"Oi. You're killing my wallet here," Cú reprimanded, watching Ahnenerbe's most frequent customer wolf down yet another plate of George's penne pasta and quickly add it to the stack of dishes on his right. His boss had actually gotten used to the big man's appetite, and was already having a platter of shrimp prepped for delivery.

"Oh, come on, Child of Light, won't you treat a big fella this time?" his voice boomed. The low laughter that followed was positively earthshaking. The Irishman swore he saw the tableware move just from the pure vibration.

Cú sighed as he set down the fresh platter in front of the bulky king and relented. It wasn't like he had anyone else to treat, now that Diarmuid had a job and wouldn't eat a meal he didn't pay for (he tipped well too, even if Cú insisted he didn't need it. George took care of his employees. They had healthcare and everything.). Besides, he could tell Iskandar was getting just a little bit guilty from emptying the Matou pantry every few days.

He resignedly slinked into the booth. "Fine. But you owe me another sparring match. I need a little non-lancer variety."

Iskandar let out a big whoop and continued to gulp down the buttered shrimp. As he watched his buddy wolf down another plate, the Irishman's mind began to drift off. Of course, he was liking his new life. It was simple, but it was...relaxing. Playing Cú Chulainn in life was a lot more fast-paced, every day he woke up to the possibility that he may not return safe to his bed. It was a thrill, and a life he was proud of, but the security of being able to go home every night was very welcome, even if his "bed" was an old mattress in the abandoned flat his Master bought in the Fifth War. No one else would rent it after her body was discovered there, so as far as he was concerned, it was free real estate, as morbid as that thought was.

He was considering moving somewhere else. One more week and it would have been a month since he arrived and started working in Ahnenerbe. His deal with George was that he'd be paid in a combination of food and money, but the man paid him enough that even after all the times he'd brought Diarmuid and Iskandar in, he should be able to afford rent somewhere cheap and nearby. Anywhere would be better than Bazzett's flat. He couldn't bear to wake up every day reminded of one of his worst failures. Curse that Kirei. Was that bastard still alive? Perhaps he could change that.

For a while, Cú actually thought of moving in with Iskandar. He was living in an abandoned house in the rural area, one that he explained he used to live in during his war, but between the mass of muscle and the multiple iterations of Hassan-i-Sabbah's, he believed they wouldn't really have space, even considering Alexander the Great's many amorous escapades both with his fellow Rider and the other greek muscle-head. Besides, he wasn't sure if the brawny hero was romantically engaged with the assassins. If he was, he'd hate to have to sleep through a harem every now and then.

Cú looked up to see the King of Conquerors waving a large hand in front of his face, the shrimp platter scraped clean of food.

"Nah, sorry what was that?"

"I asked if you've seen goldie around," Iskandar repeated, the large, satisfied smile on his face so bright it was almost blinding.

Cú instantly made a face, prompting boisterous laughter from the man in the too-tight t-shirt.

"HO~!? Seems like this proud hero never got over his own defeat, eh?" he teased, but Lancer was never one to back down right away. With one eye closed and his head cocked to the side, the Irishman brandished a smirk that made most women swoon.

" If I recall correctly, you told me you got your ass handed to you by the same bastard, Iskandar," he retorted, itching to summon Gae Bolg while he riled up his opponent. It was three minutes to one o'clock, in just a few moments he'd be on break.

"Tread carefully, Cú, it is none other than Alexander the Great you are speaking to." His voice was almost a warning. Almost. The rather electrifying glint of a challenge was in his right eye, and Lancer instantly knew that spar he was owed was to be paid very very soon.


Bedivere sighed as he entered the familiar, western-style apartment. Greeting him were take-out boxes from last week, empty beer cans lying scattered, and general filth everywhere he turned. Some doll was talking through the day's news on the telly, which looked like it had been left on all night. Lying still and wasted right in the middle of all of it was the flat's owner, just as much a mess as the rest of the place. In his right hand, the remote, in his left, the orange stub of his eighth cigarette.

Fiddlesticks.

The most loyal knight set down the packs of lunch he brought with him and began to pick up the piles of rubbish before someone else knocked them over. They were expecting a visit later on, after all, and that was probably going to be tedious enough to deal with without the mountain of paper takeaway boxes strewn all over the place.

Well...at least he has been eating.

Even at this distance, the knight could tell his friend had lost a considerable amount of weight. He was already of the slimmer build too. The smell hit him like a truck when the stray gale blew his way. Bloody hell, when was the last time the bloke had a shower? Were...were those ants on the counter? Christ.

The single-armed knight picked up a rag and wiped up what looked like the remains of a rum spill. Judging from the amount of glass bottles littered around, it was probably more than that. Honestly, Bedivere was just thankful the man hadn't yet found drugs. Not that the stack of empty cigarette boxes wasn't alarming. He didn't mind the smoke but...there were near thirty empty cartons in the bin, not even counting the ones on the couch. Bedivere was positive they weren't there when he came to visit after seeing Arturia for the first time.

Another puff of breath left his lips as he leaned on the granite counter, his tidying finished. The steady rise and fall of the messy mop of red hair on the couch was a bit reassuring. At least the guy hadn't poisoned himself with all the alcohol.

But…

He couldn't continue living like this. It just wasn't right. Yes, the monthly paycheck had taken care of the bills, and yes, he was churning out enough licensed music to support himself, but this? This was no way to live.

Bedivere took note of the rough red stubble on the man's gaunt face, patchy on each side and cut in various haphazard strokes. Deep, dark lines ran under the man's eyes, ruining what once would have been a handsome face. Cracked lips laced with alcohol dripped spittle onto a graying old pillow supporting his head.

The knight was just supposed to pick up the new backing track for Diarmuid's promo and whatever he had finished for Arturia's debut for Merlin and come back for dinner, but judging from the sheet music that was strewn about when he got here and the open session of Melodyne on Tristan's PC, they'd probably have to give him a few days.

"Bedi...vere?" a familiar voice croaked as the leather couch screeched with the shift in weight. His name was spoken far too hoarsely, perhaps brought about by the alcohol. Or maybe the cigarettes.

"Oh! For fuck's sake!" the redhead groaned as the hangover caught up with him, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose as if the motion would stop the headache. Bedivere passed the guy an Advil and a glass of water.

"You didn't take them again, did you, Sir Tristan?"

"Just Tristan ."

He was talking about the pill bottles on the counter. All were still sealed, forgotten in their paper bag with a doctor's prescription. Tristan looked at him as he swallowed the little Advil and gave him an indignant groan.

"Can't drink if I take'm."

"Then forget the drinks-" Bedivere reasoned.

"Can't forget if I don't drink," he interrupted, finally getting the strength to walk to the refrigerator and sift through its contents. The scarred man eventually settled on a coke and poured himself a cup only to down it and pour himself a second. The blonde refused the offer for a glass, causing Tristan to curse and down the one he was pouring once again.

Bedivere watched the mess of a man amble his way to the takeout and slouch back in front of the television to have his lunch, even with initial complaints of it being tonkatsu. God , he was so thin his clothes were beginning to slip off his bony shoulders. Honestly, the knight doubted Tristan could still lift his sword with the amount of muscle mass he'd lost over the three years he'd been here.

Ah, yes. It had already been three years since Tristan materialized. And for three years...he's been like this, living like a shell of a man. Waking up to dark nights and shutting himself inside when the sun was up. Merlin put Tristan's talents to work, selling all the compositions he could squeeze out of the man to ad agencies and other companies, but other than that, the former knight was scarce.

Kay was cold to the redhead, as cold as one would be to the man who ignited the doubts that plagued the Round Table with his desertion. The others, too, those who had stuck till the bitter end, kept their distance. Save for Bedivere and Merlin, Tristan barely ever had company. The man liked to claim he preferred it that way. Obviously, that was a lie, crafted to delude himself from the truth that the others avoided him like the plague.

Bedivere honestly couldn't blame them, but...Arthu-Arturia wouldn't want them to treat him like this would she? If he knew her, and he did, she'd at least try to repair their relationship. Somehow. Maybe.

"What is it this time, you damn plonker?"

Bedivere opened his mouth, then closed it. Perhaps it might be better to not push the man further, after what happened the last time he was here, when he'd delivered news of Arturia's return. Tristan already knew apparently, and it sent him in such a downward spiral that he'd thrown him out within the same hour.

"Merlin told me to pick up the arrangement for the promo. He said something about it being a bit solemn this time?"

Tristan looked at him through slitted eyes as he took a long drag from his smoke. The thought crossed Bedivere's mind that maybe he wouldn't be as cooperative, but the redhead eventually moved to his computer, plugged in a rather expensive-looking sound system and hit the spacebar. The sound of Tristan's signature harp filled the room, a beautiful, yet haunting melody resounding throughout the small apartment. To Bedivere's surprise, Tristan himself tossed away his cigarette and picked an instrument from its box, a stringed one made of spruce and willow. He pressed his jaw to the rest and lifted the horsehair bow, and with a stroke of his arm, a crisp, mellow set of notes erupted from the violin's sound box.

As the music played, the scent of grass filled the air, and all too suddenly it felt like sunlight was caressing his skin. Blonde hair filled his vision, thick golden strands gleaming in the light as they were tossed in the wind. Emerald eyes stared deeply into his, solemn and lonely, but all the more alluring. He yearned to brush her hair away all the more as she smiled up at him. It was a smile he knew that was solely for himself, and gods how he desired to bring her genuine joy, by whatever means. But just as he reached out, the woman slipped through his fingers and sat on the throne, expression steeled, not a thing out of place.

Tristan himself had closed his eyes. He'd played this back so many times the notes were no longer a stranger to him. Pure muscle memory moved his fingers across the black fingerboard, executing every shift and vibrato like he'd been playing the violin his whole life.

This way...this way he could truly see her.

The same vision flooded his mind, of a head of hay, held high at all times. Of eyes that were far more colorful than the plains, far more depressing than the sea that brought him black sails. He felt he'd gazed into those orbs a thousand times and never knew the person behind them much as he tried. But honestly, he'd rendered the judgement too early, he knew now. She was never cold, nay, Arthur only appeared so. He was too blind to notice she had the most love for her people than anyone. She had more love for her country than most kings ever did.

But it was far too late now.

The last note came too soon. The music faded to quiet around the two, and sighing, Bedivere looked up to Tristan. The violin was quietly slipped back into its case and put away, as if it hadn't just made such enchanting intonations just moments before.

"That was...her. Wasn't it, Tristan?"

The redhead found himself nodding as he plucked the flash drive from his PC and tossed it to the single-armed man by the counter. A pained expression crossed his face, and he swept up another bottle of beer before the platinum blonde could stop him and took a long swig.

"The other guy's is there too. Out with you now, blondie," Tristan uttered, slamming the door of his bedroom behind him.

A frown settled on Bedivere's lips, but he found himself unable to say more, the melody of her song still playing in his head. He looked down to the tiny device in his fingers. At the very least, Merlin would get what he wanted right?

Still…

The knight's lips were in a thin line as his eyes landed on the untouched bag of prescription medicine. But, Bedivere left. He would come by tomorrow to check on him, and maybe the day after that, but there was nothing more that he could do today. As Bedivere exited, he pretended he didn't hear the soft whimpers echoing through the hall as he closed the front door.


Merlin watched quietly as his two models conversed, one apologetic, the other soothing her worries. Arturia was heading over to Lancelot's, as his clairvoyance told him. He had no opinion on that matter, really, she was free to do what she liked, but Diarmuid here seemed just a little in lower spirits.

He gave the standard goodbye to his princess, and just like that he was left alone with the Irishman. Diarmuid had a hand rubbing his nape, a gesture Merlin registered as...disappointment? Well, of course, it was. If Merlin was deprived of a chance to spend the rest of the day with Arturia, he would probably feel the same way, especially if she was trading him off for another.

"Do you not have somewhere to be?" the mage asked as he carefully cleaned his lens with a special brush and cleaner. Soon, he wouldn't have to do it himself, when the former Servants were more comfortable. This took too much time. He'd really much rather be doing Kiritsugu's task, but Bedivere's being here instead of in Europe left that part of the world open. He was sure his clairvoyance could cover for the knight but it was always better to have someone on the ground in case the situation ever ended in violence. Oh, he hadn't told Arturia yet, had he? Damn.

"Not particularly," Diarmuid answered, slipping out of the button-up he had been wearing. The shirt snagged on the dog tags he was wearing so he ended up looking quite silly. Merlin was more than tempted to snap a picture but he didn't. The mage told him to keep the accessories. They looked quite fitting for him.

Diarmuid had planned to ask Arturia if she wanted dinner at Ahnenerbe now that she felt better. He knew the manager would appreciate seeing a new face. Cú would probably challenge her to a spar too, so they could have a three-way fight if she wanted. But she wanted...well, she wanted to spend the rest of the night with Lancelot. And that was fine, really. Absolutely. There was nothing wrong with that.

"Maybe you should consider finding a hobby, First Knight of Fianna," the old wizard advised as he ejected the SD card. The night was young, plenty of time for a young'un to be up and about. What did the kids do these days? Karaoke?

"Arturia isn't always going to be as free," he told him with a knowing look and a wink, and right then evaporated into thin air, leaving a swirling wisp of smoke where he was.

Diarmuid looked down at his hands, at the crescent-shaped indents left there when the wizard brought up his old title. Maybe it was best he wasn't spending tonight with the King of Knights. This wasn't the first time he'd felt such a strong urge to lash out. But every mention of Fionn, every reminder of what his previous master was, triggered something in him he had yet to understand.

But perhaps now wouldn't be a good time to dwell on those things, he thought, as the sky outside turned navy.

A hobby huh?


The short knocks rapped on Lancelot's bedroom door followed by a quiet calling of his name. He could hear the door open just a crack, and he watched from the mirror who it could be.

"Mr. Lancelot?"

It was Sakura Matou, the generous young woman who'd welcomed him into her home nearly a month ago though he was to her, a complete stranger. It was odd, definitely, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything after she asked if he was a friend of Saber's. She must have taken his silence as a yes, because she sat him down at her table that very night and presented him with a hearty meal that put the cooks in Camelot to shame.

The knight couldn't remember much of the mansion from his time in the Fourth Holy Grail War, or even of Kariya Matou, who the girl had mentioned used to be her uncle. She didn't elaborate much of the man's fate, but by the lack of evidence Kariya was even here, Lancelot could take a guess.

"Yes, milady?"

The woman waved her hand in the air and insisted he just call her by name. She looked at his outfit approvingly and handed him the simple black elastic she had been keeping around her wrist.

"Saber-san has just arrived for dinner. Would you like to greet her?"

The knight lost himself in his thoughts as he tied his hair into a simple ponytail. It wasn't Lancelot that had invited the blonde woman. It wasn't even Iskandar, though the Frenchman had a feeling that he had something to do with it. No, it was entirely Sakura Matou's idea to invite her over, because she did mention they were friends. Medusa too, had wanted to invite the swordswoman over, explaining that rather than despairing over her early defeat, she was grateful for the battle they had.

In fact, if he had a say in the matter, he would much rather they didn't speak for the time being. She reminded him too much of the past, and he'd already lived a lifetime of torment with an equally suffering Lady Guinevere in France. He couldn't stop his feet from taking him to her in the airport a few nights ago, nor did he have the strength to leave her on her way home, but he at least thought that if he could avoid her he would.

He wasn't ready to face how his heart hammered in his chest when she gave him a smile, how it skipped beats when she said his nickname. God, even just the thought of her face now made his chest painfully tight. Even if it shouldn't.

Every step towards the front hall was excruciating. He could feel the all-too-familiar mana signature in the air, it was always particularly windy when she was around. Many a time, standing behind her small figure, he would close his eyes and feel the breeze carry the scent of her hair his way. She always smelled like lilies. She still did.

His lips lingered on the back of her hand. The shame settled in once he pulled away, but she didn't seem to notice as she stepped close into his space and brushed his ponytail off his shoulder.

"It pleases me to not see you hiding behind your locks today, Lance," she said, her voice warm and soothing, like a salve on a burn. But his countenance remained stoic, it was all he could do to avoid breaking right then and there. Somehow, her gentle smile was more disarming than ever, and that was a danger he could not afford to fall to.

Dinner went smoothly enough, started off by Sakura looping her arms around the shorter woman like one would do to an old friend. To Lancelot's surprise, Arturia returned it, then brought up the cake she had taken with her for dessert. Of course, Medusa and her Master were delighted. Watching the three of them quietly was like watching flowers bloom. It seemed to him that they had merely reignited bonds that had already formed ten years ago.

As it was nearly every night, Sakura would insist very stubbornly to do the dishes. Rider would stay to help, and so that left Lancelot and his King to stroll through the Matou Estate with only the moon and each other as company.

"It's surreal, isn't it?" she asked him, leaning back to look at the full moon. The celestial body cast a dim white light over her fair figure. Bathed in the moonlight with the white dress from the day's photoshoot, Lancelot couldn't help thinking she looked heavenly, like she was crafted in the sky and sent down just for him. Just to heal his soul.

"What is, my liege?"

Her eyes traveled up his black yukata till they met his own orbs, causing his breath to catch.

"This. You and I. Here," she said, the words like a rhythmic staccato of breaths. He winced when she broke eye contact to look to the sky, not from the loss, but because he realized he wanted her gaze on him once more.

Bastard.

He tore his gaze away from her as phantom hands began to crush his throat. He had to get out. He couldn't do this. Not after all he's done. The strain eventually reached his chest, he couldn't help himself but breathe deeper. Every minute he could feel her heat he felt his soul cry, damned to the fires of hell. This was getting out of control, he couldn't do this to her, to Kay?! How many times would he have betrayed her trust by now? Thrice?!

"I- I must apologize. I didn't mean anything by that, Lance-Sir Lancelot. Do forgive me," she pleaded, noticing the anguish in his brow. Somehow the gentle hands that cupped his fists seemed to hurt more than comfort. Half of him begged him to pull away, the other half urged him to lean closer, to snake his fingers into her hair and embrace the one he was sure he loved more than anyone.

His indecision led to Arturia's small hands leaving his. He hesitated to catch them, fearing he would never let her go if he did. And he had to let her go. She was better off with someone else, someone who would never leave her side.

"I just...It brought me joy to see you again," she started, with such a sorrowful expression overtaking her face. She shouldn't have expected this meeting to fare any better than last time. He really wasn't ready to forgive her, was he? Maybe he'd never be. After all, she was the reason he'd gone mad. If perhaps she was a better king...if perhaps she was never the king...

Lancelot looked back at her silently as she reached into the fountain behind her, the ripples from her fingers breaking the moon's reflection on the water. The knight had never seen her like this, emotions laid bare so obviously for him to see.

He'd only seen her sad once, when-

Why, my friend?

Red. Red filled his vision as his senses cried from the heat and the smoke burned in his lungs. The air tasted like gasoline, the little artificial raindrops did nothing to wash away the horror.

You were once First among the Knights of the Round Table. So why?

Lancelot paled as the memory returned to him, the sheer terror in her eyes, the blood, sweat, tears that flowed down her cheeks as she begged him for answers he could simply not give.

What made you into Berserker? Lancelot?

Her shoulders slumped, the usual confident aura around her wavered and dissipated, as if seeing him in such a state shook her to her very core. How could the world be so cruel? Why reunite them at all if it was to cause her more pain?

My ideals...My kingship...Did they reduce you to this?

"If...if you think it best we part ways, my knight, I will respect your decision," Arturia declared, drawing circles in the disturbed water. She didn't meet his eyes; Lancelot knew she meant it. Arthur never went back on his word even once if it was possible. Arturia wouldn't either.

It was for the best, wasn't it? Surely, if they tried to repair their bond it would only lead to ruin, just like how his affair set the stage for Camelot's downfall, for Arturia's downfall. She didn't deserve another heartbreak, not when finally, she was surrounded by people who loved her. Not when she finally had a shot at living for herself.

So, when he looped his fingers around hers in the water, he couldn't understand why.