or its later happenings, the truth remained thus:
In that timeline, in that year, the Age of Man ended, and the Age of Gods returned.
What are Ether Liners, if not men turned gods?
Fate/ess
At the tender age of twelve, as he and Tristan fled for their lives, young Bedivere lost his arm in a Cornish ambush.
What now contaminated his body - what now seeped from the mangled stump - was not the Spider's tainted Grain, but its distant, mysterious relative.
Just as magical. Just as potent.
Something not seen in millennia.
True Ether.
Return - 1
In another world, in another place, they would call what came of this delirious panic a Noble Phantasm.
That phrase, 'Noble Phantasm', implies something ephemeral.
A distinguished apparition.
A grand fantasy.
Fleeting and inconsequential.
Apparitions and fantasies could not hope to challenge the eldritch horrors terrorizing their world.
"Bedivere! Bedivere, you must calm thyself! I beseech thee!"
"It burns! It burns it burns it burns—!"
"Medraut! Find… f-find Lord Ector! With haste!"
"Wh-What… r-right! Right, r-right! Holy shit, holy sh—"
So rather than receiving a Noble Phantasm, the future knight instead grew an arm.
A.D. 506: THE HUMAN ORDER EVOLUTION INCIDENT
A Knight Arm.
…
OMAKE
...
"Sis?"
"Hm?"
"Papa's doing the thing again."
"Like, just the thing? Or the thing plus Illya?"
Sakura Pendragon points off into the distance, where Ado Edem and their oldest sister, Illyasviel, sit together, writing away with the Grain from their respective Knight Arms. They're surrounded by a downright excessive amount of paper. The two girls, familiar as they are with this sight, know that Saber's journal is buried beneath the chaos.
Dear reader: if you're wondering how Ado still has Shirou's journal after giving it away, it's because Ado Edem has at least ten copies of Shirou's journal. The original variant, not the Angel's Notes.
The second eldest, Miyu, floats down from above.
"Just let them be, you know how they…"
A cloud of dust gives her pause. When it clears, Sakura and Miyu can see Rin towering over the duo, hands on her hips.
"…are…"
Miyu sighs. She looks to the ceiling.
"Mamaaaaaa!"
Over by Ado and Illya, Rin taps her foot.
"What are you doing now?!"
The two share a look. Ado lifts up the tiniest version of Slash Emperor imaginable, roughly the length and thickness of a pencil. His helmet tilts.
"Recording differences."
"You're such workaholics! The omake is starting soon! It can wait!"
Illya gives her best impression of her father. Her voice lowers three octaves.
"'Fresh in the mind, fresh on the page'."
Ado sniffles, though it's muffled under the helmet.
"I'm so proud. You always were my favorite daughter, Illya."
"Hmm?"
Another plume of dust. Sakura tilts her helmet out from behind Rin. One doesn't need to see her face to recognize the ominous grin she wears.
"But Papa, you've always said that I'm your favorite."
And there's Miyu, now, too.
"Nope. I'm his favorite."
Rin just keeps tapping her foot. The four daughters lean in; Edem stiffens.
"Paaapa."
"Paaapa."
"Paaapa."
"Paaapa."
Irisviel floats around their family, chortling.
"My, my, Kiri. You've been caught again."
Without a word, the man collects the various papers cataloging the differences between Shirou's first life and this newest one. He stuffs both them and the copy of the Notes into his armor; how they all fit, nobody knows.
"—The omake is starting. Let us go."
Before they can say anything else, the man breaks into a Grain-fueled sprint. Illya cracks her knuckles.
"Later?"
"Later."
"Later."
"Later."
A temporary, necessary alliance, one a certain orb notices. It drifts in from the side.
"Hoho! Family difficulties? Fear not! I can help with—"
Illya's fist connects with the avatar. It's blasted off-screen.
"—AGH!"
The curtain falls, then rises.
…
Memelord Alaya presents:
The Second Chaldean War for Dessert
...
The video begins.
Archer clears his throat, oddly perturbed, and checks his surroundings before looking to the camera. Though his posture isn't visible, from the camera's angle he seems to be hunched over or crouched, like a journalist hunkered in the middle of a conflict. Stark white fills the rest of the frame; his current location can't be determined. He talks at a whisper.
"Master. I have projected this device for the purpose of providing a record regarding the current situation. I will attempt to leave it in a safe place, but cannot guarantee its survival. I fear the base's destruction may be imminent, unless a solution is—one moment."
Archer looks off-camera.
"Old man, what's the situation?"
The video shifts a bit to get someone else on the screen. A flash of red ducks into cover. Senji Muramasa wipes the sweat from his brow, equally distraught, and risks a glance around the door frame.
"We're up shit's creek, kid. Yer little lady friend almost saw me."
"—My apologies. Saber is…"
Muramasa waves him off.
"I get it. More importantly, it's a stand off. One wrong move and we'll all be caught in the chaos, y'hear? Reminds me of the time that brat Musashi shoveled too much charcoal into the ol' forge. You know them Pendragon girls best, kid - got any ideas?"
"I need to see what they're doing."
Archer turns to someone else out of frame. The camera shakes and clicks as it's extended.
"Here. Hold this, keep it steady."
A girlish voice squeaks.
"A-Aye, Mr. Emiya!"
With the new angle, their location becomes clearer. Archer and Muramasa are inside the massive walk-in storage area within Chaldea's cafeteria, where all the various ingredients are kept. The normally well-stocked shelves are empty, and the door is cracked ajar. The video blurs to a new angle.
"Hi Master! Hi Miss Mash!"
It's Artoria Lily. She offers the camera a small wave.
"I am a… um… a… a war correspondent! War correspondent Lily! Aye!"
Eyes twinkling, she flashes a thumbs up, then returns the feed to its correct positioning. Archer stalks up to the door, peeks through the crack. His whole body seems to shudder with fright; the man whirls back into the room.
"—Lily. The camera."
"'kay!"
She approaches Archer, who gestures for her to push the camera up against the crack. The resulting image blurs momentarily, then clears: tables and chairs overturned; a fire burns in the corner; various Servants unconscious and bloodied; a downright oppressive amount of prana swirling like ominous smog; four Pendragons, two Sabers and two Lancers. Saber, Salter, Lancer, Lalter.
Eyes shadowed, they stand around a single table in the center of the cafeteria, covered in their armor, with weapons at the ready. And upon that table…
"As you can see, Master: the situation is dire."
…is a single slice of immaculate, untouched, strawberry shortcake.
[PAUSED]
"Oi! Which one of you blasphemers paused the omake?!"
Tine Galat, Ether Liner inheritor of Sir Gawain's seat at the Round Table, shuffles in front of the paused screen.
"Hang on, hang on, it's necessary!"
He clears his throat and summons the copied Galatine, gestures to the paused omake as a teacher points to a chalkboard with a yardstick. The Knight Arm taps against Salter's frozen image.
"Dear readers! To clarify, this isn't the Salter you regularly see in Fateless. It's a different Salter, a fake approximation, summoned to Chaldea using data from the Throne. The Salter in the main story is the one from the Heaven's Feel true ending - like that woman in Avalon, she was a living person, and was never recorded as a Heroic Spiri—"
"By the High Spark, Tine, they get it!"
"Get out of the way, ya oversized A-Ray! This is the best part!"
A bunch of Grain-filled water balloons are chucked onto the stage. Galat stumbles back to his seat.
"Alright, alright! Notes' ink, a guy tries to help…"
"Hey, question. What's a 'strawberry'?"
"I'unno. Knight Arm, maybe?"
"No, idiot, you can't eat a Knight Arm. Obviously it's some kind of Grain supplement."
"Nevermind the strawberry, look at HIM! The High Spark's a total STUD!"
"Eeeeeeee~!"
"Eeeeeeee~!"
"Dight! Control your Seat, woman!"
"The Fourth will fangirl if the Fourth so chooses! Excellent taste, ladies!"
"We love you, High Spark~!"
"We love you, High Spark~!"
[UNPAUSED]
It's clear that, given the current predicament, one wrong move will spell disaster, not just for Archer's ragtag band, but for Chaldea as a whole. Indeed, allowing this to continue might invoke the Counter Guardians. Their timeline might be pruned. Zelretch might shit his pants in seven dimensions! A pan-dimensional shit! All of human history reduced to rubble over this legendary lust for dessert! Their cafeteria is now a Lostbelt! Depth rating: SHIROU-I-AM-HUNGRY!
"I incorrectly assumed the pantry had been stocked," Archer admits. "I didn't realize the supply teams were behind schedule, and when I noticed after making the first shortcake… it was too late. My apologies, Master. They've been like this for the better part of a half hour."
Saber lifts Excalibur like one prepares for the End Times.
"I propose dividing it into fourths."
Salter raises Excalibur Morgan in reply.
"Touch the dessert, other me, and thou shalt be a stain upon the wall."
"—Hoh. I do not recall asking your opinion."
"I am not asking. I am telling."
Lancer scoffs. "Neither of you deserve such elegance. It is mine."
Lalter merely hums. The room begins to shake; the walls crack, the floor splinters, the tables shatter like twigs. Archer swallows, and takes the camera from Lily. Faced with no other option, he activates the Method of Last Resort. He passes her an old MP3 player.
"Lily: SABERCON 1."
It's like a flip's been switched. The girl's face goes solemn, and she nods with the weight of the world on her shoulders.
"Understood, Mr. Emiya!"
She pulls Caliburn from the ether, kicks open the door, drops into a roll and emerges in the cafeteria in a kneeling position. She holds the sword like one does a long rifle, shouldered and at the ready.
"Nobody move! This is the Pendragon Police!"
The insufferable tension gives way to abject fear. The kings whirl in place, terror in their eyes.
"H-Her?!"
"Of all the times, why…!"
Archer uses the opportunity to project a megaphone. He walks out the door, the camera held in his free hand.
"Attention, food terrorists: you are being indicted for excessive gluttony and crimes against humanity. Through the powers vested in me by Upper Management, I am authorized to use deadly force if you do not vacate the premises. Step away. From the shortcake."
Salter attempts to engage.
"Ha! Thy threats mean nothing to—"
pew pew pew
She drops like a rock. Excalibur Morgan clatters to the floor; the young woman's hands grab at her groin, and a weak moan spills through grit teeth. Lancer and Lalter both screech in horror. They break for the hallway.
pew pew pew
pew pew pew
Archer wipes away a tear. He'll remember these war crimes forever.
"Don't make this hard on yourself, Saber. Surrender peacefully."
Instead, Saber dives to the floor. She hoists the downed Salter as a human shield, grabs the shortcake with her other hand, and backs for the exit. Lily fires. More beams of light strike Salter's waist, and the blackened king howls in agony. Her hands clamp down in a futile effort to protect the king's throne. Saber takes her chance - she drops Salter and bolts with the dessert secured. Her shout echoes from down the hall.
"You shan't ever take me alive!"
Archer clucks his tongue. "Lily, after her."
The girl nods; she taps the 'play' button on the MP3 player. What comes from the speaker isn't a song, but her own voice on repeat, recorded and looped from the prior War for Dessert, in case these events ever unfolded again.
Phrased eloquently: it's Lily's attempt at police sirens.
'Wee-woo wee-woo wee-woo! Wee-woo wee-woo wee-woo!'
She runs out the door, hot on Saber's trail.
"10-35! Major crime alert! Unit in pursuit!"
The camera whirls back to the supply area's entrance, just in time to see Muramasa stick his head past the door frame. Every well-toned muscle glistens with existential dread…
…
Or maybe his host's abs are just that perfect?
…
Questions for another day.
"If I could take some more of your time, old man… we could use your help."
Muramasa waves him off.
"'Course I'll help. Someone's gotta keep you youngsters outta trouble. Same old, same old, yeah?"
A turquoise glow off-screen signals another one of Archer's mysterious projections - he exchanges the megaphone for something new. He tosses a brown and fuzzy item in Muramasa's direction, then reorients the camera to survey the cafeteria's damage. The old blacksmith's sandals appear for just a moment, headed in the direction of the exit.
"Correct," Archer confirms. "We'll meet you there."
"Got it."
He departs in the opposite direction Saber and Lily ran, perhaps to cut them off. Archer steps over the war torn ruins; it looks like something out of Singularity F. The camera catches a hint of bloodied blue spandex. Archer shifts it to his face, in an obvious attempt at censorship. The younger Servants shouldn't witness such heinous carnage. His lips tighten into a serious, thin line. His jaw clenches.
"—Lancer died."
Seventy-eight horrified gasps ring out from the Ether Liner audience.
"You aren't human!"
…
"Wait, are we allowed to say that? I mean, technically speaking…"
"Shut uuuup."
He steps out of the cafeteria and picks up the pace. The camera blurs from the speed.
"She will attempt to lock herself in her room, Master. I am en route to that location."
Archer knows all the shortcuts. He dashes through Chaldea, leaps down entire flights of stairs, dodges a myriad Servants in their own little conversations or handling their own business - all of whom seem to know the reasons underlining his expeditious behavior, if their smiles and attitudes are anything to go by. At one point he's stopped by a certain Norse couple; a large spear protrudes from the center of the man's chest, right through his heart, though he seems oddly at peace with the whole ordeal. He gestures down the next intersection.
"Ah, Emiya. They went that way."
A geyser of blood erupts when the woman pulls the weapon from his body. She offers it to Archer.
"You may borrow it if you wish, Emiya. It works wonders!"
His free hand extends in front of the camera frame, waves a bit, as if to deny the gift.
"—Ah. Thank you, Brynhildr, but it will give her the wrong impression."
She pauses, her head tilts.
"The King of Knights is the jealous type…?"
And then she wraps herself around Sigurd's arm, bouncing in place.
"That is so cuuuuuuute!"
He's said too much already. Archer dashes down the suggested hallway without another word. Sigurd's directions ring true; he hears a quarrel up ahead between two familiar people. A flash of gold and white ducks behind the nearest wall. He can't blame Lily - he hates dealing with that obnoxious person just as much.
"Out of my way!"
"Hoho, playing hard to get as usual, are we? What's the rush, Saber? You could at least say hello!"
Stupid idiot doesn't know. He'll learn soon enough.
"I am warning you, King of Heroes. I am not in the... nay, I am never in the mood, but not right now, especially."
"Ah, but I am! Come, you have time to sp—HRGH?!"
Her greave leaves his groin, Gilgamesh bends ninety degrees at the waist. Saber rolls over his back and makes her grand escape; the shortcake remains unharmed. In the audience, an Ether Liner whistles.
"Isn't that Tine's move?"
A figure leaps from his seat, arms lifted in celebration. The movie screen shadows his armored figure.
"Lady Artoria used my move! I'M SO HONORED!"
The knight behind him whacks him over the head with a Knight Arm.
"I can't see! Sit down!"
Gilgamesh collapses to his knees. Lily takes no chances. She rounds the corner, Caliburn aimed, and looses a deafening salvo into Uruk's Crown Jewels. She storms past, pointedly ignoring the King of Heroes' pained yelps.
"M-My kingdom... my beautiful kingdom…!"
Archer can't control himself; he spins back around the corner, camera on his face, desperately trying to control his laugh. His brow twitches, his mouth quivers.
…
He manages to steady himself. Archer clears his throat and takes a breath. He maneuvers into the hallway, the epitome of calm and cool, and strolls past Gilgamesh and an absolutely hysterical Enkidu.
"Gilgamesh. Enkidu."
Before he can clear the distance, a hand grabs his ankle. The seething king glares up at him, drenched in sweat, his teeth grit. He levels Archer with a hostile glare.
"Delete… the video…"
The camera blurs to Archer. Back to Gilgamesh. Back to Archer again. He calmly steps out of the weak hold. Something terrifying glints in the Guardian's eye. And with the power of Counter Force itself, Archer lays down the motherfucking law.
"No."
…
"Pffff—"
Enkidu can't take it. He braces himself against the wall, his shoulders shaking.
Archer walks away, eyes shadowed, his duty heavy. The scream of one more massacred victim resounds in his ears.
"FAKEEEEEER!"
He finally reaches the dormitories, the massive subsection built to house every Servant summoned. Some customized their second homes more than others; Archer used it to sleep the scant few hours he felt necessary, a holdover from his days among the living. He knows Saber feels the same.
He also knows her passcode.
The Guardian finds Saber and Lily in a tense stand-off outside the former's room. The older king has Excalibur braced in her armpit, while her free hand steadily sneaks to the keypad that will grant her entry.
"It is over, Lily," she urges. "I know your tricks. The advantage is lost. Leave me to my victory!"
Her younger self holds Caliburn steady. An ominous whisper marks the tension.
"Justice demands retribution."
The king tries again.
"We can… share…"
Saber is pained by her own words. She definitely does not want to share. Lily's resolve is impenetrable.
"I do not share with criminals."
A bead of sweat descends Saber's cheek. With her back up against the wall - literally - she betrays everything she holds dear, and takes the shortcake as a hostage. She positions it in front of her groin. Lily gasps.
"You dare sacrifice the innocent?!"
The King of Knights blinks away a lone tear.
"It is necessary."
Archer gets involved. He approaches, raises a hand to call Lily off.
"Lily, stand down. We cannot risk its harm."
A tense moment passes. At last, Lily lowers Caliburn. Her victory secured, Saber grins and inputs the code to her room. The small LED blinks from red to green, the door unlocks and slides open. She shoots Archer a victorious smirk.
"A reasonable man as always, Archer. Thank you for the mea—"
Her voice dies when she turns around. Saber freezes, stunned.
Muramasa reclines on her bed, facing the doorway.
His alluring pose is best described as, 'Draw me like one of your Round Table knights'.
He is completely nude.
A stuffed toy lion fashionably obscures his manly bits.
The blacksmith gives a smirk, and delivers his best impersonation of his host yet.
"Yo, Saber."
…
…
…
A tsunami of blood far exceeding the gaping hole in Sigurd's chest expels from Saber's nose. The force propels her back into Archer's waiting arms, and the strawberry shortcake launches into the air, its slow arc picturesque.
The food thankfully distracts Lily. She follows it as it flies, her jaw unhinges, the camera catches the glint of razor sharp, shark-like teeth, and—
"Aaaah…OM!"
…
Archer blocks her view while she chews, though it doesn't matter, since her eyes are closed. The atmosphere goes pink. Little flowers drift through the air. Her ahoge waggles.
"Dis ish sho good, Mishtur Emiya~"
"I'm glad you like it."
Results of the Second Chaldean War for Dessert:
Saber Lily (always) wins.
…
Muramasa steps outside, now clothed in the black and white samurai garb he's taken to wearing in the wake of Saber's demands. He rubs his neck, a bit tense.
"Your woman gonna yell at me again for this, kid?"
The camera, positioned on the room's desk, catches Archer lowering Saber into her bed.
"I'll tell her it was my idea. And she's not my woman."
Muramasa rolls his eyes, then tosses him the stuffed lion.
"They all say that. Well, whatever. You'll sort it out eventually. Need anything else?"
"No. Thank you again. I'm sorry for always involving you in this."
"I don't mind. Reminds me of my younger days, heh. I was quite the catch, ya know!"
Lily perks up, having just remembered something.
"Ah! Mr. Muramasa?"
"Yeah?"
"How did you get into older me's room? All of our rooms have different codes!"
Muramasa smirks, directs his thumb in Archer's direction.
"Ask her man, not me."
Lily blinks. She shoots Archer a questioning look.
"Mr. Emiya…?"
Caught red-handed, Archer sighs. He walks over to the camera and lifts it up as he speaks. His eyebrow won't stop its twitching.
He knows her passcode because it's also his passcode. A complete coincidence, of course. Of course.
"—Her code is the month and day we met."
The camera's playback ends.
…
…
…
…
Several hours later, Saber awakens with a start. It takes her a moment to process the events leading to her slumber.
"—How dare he! Why, when I am through…!"
Beyond pissed, she groggily shifts off her bed, armor fading to the ether, and stumbles to the small mini fridge underneath her desk - one of the few personal extra additions she'd requested be installed in her room. Her personal hidey-hole, she uses the fridge as a storage area for things made by a certain red knight, whether they be drinks - non-alcoholic, of course, because Archer refuses to deal with so-called 'drunk Saber', whatever that means, she can handle her drink, who is he to say she cannot?! - snacks, extra servings sneakily pilfered from her Lancer selves, or otherwise.
She's looking for water. She finds something else. Saber pulls out a freshly made slice of strawberry shortcake, and a note slipped underneath a fork.
'Ingredients came in.
In the future, please control yourself.
I needed to show Master the video to convince him your room wasn't a murder scene.'
…
She takes a vicious bite. An anger vein pops on her temple.
The shortcake is very good.
"Shirouuuuuuu!"