Short chapter meant as a bit of denouement to the arc.
There was a scene I wanted to include where Archer and co. meet a historical figure, but it ultimately didn't fit with the rest of the chapter's flow and direction, so I cut it.
Thanks to fallacies, fluflesnufaluphagus and the Undesirable Number One for beta-reading and allowing me to use his art.
"Sometimes I think about giving that little ball of sunshine a hug, then I remember he tore a mook's head off with his bare hands with a smile on his face and think, 'Eh, bad idea.' "
- Baldroy
Archer – formerly Shirou Emiya – was a Counter Guardian. He was one who had spent lifetimes upon lifetimes destroying great chunks of civilization, getting rid of undesirables, watching people die by his own hands, all for the sake of the Human Order. Over a kaleidoscopic myriad of dimensions and worlds, Archer was pretty sure he'd seen and done it all: he'd lost whatever friends he'd made, seen families tear themselves apart for the sake of their craft, torn down kingdoms brick by brick and salted the earth, gave a sitting President tickets to Our American Cousin, repelled Mongols, killed a version of his past self that didn't stick, confronted the horrors the likes of which the mind of man was not made to comprehend and come out the victor… as always, his memories of his past exploits were hazy and disconnected, but Archer was pretty sure he'd ended up on the moon at some point, too.
He was a blight!
A cataclysm!
A walking disaster!
And today…
Today he shopped for jewelry at Cartier back at the Place Vendôme.
"You know, back when I mentioned that you should probably look into getting a gift for Lady Elizabeth," Archer muttered, "this was not what I had in mind."
"Oh?" His master returned, distracted as he examined the quality of a princess-cut. "Have gemstones lost their shine for you already?"
"Hardly. But the fact remains, you could get something of the like at Asprey's on Bond Street." He reminded him, "There's nothing explicitly Frenchabout this, is there? Why not settle for a box of Macarons from Ladurée and be done with it?"
The Earl of Phantomhive snorted. "If that's the criteria we're basing our gift upon, I'm pretty sure some of those diamonds we just passed were baguettes."
Archer hid a smile. "Funny, Master, but you know what I mean."
"I do. But as long as it's cute, it's dainty, it's ladylike, it's what Elizabeth would want as a present." Ciel said firmly, waving him off. "And as an Earl, I shan't be accused of being stingy to my betrothed."
"You don't think all of this is a bit… much?" The servant gestured at their surroundings. "Excess does tend to carry connotations of impersonality."
"How so?"
"Well, I'm no expert in giving gifts, but when one receives something expensive as a present, one can't help but think that the giver is overcompensating in price for a lack of any personal thought behind it."
The Earl of Phantomhive gave him a sour look. "The average price of any one of these items lies in the vicinity of sixty livres, or fifty pounds, so I'll be damned if anyone accuses me of not putting in any serious personal thought behind this. Besides, if it's good enough for Her Majesty, it's good enough for Elizabeth." Ciel retorted.
"Still." Archer stuck a hand in his pockets, bending to take a closer look at a necklace beset with a large blue diamond. "Most people are uncomfortable receiving awkwardly expensive gifts as it unbalances the relationship and makes the giftee feel like they owe the gifter something."
"... On the day of me and my brother's 9th birthday, she decorated the entire manor herself in a deluge of pink." The Earl of Phantomhive murmured, thoughtful. "Ribbons. Streamers. Balloons. Linens. The works. From what I recall, she wouldn't let any of the servants help her, it was to be her birthday surprise. My brother loved it, though I never really got over the shock."
"... I can imagine." Archer smirked. "And you're telling me this because..?"
Ciel sighed.
"Lizzy's gifts are a whole different kind of expensive." He finally said. "And I'm not entirely certain I can afford her… her…" He hesitated.
"Affection?" His servant offered.
"... Feelings." The Earl corrected him. "Her feelings for..."
He trailed off, that familiar faraway look in his eyes once more, and the Counter Guardian sighed.
Murderer, assassin, butler, cook… at some point in his loyal service, it seemed he'd gained the unenviable position of a couples' therapist as well.
"... this is normally the point where I'd give you my best advice on how best to deal with the guilt you are currently feeling," Archer shook his head, "but judging by the past hundred or so times I've already reminded you, I have a feeling it'd go in one ear and exit through the other, as always."
"I'm not-" Ciel started, before tiredly rubbing his head, "I'm not feeling guilty." He insisted, voice small.
"Yeah. Sure. And Prince Albert had a sea cucumber for a penis." Archer scoffed, making his way around the display case such that he was face-to-face with his master, resting his hands against the edges. "I'll just say this, you could buy out the entire store but whatever you're feeling still won't abate. I'd really suggest you just get her something simple instead. Simple but from the heart."
Ciel snorted, his cane lightly tapping the marbled floors.
"And macarons would somehow come from the heart?"
"Macarons – or any other small gift – would bring her the same amount of happiness as whatever it is you can find in this store." Archer corrected him. "As it is, you're overcompensating for whatever inadequacies you're suffering from with… money."
"You're one to talk." The Earl of Phantomhive glowered. "Like you have any experience in giving women presents."
"I'll have you know I gave my first serious love a stuffed toy." Archer crossed his arms defensively. "And she liked it very much."
"But not jewelry?"
At this, the Counter Guardian pursed his lips.
"What?" His master prodded. "What aren't you telling me?"
Archer sighed. "... It's a bit of a long story, and it didn't go over very well-"
"Yeah well, according to you, I'm somewhat of an expert at ruining good relationships." Ciel reminded him, smirking as he watched his servant squirm. "Go on. We have time before we need to catch the train anyway."
Archer sighed.
"Once, I was in London with a very good friend of mine." He began. "She was studying in an institute of higher learning, I was accompanying her to broaden my horizons and spend time with her as well… It was never really serious, I never gave her the opportunity for the relationship to progress beyond simple friends, but we were cordial. One day, a particular freak of nature I've had the chance to meet in class pointed out that her birthday was coming up, and I should really have given her something. Something to commemorate our…" Archer closed his eyes, pained. "Our friendship."
Ciel raised an eyebrow, willing for him to continue.
"It just so happened that she studies gems as part of her family craft. I thought giving her a pendant was a good idea. It was practical, it was pretty, it had a ruby the size of a kumquat, I thought it was the perfect gift."
"... I'm sensing a 'but'."
"Yep. For reasons that completely eluded me, she didn't take to it very well. Even though she was polite, her displeasure was clear, and she was unwilling to wear it in public. Within days, our relationship soured, and whatever sort of frankness and free-spiritedness we've fostered between us gradually deteriorated."
Silence.
Archer stared off into the distance.
Ciel, for the lack of anything better to do, half-heartedly raised a hand across the display case-
"It wasn't until I left her and told someone else about it that it hit me."
Ciel put his hand down.
"This one girl I had the pleasure of working with later on…" Archer went on, clearly reluctant, "said that it was obvious she liked me."
"Obviously."
The Counter Guardian shot him a sour look.
His master blinked. "Was it not obvious? Friends don't simply invite friends to accompany them abroad. Or did it never occur to you that someone else might be struck by a moment of madness and decide that you were worth loving."
"No, I-," Archer sighed, "it wouldn't have mattered, I never saw her in that light, and it wouldn't have amounted to much. I think some part of her knew that, deep down. She was always going to go off doing her own thing, and I was… there was no place for me amongst her. But we were fine being friends. The necklace sort of ruined things."
"Was it that bad? Garish? Improperly set?"
Archer gave his master a considerate look.
"Do you know what jewelry signifies?"
"... Wealth? Status?"
"Let me rephrase that." Archer repeated patiently. "What does it signify when it's presented as a gift to a woman?"
Ciel considered it.
"Love?"
Archer shook his head. "Ownership."
The little Earl blinked.
"... I don't follow." He admitted.
"You can think of jewelry as a sort of commitment to the existing relationship. That you hope it lasts. That's all on the surface. But underneath the idea of commitment is the idea of ownership." Archer wryly recalled. "Think about it. You give Lizzy a necklace with the expectation she's to wear it. And of course she does, why wouldn't she? It looks marvelous and she wants to play the part of a dutiful wife. And when her friends and fellow socialites all ask where she got it from, she'll be able to say that it was a gift from her betrothed. Her friends ooh, and ahh, and she'll get to enjoy their envy for a while. That piece of jewelry? Think of it as a dog collar. It's a banner saying she's taken. Off-limits. And that you and her want everyone to know it. That you own her."
"She doesn't belong to me-"
"Even so, that's the connotation jewelry has." Archer shrugged. "When I gave my friend that pendant, I was insensitive to the fact that I wasn't willing for whatever we shared to be serious, and it just sort of rubbed salt into the wound. Playing nice and allowing herself to be deluded wasn't much of an option afterwards."
And I never saw Rin again.
Archer stood there in quiet contemplation for a while, tuning out the humdrum of strangers walking about and inspecting wares.
"... Of course, the situation's different with you and Lizzy, given that you two are engaged, despite my best advice." He went on, rousing himself out of his stupor. "So if you insist on getting jewelry, don't let me stop you. As you said, unlike with my friend, I'm sure she'll be very happy with anything."
His master chewed the insides of his cheeks.
"Ownership, you say."
Archer raised a hand in surrender. "Like I said, master, it's ultimately your choice-"
The Counter Guardian felt a tug on his sleeve.
Turning, he locked eyes with him, green eyes blown and furrowed in worry.
He relaxed.
"What is it, Finnian?"
Finnian – having for whatever reason taken a shine with the name his master had bestowed upon him that morning – clutched the book detailing the Fenian Cycle closer to his chest.
"... People are staring." He whispered, "did I do something wrong?"
"No, not really, people will stare at anything they deem unusual," Archer critically gave him a once-over, "and you don't seem dressed as the store's usual clientele. But it's fine. You're with us. Just go sit quietly back there and keep reading. Did you like the book?"
Finnian looked sheepish. "The pictures are very nice, and the words are very… neat?"
Archer blinked.
Right. He couldn't understand a lick of English. How was he to understand and decipher the story of his namesake?
"When we have time, I'll tell you all about it in detail, but for now, do you mind just sitting back in the-"
"Emiya."
Archer turned back to his master. "Yes?"
"Get Finnian dressed in something more appropriate. Buy something practical, nothing too elaborate." Ciel took out a small slip of paper. "Then handle everything else on the list. Then wait for me at the Gare De Lyon."
The servant scanned his master's elegant script, brows raised. "Don't you want to have any say in the process?"
"I trust you enough to buy my tea and wines." His master shrugged.
"... and the porcelain?"
Ciel Phantomhive gave his servant a knowing look. "You know what to do."
Archer snorted, tucking the loose leaf of paper back into his pockets. "Sure. And you're fine with only Finnian accompanying you?"
"Don't be silly. How are you going to buy him clothes if he's not there?"
Archer blinked.
"... You want me to bring that unstable piece of human scaffolding along with me?!"
"Take this as an opportunity to get to know him better." Ciel shrugged. "Brief him on his new duties. I want him somewhat prepared before he assumes his role in my household for real."
"But Master," Archer protested, already dreading what was to come, "don't you think you'll need protection?"
"Nobody's going to rob me in broad daylight in the middle of Rue de la Paix." Ciel waved him off. "I'll just keep on doing my gift shopping, and I'll take the carriage to the Gare de Lyon when I'm done. I'll be fine. Unless…" he nodded back in the boy's direction, "it's a matter of you being unable to keep him in check?"
Archer turned, noted the way the book in Finnian's hands had been bent beyond repair from a simple squeeze, and sighed.
"... Sure." He muttered. "I'll take care of it."
Ciel scoffed. "Don't worry, Emiya, I'm sure you've handled worse. How bad could it be?"
"The Tzar Alexandre." The mousy-haired attendant proudly lifted a black tin. "A blend of Lapsang Souchong and Earl Grey, this tea combines the best of both worlds. It's mellow, and despite the name it's not as peaty and smoky as some Russian Caravans can be, and still allows you to appreciate the light touch of bergamot and the natural flavors of the black tea base quite well."
"My master isn't quite partial to the flavors of smoke." Archer demurred, giving the open tin a single sniff. "
"Alright, fair enough, but I bet you don't have anything like this in your pantry." Quick as a flash, another tin – this time in a deep indian blue – was thrust for his perusal. "I present to you, Thé de Lune. A black tea, blended with fruits, it is a grand bouquet of fruity and flowery flavors with a hint of vanilla. The connoisseur would be able to detect notes of bergamot, blackcurrant, pepper, blackberries, violets-"
"This is still tea we're talking about, right? Not a four-course meal?"
"A purist, eh? Well look no further." Undeterred, the attendant brought out a black tin lined with mustard-yellow coloring. "Darjeeling Princeton. First flush, brewed to a wonderful golden color, it has the characteristic delicate disposition of all Darjeelings, and has a clean and clear taste profile, imbued with soft floral notes and accentuated with a touch of woodiness."
"That's all very well and good, but what would you recommend for someone with a bit of a sweet tooth?"
"Oh, you've come to the right place, Monsieur." The attendant turned and reached for a bright pink box on the top shelf. "We at Mariage Frères are famed for our blended teas."
"I'm sure you are."
If the attendant detected any note of lip, he ignored it in favor of bringing over a teapot squared away on the display stand.
"And here we have one of our most popular dessert blends, Vanille des Îles." The mousy-haired attendant poured a cup of sweet-smelling black tea into two cups. "As you can imagine, it's black tea flavored with sweet bourbon vanilla. Good enough on its own, but pairs very nicely with a dark, rich tortino or the like, both cutting through the richness and adding a whole other dimension of flavor. This, my friend, is what you're looking for."
Warily, Archer accepted the china, inhaling the aromas that wifted dreamily across the surface.
Smells like vanilla frosting.
Frowning, he took small, measured sips.
Huh, he smacked his lips, bemused. Tastes like vanilla frosting too.
"Good, no?"
"It is delicious." Archer nodded, setting the empty cup back on the table.
"Splendid, so what can I do you for Monsieur?"
"Well, me and my master live across the channel, do you by any chance handle deliveries?"
"Certainly. Though there is a minimum cost of the goods in question before we can begin to offer such long-distance deliveries-"
CRASH
The attendant jumped, and Archer tiredly closed his eyes.
"Finnian…"
"Sorry, sorry!" The boy freshly dressed in a plain top with red piping looked abashed as shards of china clattered to the floor, hands wet with vanilla-scented tea. "It was just so hot, it took me by surprise-"
"Don't worry about it, Monsieur, this happens more often than you think-"
"No, no, I'll pay for the damages." Archer sighed, keeping a firm grip on the boy's shoulders. "I'll fill up the delivery form for the staples, but in the meantime, let's start with a tin of each, dealer's choice."
"I don't suppose you have any Kina Lillet in stock?"
"I beg your pardon?" The sommelier blinked, and the minuscule action set his great jowls aquiver.
"Kina Lillet." Archer repeated. "White wine flavored with quinine? Or does it go by another name here?"
"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but this is the first I'm hearing of this. If it's quinine you are searching for, I can direct you to the nearest apothecary?"
"That won't be necessary, thank you." Archer waved him off, surmising that it must not have been invented yet. "Now, what were you saying about the Barolo?"
"I'm afraid the stock we have is currently quite young, and the acidity might be off-putting to most. If you're looking for Italian wines, might I suggest the Nebbiolo '62?" The sommelier raised his lantern, peering into dusty shelves in the musky cellar before extracting a bottle with a huff. "High elevation Chiavennasca from Lombardy. There are notes of cherries, rose petals, and tar, against a strong, tannic backbone. It's a favorite served in many gentlemen's clubs, where the puff of a cigar pairs surprisingly well with the innate taste of tobacco and roses."
"My master doesn't smoke."
Or drink, for that matter.
"Matters little. Most vintages from Bordeaux were made to be enjoyed with a good cigar, but a Château Margaux stands perfectly well on its own, same goes for the Nebbiolo."
"I'll hold you to that, then. I'll take it, alongside the Chianti." Archer squinted in the darkness. "Do you have anything from the New World in stock?"
The sommelier gave him a considering look. "Chartreuse, Benedictine, Nebbiolo, Chianti… Amassing a collection, are we?"
"Something like that."
"Of course, sir. We do have some quality pickings from the Finger Lakes in New York, but we are fresh out of anything from California."
"Shame. And if I really did want to find some vintages from the Napa Valley, where do you suppose I can still get them?"
"All the vintners I'm familiar with are out of stock at the moment." The sommelier threaded a finger through his handlebar mustache. "I suppose if you truly want some wines of the New World, you'd have to make the trip yourself."
"God forbid."
"Yes. That being said, here's a Pleasant Valley Chardonnay-"
CRASH
Archer swore, even as the sommelier turned around in alarm.
"Finnian!"
"It just broke in my hands, I swear-"
"I know it broke in your hands, I'm not blind! That's literally the problem! Didn't I expressly tell you not to touch anything in the cellar?"
"Yes, but that bottle was wobbling dangerously, and I thought I should just adjust it a bit-"
"That was a Château Lafite hailing from '69. What a waste!" The sommelier moaned in dismay, frowning as he examined what was left of the bottle. "Oak, blackcurrant, crushed figs-"
"Yes, yes, my deepest apologies, just add it to the outgoing bill- wait, how much did you say this costs again?!"
"It's true, Meissen was the first to unlock the secrets of porcelain from the Orient, but we at Sèvres were the ones to perfect the process." The severe woman declared, voice reedy as she gestured to the pieces on display. "The earliest pieces we produced were small tea and coffee wares with coloured grounds and gilding. The early 'bleu lapis' ground, as you can see here, is particularly distinctive, with a beautiful wash-like or 'mottled' quality. Our brilliant bleu céleste ground color, as seen on the sugar-bowl above, was introduced at the manufactory in 1753. It's one of the costliest colors to produce, and Louis the Fifteenth famously ordered an entire service in the color soon after its development. It's true, we are a tad more expensive, but the quality of such works cannot be overstated-"
"I'm sorry," Archer held up a finger, "this is all very, very fascinating, but can you just give me a moment?"
Without waiting for an answer, the servant turned to a very rigid Finnian beside him.
"I want you to wait outside," he snarled, "read your book, don't so much as move before I come outside for you. Is that clear?"
Cowed, there was naught the boy could do but nod, and Archer watched as he very stiffly exited the shop.
"Please," Archer waved, "continue."
The attendant cleared her throat.
"Beyond the bleu céleste, we also are proud to produce bleu de roi and rose Pompadour. Very difficult for others to replicate, and named in the honor of one of our greatest patrons, Madame de Pompadour, mistress of Louis the Fifteenth. It was through her influence that some of the foremost artists of the time, such as the painter François Boucher and the sculptor Étienne-Maurice Falconet came over to our enterprise and produced some of our best work. Notable chemists such as Jean Hellot were engaged and consulted, and we discovered the secret of hard-paste porcelain. Soft paste had been made at Vincennes from 1745, but the Sèvres factory did not obtain the secret of hard paste until 1761, when it was bought from Pierre-Antoine Hannong. The necessary raw materials, however, were still lacking in France, and it was not until- Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?"
Archer hurriedly removed his index from a royal blue saucer, belonging to the same collection of dinnerware he'd systematically touched one by one in the midst of her spiel. "Oh, um… I was just… inspecting the quality of the- lovely stuff, really good quality work."
"Yes, but that doesn't give you leave to touch the merchandise," the woman's lips tightened, "if you have any questions or wish to inspect a particular item, I shall handle it myself."
"My apologies." Archer raised his arms in surrender, thinking quickly. "I was told that your porcelain has markings to distinguish the year it was made, is that correct?"
"You are." And just like that, the woman continued with her spiel. "Our porcelain is marked with two blue-painted' Ls. This in turn often encloses a letter or double letter, which acts as a code for the year in which the piece was produced. A teabowl with the letter A on it would have a production date of circa 1754, as you can see here."
"Very fascinating." The servant looked around, and after confirming he'd had the chance to analyze every single piece in the room, he put on his best smile. "Is this your entire stock, or do you have other pieces kept somewhere?"
The woman blinked.
"Do none of these strike your fancy?"
"No, no, but for their price I hope to see everything you offer before I make my final decision. I'm sure you understand."
The attendant squinted in suspicion.
Archer hoped he wasn't showing too many teeth.
"... We do have a separate wing behind us where the larger pieces are kept."
"I would very much like to see them, can I see them?"
Ten minutes later, Archer stepped back into the streets of Paris, armed with more knowledge of the history and process of manufacturing high grade porcelain than he'd ever cared to learn, glibly ignoring the attendant's muttered profanities towards 'foreigners who don't buy anything'.
He'd gotten what he needed, and more.
Still in a good mood, the servant turned to where he'd left his charge and froze.
Panicked, he whirled around, looking comical as he scanned the vicinity, only to find Finnian a little way off, staring at freshly painted canvases set out to dry.
Incensed, he marched over, lips twisted with annoyance.
"Did I not tell you," he snarled, andinwardly Archer relished the way the boy flinched, "that you were to stay put?"
"M-Mr Emiya!" Finnian squeaked, "Sorry, I was just- I was curious." he gestured helplessly at the paintings before him, of languid creeks parting forgotten farmsteads past their use to the world.
The servant sighed.
Murderer, assassin, butler, cook, couples' therapist, babysitter…
"We're done here." He muttered shortly. "Come on, off to the next stop."
"But you didn't buy anything!" Finnian pointed out.
Archer shrugged. "In a way, you could say I did."
He gave the painting another appraising glance. "Speaking of a related subject, we might as well get you ready for your new role in the manor in the meantime."
"Gardening?"
"Yes." Within Vilmorin, Archer placed a sachet of tulip seeds into a small wicker basket. "It's the only place we have for you. Your strength is an issue. There's no way I'm letting you run things in the household when you break almost everything you touch, as today's shopping spree so reliably demonstrated. So, you'll learn how to control yourself in the garden, where your strength can be put to good use. In trimming the shrubs, uprooting weeds, and pruning the trees."
He selected more packets – nasturtiums, foxtails, zinnias and coral bells – before turning back in Finnian's direction, eyes blown with wonder.
"You'll also have the opportunity to exercise restraint. Growing flowers is a delicate process that requires much attention and care to detail, and being heavy-handed is something that you cannot afford, so to speak."
His eyes narrowed. "It goes without saying, but the garden is the first thing our guests will see when they enter the manor. It is the first impression, so to speak, and it is your responsibility to make sure it all looks presentable."
"But I…" Finnian twiddled his thumbs. "I've never done this before, and it sounds like a lot."
Archer softened. "I'd wager you've never done a lot of things. It's alright, I'll teach you everything there is to know to maintain the manor, and if I can handle it alongside my other tasks, I'm sure you'll be capable enough."
At his encouragement, the boy still looked uncertain, and Archer sighed.
"That being said," he said slowly, "with your responsibilities as gardener, you'll eventually have the right to think on what would look best. Do you see anything in this shop that you want to try growing?"
Finnian blinked.
"... anything?"
"Within reason."
Without another word, Finnian pointed back to the shop's entrance, where people bustled about selecting impressively arranged bouquets.
"You're going to have to be more specific." Archer briskly brought him over, a firm grip on his arm. "Which one of these would you like to try growing?"
Beaming, the boy pointed, and Archer resisted the urge to groan.
"Those look nice!"
"Finnian, they're sunflowers." The servant muttered, already wondering if there was a polite way to rescind his offer. "They can grow up to 14 feet tall. They'd be the largest flowers in the entire garden, and will stick out like a sore thumb. Isn't there anything else that strikes your fancy?"
"But they look so… so…" the boy struggled for the correct word, "vibrant!"
Archer sighed, before wearily calling a harried attendant over.
"Pardon me, but do you have any smaller sunflowers in stock?"
"Seeds?"
"Yes."
She pointed to the back. "Dwarf sunflower seeds should be over by that aisle."
Archer gave the attendant a quick word of thanks and returned his attention to the boy beside him, directing him back to where the seeds were stored, narrowly avoiding a collision with a ginger man carrying a great handful of sunflowers. "Alright. We'll grow dwarf sunflowers. You'll have your own little patch to tend to them, deeper into the gardens, maybe not right near the path to the entrance-"
Archer stopped as something registered.
Blinking, he turned back to the shop entrance, but alas: the man had vanished, disappearing back into Paris' busy streets.
"... Is something wrong, Mr. Emiya?" Finnian asked.
The servant seemed reluctant to look away. "No, Finnian, it's nothing. I just thought…"
Confused, the boy turned his gaze to where Archer's rested but found nothing out of the ordinary.
The servant sighed.
"Nevermind. I must be mistaken. Is there anything else you want?"
Finnian looked around before finally pointing towards the corner where the tools were kept.
Archer smiled.
"Of course."
The postage was for a single sou, and Archer licked its back before neatly pressing it onto the creamy envelope.
"Finnian, stay by me, don't get in the way of other people's business."
The straw hat bobbed twice in assent, and Archer returned to scribbling the address of the Department of Policies.
And with that, my work is done.
He glanced up, and rows upon rows of postcards greeted him at the counter where he stood.
An idea occurred to him.
Archer thought about it for a moment, weighing his master's potential reaction, before shrugging and selecting one – a lithograph depicting the French Ballet.
He uncapped his fountain pen once more.
'House of Midford-'
"Mr. Emiya?"
Archer did not deign to look up from his work. "What is it, Finnian?"
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Evidently."
The servant tapped the back of the pen against the counter, ruminating on whether Lizzy had a middle name, before Finnian spoke up again.
"What's our master like?"
The tapping stopped.
"Pardon?"
The boy twiddled his thumbs. "I only ever got to know the doctors who supervised us, and in the end they… well, I thought they were nice, but in the end they… you know what happened. What's he like as a person? He must be a nice person, right? He did rescue me and all-"
"Finnian." The servant's lips tightened. "It's rude for servants to discuss their master."
The straw hat dipped just a tad, and Archer sighed.
"That being said," he continued, "the boy you know as Ciel Phantomhive can be strict and commandeering. He's stubborn to a fault, prideful, and has no business knowing as many insults and curses as he does. He's ruthless, and working under him can often be difficult and unrewarding. That bastard will go about asking for the impossible, the unreasonable, expecting it to be done to his wishes, and that little shit never passes up a chance to insult and degrade and debase, that's the kind of brat my master is."
Archer chanced a look beside him, and upon seeing the look of alarm in Finnian's face he let out a sigh.
"But at the rate he is going, he will live up to what his station demands of him and more. He will surely do great things, and it's our job as his servants to make it easier for him however possible."
Finnian blinked.
"But… he seemed so nice when we first met."
"And he will continue to be." Archer snorted. "After all, it often falls to me to be the bad guy."
Finnian looked even more confused by his tacit admission.
"But I don't think you're a bad guy at all, Mr. Emiya."
Archer paused.
The humdrum of the crowd bustling to and fro filled the silence between them.
A smirk graced his lips.
"Don't worry." He opened the outgoing drop box. "I'm sure your good opinion of me won't stick."
The letters fell with a clatter, and Archer snapped it gently shut.
"Right, that's that." He dusted his palms off in satisfaction. "And now it's time we head for the train station-"
A loud gurgling interrupted his speech.
Archer turned to Finnian, who had the grace to look embarrassed.
"... but I guess before that, we can get some food to go. What say you?"
Finnian beamed.
"I don't recall packing that book."
"I bought it." Ciel said simply, voice muted as the train rumbled and chugged its way to Calais. "I thought it'd be good to pass the time with."
The berth was comfortable, awash in maroon, and Finnian was content, plastering his face against the window, rapt in the verdure of the passing meadows against a sierra sunset. A small table protruded below the window where coffee and tea had been served, and underneath those saucers wrappers and grease paper flecked with crumbs. The little Earl sat across from Archer near the compartment door, legs crossed, a fresh copy of Victor Hugo's 'Les Misérables' open across his lap.
"How is it?" He asked.
"Hard to say." Ciel muttered, brows furrowed as he turned another page. "He spends the first hundred or so pages describing the everyday life of a priest. The convict hasn't even turned up yet, let alone any real conflict. It's not what I call a riveting read."
"Eh." Archer shrugged. "The author of 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' had entire chapters dedicated to describing Paris and the cathedral with nothing of importance happening too."
"That book had already enjoyed the baptism of time." His master snorted. "Classics are classics for a reason."
"'Les Misérables' will also stand the test of time in a way. Take my word for it."
The Earl of Phantomhive gave a non-committal sound of acknowledgment before turning another page.
Archer pursed his lips.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
"It's not like I can stop you." Ciel sounded bored.
Archer leaned forward, resting his arms against his knees.
"Why 'Finnian'?" He whispered.
The Earl deigned to glance up. "Do you mean why I chose him to serve me?"
"No, I understand why it was the practical course of action, and I agree with you." Archer shook his head. "It's a nice thing to do. What I'm asking is, why'd you name him after Fionn?"
Ciel looked away.
"Beyond his feats of strength?" He attempted.
"Plenty of heroes boast immense strength, but unless you're Irish, Fionn doesn't exactly spring to the front of the mind, and even then, Cú Chulainn or Beowulf would be more famous." Archer pointed out. "Fionn also happened to have all the knowledge in the world thanks to the salmon he accidentally tasted. Finny, however…" He gave his master a knowing look.
Sighing, Ciel folded the corner of the page before tucking the book aside.
"Back when we were in the hotel, did you notice?"
"Notice what?"
The Earl held up a hand.
"He was sucking his thumb as he slept."
Archer's brows furrowed, before slowly nodding. "That's it?"
"Well, there's also the happy coincidence that 'Finn' means 'fair-skinned' in German." Ciel reasoned, crossing his arms against his chest. "I thought that was as good a reason as any. And if people ask where he's from, we could always say he's Irish."
Archer snorted. "That excuse seems paper-thin, given he doesn't speak a lick of English."
"I know." The Earl shrugged. "You'll be teaching him the language when he gets back."
"Oh, come on." Archer cursed. "As if I wasn't busy enough."
"The manor's finished, what else are you going to do?" Ciel snorted. "I'm not asking you to make him fluent, just make sure he's capable of understanding and speaking to me."
"... Yes, my master."
Satisfied, Ciel reached across for the half-eaten box of raspberry macarons that Archer had purchased, munching away as he contemplated his servant in stony silence.
Archer resisted the urge to squirm.
"You know," Ciel swallowed, "if you're not going to go into detail about magecraft-"
"Which I'm not." Archer quickly confirmed.
The Earl of Phantomhive pursed his lips.
"Then at the very least, answer me this." He leaned back onto plush upholstery. "What are mages like?"
"Like?" Archer blinked. "As in, what do they look like?"
"I could give a damn what they look like, Emiya." He muttered. "But I do wish to know more about their general motivations, how they operate, and the like. If by sheer chance Her Majesty sends us to deal with incidents that mages may have had a hand in causing, I'd like to be able to consider all possible answers."
"When the time comes, I'll be there to supply that knowledge to you-"
"I think the events of last night proved that that's insufficient." Ciel shook his head. "Emiya. Be reasonable. I'm not asking for much."
Archer sighed, tiredly rubbing his temples with his thumbs.
This was something that the Counter Guardian had actively tried to avoid. Explaining the moonlit world to a mundane was asking for trouble, but with the events at the workshop that wasn't, it seemed the matter was out of his hands at last.
… I guess I don't have to tell him everything.
He finally looked up, utterly serious.
"Most magi," he began, "are first and foremost obsessed with their family craft. Each family studies a possible avenue to the Root-"
"The what?"
"The root." Archer repeated. "It's the source of all events and phenomena in the universe. Existing outside of time, it stores and archives information of all possibilities and events, past, present, and future, of the world. It is the place from where all souls, like yours and mine, originate from and to where they return after death."
He mulled over his next words.
"The ultimate ambition of most magi is to reach it, coveting the immense knowledge and power reaching it would bring, and many focus their experiments into discovering a path to it. Families have dedicated generations upon generations to work on the family craft, believing their method would be the way to finally reach it-"
"Wait," Ciel held a hand up, "is the root an actual, physical location?"
"No, as I said before, it exists outside the constraints of space and time."
"Then how does one devise methods to reach it?"
Archer's lips tightened.
"It is believed," he said carefully, "that a path to the root will be revealed when one reaches the pinnacle of a certain concept. There are also methods meant to reach it through manipulating certain systems, but the former's the usual method."
The little Earl frowned as he mulled over his servant's words.
"And has anyone ever succeeded?"
"Unconfirmed. Those who have touched it directly have never returned to the world. Those who have managed to touch it cease to exist on the spot, as their human souls are either going back to "where they came from", and be reabsorbed into the root. The exact details are unknown, so even magi who have left their names in history have refrained from touching it."
"... and these magi still go ahead and chase after it, knowing what awaits them?" The earl sounded incredulous.
"It's the way things are. Maybe they're all collectively in too deep. Maybe they don't have a choice." Archer shrugged. "As I said before, reaching the root's also means that the family has succeeded in reaching the pinnacle of what their craft allows, and that's as good a reward as any. Besides, the nature of the crest system puts a lot of pressure and responsibility against those who receive it."
"Crests?"
"Oh, right, you're unaware." Archer remembered. "Think of crests as a record of all the knowledge the family has amassed, passed down from generation to generation in the form of a sort of emblem that's grafted into the skin. It gives the receiver knowledge of spells and theories that have been amassed by the generations before him, and once a magus has reached a certain age, he's expected to transfer his own knowledge into the crest and pass it onto his heir .As the process repeats itself with each new generation, the older a lineage is, the greater the number of Circuits forming the Crest, and the greater the amount of knowledge stored inside it. It is the duty of any heir of a family of magi to successfully expand and pass down the Crest to the next generation."
Ciel blinked. "... That's a lot of responsibility."
"Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people, Master, remember that."
"... But only one person gets to receive the crest, so to speak?"
"That's right."
"I presume that it's like nobility and the eldest offspring receives this dubious honor?"
"Usually, but not always. There are always exceptional circumstances."
The little Earl ruminated on this in silence.
"... and what happens to those who don't receive the crest?" He finally asked.
Unbidden, memories of a violet-haired girl arose, and Archer sighed.
"They move their efforts elsewhere. Expand their horizons. Some are content to assist with the one with the crest in his research. Some get adopted into other families without suitable heirs, hoping to be able to get one for themselves in another way. And sometimes, they take matters into their own hands and move against the one with the crest."
"Move against-" Ciel started, and frowned. "You mean killing?"
"Usually, yes. Or permanent incapacitation, whatever works for them. Troubles can arise when there is more than one candidate, after all. It's not unheard of for bloody feuds to erupt within a clan of magi because of a dispute between two or more children fighting over the family's Crest. It was because of that and other reasons that the current trend of only one heir per family and excluding the others came to be."
"Killing just to be the rightful heir," the Earl muttered, lips curled, "it sounds positively medieval."
"They don't usually succeed, especially when the transfer of the crest is complete." Archer pointed out. "Actually, there was this famous story-"
The servant stopped. He said too much.
"... Emiya." His master sounded unamused. "Don't stop just when it's getting good."
"It's not particularly related-" Archer tried, faltering when he registered the look on his master's face.
Fuck it, he mused, might as well.
"... I once had the distinct displeasure of meeting and working with this particularly talented magus. Despite being a cigarette-chomping, sadistic piece of work, it could not be denied that she was by all accounts a genius. A regular polymath, she dabbled in all sorts of crafts outside her family's specialization and excelled at every one. She was the oldest of her siblings, and she worked towards obtaining the crest from her father. It was to be expected, of course."
"Once again, I'm expecting a 'but'."
"Correct. The crest was eventually passed on to her younger, substantially less talented sister. Speculation abound as to why, but the most accepted reason was that the older sibling planned to make use of the crest as a path to the root, should she achieve it. It'd be the end of the family as they knew it, should she succeed, and all counts pointed to it being likely. Thus, her little sister got the crest."
Ciel pursed his lips. "I can't imagine that to have gone over well."
"Not even remotely. The battle was bloody and horrific, with lots of collateral damage, but what the younger sister lacked in as a magus she made up for with her skills in combat. Eventually, she was subjugated, and the two's conflict digressed into petty maneuvers and annoyances when it became clear neither could kill the other. Then the two went on about their own business. As far as I can recall, they never met in person again."
The Earl looked thoughtful. "You sound like you fear her."
"I'd be a fool not to fear The Red." He said, voice flat and devoid of inflection. "Even now, stronger than I am, I'm certain that if she put all her effort into it, she'd find a way to kill me for good, let alone back when I was but a stubborn, naive neophyte of magecraft. It was only because she regarded me as little more than a particularly fascinating bug that she didn't succumb to her desires to maim, harm and experiment." He suppressed a shudder. "I thank whatever higher power exists that I only met her the one time."
"Hm." Ciel muttered, amused at the idea of someone that could make his servant fearful. "I take it you prefer the company of her sister, then?"
"On the contrary." Archer immediately retorted. "I feared The Red, but I genuinely disliked The Blue."
The Earl of Phantomhive blinked.
"... That's not quite how I expected this story to go."
Archer sighed.
"Don't get me wrong." He began. "Her younger sister was much more free-spirited, and less-likely to murder you for getting on her nerves, and in another life, another universe, perhaps I could have been friends with her. But the one time I met her later on in my life, I… I…"
Archer stopped, frowning as he tilted his head in deep thought.
"... Fuck." He cursed. "For the life of me, I can't remember the exact reason why."
Ciel looked annoyed. "If you don't want to tell me, you can just say so-"
"That's not it." Archer shook his head. "My memories of my past life as a Counter Guardian are disjointed and hazy. It just so happens that I can't quite piece together what happened as a result of our meeting. I just, I just…"
The man formerly known as Shirou Emiya turned his attention outside, the horizon awash in a splash of vermillion into navy blue.
"... she said something." He finally recalled.
"What?"
"At the end of our meeting, she told me something. Something that made me dislike her immensely in retrospect." Archer muttered, feeling surer by the minute. "She said… she said…"
He allowed himself to rack his brains a few moments more, before he sighed, collapsing back onto his seat with a huff.
"I'm sorry." He said simply. "I don't remember."
Knock Knock
The door opened, and the conductor stuck his head in, cap in his hands. "Deepest apologies, we're nearing Calais. Please get ready to disembark."
"Of course." Archer nodded, relieved to be able to stop his recollections. "Thank you for reminding us."
The cabin door swung gently shut.
Earl Phantomhive sighed. "Well, if you ever do remember what she said, do tell."
Archer made a non-committal hum of assent.
As Calais came into view, Ciel turned and handed 'Les Misérables' back to his servant. "Pack it in. I'll read it on the steamer back."
"Sure." Archer accepted the tome, tucking it under his arms as he extracted the suitcase under his seat.
Flicking the knobs on either side, he lifted the lid open and stared.
Tucked in a corner beside his master's spare clothes was a beautifully engraved pocket watch.
After a little more than a moment, his master noted his stillness and frowned. "Is something wrong?"
Archer looked up, and wondered whether he should inform his master of the arguably worse connotations behind giving a clock as a gift – that the receiver should be watching the time they have left in a relationship or in life – before remembering just how well his master had taken his previous attempts to advise him.
"... No, it's nothing, Master." He finally said, tucking the book beside it gently before snapping the luggage shut. "My apologies."
The station came into view, and Ciel finally stood up, wincing at the sensation of pins and needles under his feet.
"You alright, master?"
"It's fine, Emiya." He gave Finnian a thoughtful glance.
"I've just had enough of France for a long time."