Actually Satan

by NoSchittSherlock

Despite repeated denials, Ciel Phantomhive isn't entirely convinced his new servant wasn't the devil in disguise. In his defense, Archer thinks much of the same of his new employer. Stuck with a brat he thinks of strangling on a daily basis on a job with no end in sight, Archer is one hell of a butler. As if he wasn't overworked enough.

17. Soldier: Sep 1886 v3

(A/N)

Better Call Saul ended, y'all. I'm in tatters. It was my favorite show.

Onto happier matters:

Back when I first started I said if this story ever reached 1k follows and favs I'd abandon it like so many other great fics I know, carry on their legacy somewhat. Well, one down. And it seems we're on track for the other.

But I've put way too much thought into what happens next to just leave things here, and I really want to get to the good stuff, so I have a couple of new goals to attain before this fic is put on permanent hiatus.

This chapter was difficult for a number of reasons, what with a character that I had to establish out of practically nothing and leave enough for people to think about future chapters so things don't seem so contrived later on. Plus, I think I bit off more than I can chew making the previous chapters so short to make up for it here.

This entire story is turning out to be something quite different from how I imagined it when I first put the idea out there, but I'm glad people are enjoying it all the same.

And to all you FGO players out there:

I hope you all got Castoria.

And the meme is dead. Arcueid is here.

Thanks to fallacies, fluflesnufaluphagus and Shishou Mode for beta reading.

P.S. IM FUCKING JOKING ABOUT ABANDONING IT AFTER 1K FOLLOWS AND FAVS. Don't actually unfavorite or unfollow this, please. The only other way this fic would be discontinued is:

- I get a TV Tropes page

- Xolef actually reading this fic

- I'm dead.

None of which are about to happen anytime soon.

---

"I just wanted to say to you three, by way of introductory remarks, that I'm extremely miffed about tonight's events, and in my quest to make you try and understand… the level of my unhappiness, I'm likely to use an awful lot of what we would call 'violent sexual imagery'. And I just wanted to check that neither of you would be terribly offended by that."

Archer (probably apocryphal)

---

What people don't usually tell you about starving to death – on the already unusual occurrence of people discussing the macabre topic of severe deprivation – was how it fucked with your sleep.

The brain usually takes up one-fifth of the total energy that the body consumes in a day, and beyond being the organ that controls thought, memory, emotion, motor skills, vision, breathing, temperature, hunger and basically every process that regulates our body, it turns out that the brain is responsible for ensuring that the human body sleeps, too.

And so, when faced with the threat of imminent starvation, it turns out some deeply animalistic instinct within us keeps us awake through a mixture of hunger pangs and hyperactivity. The idea is that, if you are starving, you'd want to make sure you're on the top of your game cognitively, to improve your chances of finding food rather than becoming food for someone else.

Of course, that instinct – cultivated, no doubt, by hundreds of years of our forefathers fending for themselves in the wilderness – tended to clash pretty violently with the fact that a good night's sleep also helped to suppress one's hunger, and made one feel not so hungry once one wakes up.

And so it was with these two instincts and processes roiling in conflict in his aching, battle-worn abdomen that Baldroy found Bill, head lolled back against the crumbling rock, face peaceful and still.

On the third day, Bill had died in his sleep, and Bardroy had found it all the more difficult not to resent him for it.

Don't get him wrong, Bill had fought well in the brief time that they'd marched, buoyed by the misplaced optimism of the doomed, before seeing that woman reduce their comrades to ashes and raise the earth at the command of her hands with the second lieutenant ordered the survivors to fall back.

Within the cave, there were just the three of them, Terry, Bill, and Bard himself, ducking great plumes of fire, ignoring the screams of pain behind them as they clambered into the cave for sanctuary. It wasn't until they felt the darkness mount amongst them and heard the slam of boulders against the cliff that Bard realized they walked into what was to be their tomb.

He was losing daylight. Whether by oversight or a cruel mercy from that accursed witch, a small hole remained for the sun's rays to shine through. Determined to make the most of it and temper down the creeping sense of dread bubbling and boiling at the back of his throat, he focused on what he could still do and set about fixing his men's wounds.

The left side of Bill's face was caked with so much blood that Bard had marveled that the private had managed to follow his directions. Scalp wounds never stopped bleeding, but were rarely fatal on their own, and Bard had said as much to him as he calmly wrapped a torn sleeve and a patch cut from his jacket against it. There was little to be done for the mangled ruin that was his leg, two great chunks of bone jutting out from sinew, fat and viscera like errant rock formations amidst a sea of rusted earth. He'd asked whether Bill would have liked him to attempt to set his leg straight with rope he'd fashioned from their belts, but he'd scarcely managed to lift and tug the rope wrapped against his foot and a protruding stalagmite gently before Bill screamed something unholy and begged for him to stop. But death was a sure thing were the leg not treated, and try as he might, the lieutenant didn't think he could fashion a workable tourniquet as the leg was. So he'd cut more pieces of his uniform – similarly flecked with blood and dirt – for Bill to wedge between his teeth, and begun the process anew, going somewhere deep inside him as he ignored the private's muffled screams and tears.

When the deed was done, he'd wrapped a sleeve and the stock of his Remington against the gaping wound and turned his attention towards Terry.

Terry's face was fine, which was about the only positive Bard could have mustered from the entire situation. But his abdomen was a great chasm of crimson, a great stake of wood jutting out where Bard had a sinking feeling his liver was situated. Despite his pleas, Bard knew that removing the offending item would only serve to make the bleeding worse, so there was nothing that could be done except clean his wounds with some of the water that remained in their canteens and wrapped his shirt around his torso to stem the blood flow as much as he could. But by nightfall, he could see that the damage was done: his skin had started turning a muted yellow that reminded him so much of sand and sulfur, and he knew it was only a matter of time.

Bard himself had nothing to work on, in comparison. A gash on his arm that he busied himself with cleaning, a burn on his leg that he allowed to be exposed to the cavern's cooler air, aerophagia that was indicative of a creeping sense of dread, itself indicative of a single, salient fact.

For all intents and purposes, they were all going to die here.

If he was to be honest, despite the intrinsically high mortality rate one would expect of his profession, he didn't expect that he'd die quite like this. When he took up arms all those years ago, after the sacking and fire of his home, he'd resigned himself as another nameless corpse on the battlefield, alive one second and dead the next. He would kill some fucking Indians, inevitably have a tomahawk flung into the back of his skull, be reunited with his wife and son in the afterlife, it was a pretty good retirement plan for someone as lost as he was, all things considered.

He never prepared for the eventuality that he would live so long. No, the idea that there would have been ample room for navel-gazing and long, hard looks into the abyss that was his own impending doom over sleepless nights punctuated by hunger pangs did not so much as occur to him. No, it did not.

The lieutenant's gaze flitted to the dead and dying beside him.

Bill's father was rarely home. He was a traveling salesman, but Bill had preferred the term "a conniving son of a bitch". He'd take note of where people headed to whatever area was unlucky enough to experience a gold rush and head there with a wagon full of mining supplies. Pickaxes, shovels, gold pans, buckets, wheelbarrows, wire mesh, as well as other overlooked essentials like jerky and salt pork, fruit preserves, clean clothes, furs, and the odd newspaper. Upon arriving, he'd offload his goods at an exorbitant price – the miners paying for the advantage of no longer needing to head back towards civilization to restock supplies and risking people capitalizing on their unattended mining operation. On the way back, he'd offer to take the prospectors' letters back to the nearest town to post for a price that was nothing short of outrageous. But he'd return to the nearest town, sacks heavy with billfolds and unrefined gold nuggets and pouches of dust and the family would eat well for months.

It went without saying that however much the man was a benefactor to them all, Bill regarded him as a stranger. A regular Magwitch, he'd claimed, minus the feelings of paternal affection.

His mother had succumbed to the flu one exceptionally wet spring day whilst his father was halfway across the country, and efforts to contact him via telegram at whatever backwater town he was in halfway across the country went in vain. And so it was that after burying her in the garden next to the tomatoes, he'd ransacked the house for whatever valuables were left and bought a ticket to the nearest major city, staying in luxury and excess for a good period of time before a series of unfortunate, if predictable, events left him stone cold broke.

Faced with the prospect of poverty and homelessness, Bill did what any youth with a high opinion of himself and his physical capabilities would have done and joined the army, harboring fantasies of being able to see the world, yet greeted with the comparably inglorious reality that they were off driving indians off their ancestral lands by force.

Bardroy stared into Bill's lifeless, milky eyes and wondered if he'd even appreciate the gesture of him – if he somehow survived this clusterfuck – tracking down his father to tell him his son was dead under his command.

All signs pointed to 'no'.

Terry was younger but was comparatively tighter-lipped about his family. Not even whilst they were in the field, shooting the breeze over a pot of sofky that Bill had cooked up did he mention his circumstances, despite his fellow soldiers' needling and wheedling. But Terry spoke with the air and diction of an educated man, made oblique references to books and history that were lost on them all, and was generally regarded as an uppity sort of git, which drove one to the conclusion that he was well taken care of by his family, which drove one to question just why he'd go the extra mile to piss off his parents by joining the army.

The buzzing of a fly punctuated the latest ache in his abdomen, and Bard sighed.

"Terry," He cleared his throat. "I don't want to alarm you, but I'm just going to see if I can move Bill somewhere deeper inside."

The private opened a tired eye. "Why're you moving Bill? Should he even be moving, in his condition? And that leg?"

The lieutenant sighed. "Bill's dead, Terry. He has been for the past few hours."

The words echoed throughout the caven.

Terry processed this for a moment, his face as yellow and impassive as it'd had been for the past day as he finally took notice of his deceased brother-in-arms resting beside him.

Finally, he rested his head back against the wall.

"Lucky bastard." He muttered.

"Poor bastard." Bard corrected him.

"Yeah, well, it's fucking difficult to scrounge up some sympathy when we're in the same shitty situation as he was, isn't it?" Terry retorted, wetting his parched lips as he attempted to sit up despite the stake in his abdomen. "I can't even muster enough energy to be properly angry and argue. Hell, my liver probably can't muster enough… whatever the fuck it generates to stop my body from turning into a lemon meringue pie, and you want me to be sympathetic?"

"Don't talk about fucking food, will you?" Bard groaned as he stood up, wincing as he hobbled unsteadily towards where Bill rested. "It was funny and hopeful and distracting enough from our current situation for a good five minutes, now it's just annoying."

"You know perfectly well what I mean." Terry was unamused, face sallow and slick with sweat. "I'm just saying, what with circumstances being as fucked six ways to Sunday as they are, that maybe we might as well skip all the funerary social conventions and eulogies of 'He was a good man' and just dump him as far away from us as you fucking can. I'd rather like to be able to breathe damp, humid, cavernous air in my last few hours before he stinks up the entire cavern like a sewage plant along the Hudson."

"But Bill was a good man!" Bard turned around, irate. "I don't know if another splinter's lodged so deep into your head you've grown a second nose, but he's saved our hides on more than one occasion, so he deserves better-"

"Deserves?!" Terry sounded dangerously close to being animated before collecting himself. "Frankly, Bard, I don't have the energy or spit to go into a long discussion on what either of us deserve. Let us learn to show our friendship and respect for a man when he is alive and not after he's dead. Heck, when I see him again in Satan's great roaring crockpot, I'll tell him in person, how about that?"

The lieutenant counted to ten in his head, forcing himself to sound calm. "I understand our circumstances perfectly. And as much as I can assume responsibility, I am sorry we're all in this situation to begin with. But forgive me for not wanting us to descend into… to… animals."

"How incredibly fucking noble."

It was at this point that Bard had lost his temper.
"Look, if you're going to be such a cunt and if you're so sure you're going to die, why don't you just spare me your unhelpful comments and moaning and fucking shoot yourself?"

Terry's face went white, and the lieutenant regretted those words as soon as they left his lips.

"Jesus-" Bard bit his lip, hands on his hips, expression contrite in an instant, "fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it-"

"It's fine, Bard-"

"No, the fuck it is." The lieutenant muttered. "I crossed a line, heat of the moment-"

"Bard." Terry looked grim, wincing as he attempted to sit up straighter. "... I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about it, cooped up in here with a wooden stake in my belly."

"Yeah, and those thoughts will remain thoughts, right?" Bard stole a glance before returning his attention to a particularly interesting pebble. "You've got family waiting for you back home, and God knows I'd go mad in this place without someone to talk to."

Terry seemed to mull on his words for a spell.

"... it doesn't matter." He said at last. "I thought about it, and I couldn't do it."

Bard looked up.

"... just to be clear," he tread carefully, "couldn't do it as in 'you're too weak to hold a gun up' couldn't do it, or 'you're just too scared to pull the trigger' couldn't do it?"

"I'm not scared." He shot the suggestion down mighty quick for a man in such a pitiable state. "And let's be honest, the pain of a bullet to the head would be over in an instant compared to what I'm going through now. No. My reasons against eating a bullet are much more… abstract."

"Abstract." Bard repeated with a little derision. "Abstract. Well go ahead, it isn't like our current reality is offering much, beyond my pebble collection."

Terry looked solemn, taking the time to wet his whistle with a cap full of water from his canteen.

"There was someone else who was also incarcerated for three days." He finally said, screwing the cap back on. "He was flogged and humiliated, starved and dehydrated, blindfolded and beaten, but he did not at any point choose to take his own life. He suffered, and accepted the punishment, however unjust. He is within us all, and we should follow his example as we, too, suffer."

The words were allowed to settle for a moment in the dimly lit cave before Bard couldn't help it: he laughed, ribs aching painfully as he shook with mirth.

"Ah, Terry, that was a good one." The lieutenant shook his head, still smiling. "No, seriously. What's really stopping you?"

When Terry's face did not break into his sardonic smile, Bard began to feel something adjacent to dread but not quite.

"You're shitting me." He stated, more for himself than the soldier in front of him.

"Jesus taught us that there is no degradation so great that suicide can be justified." Terry went on, choosing to ignore Bard throwing his arms up in incomprehension. "He died for our sins. Who are we to deny his teachings?"

Fuck me running, he's serious.

"I'm just going to… pretend that this 'come-to-jesus' moment is a result of your admittedly inevitable demise, because considering everything else we've been through on the battlefield, the idea that you're serious about this is laughable."

"What, because I'm a soldier?"

"No, it's because you're a ginger- of course it's the fact we're soldiers! I'm not a big believer myself, but even I know that that can't be considered good behavior."

Terry shook his head. "The Book of Matthew makes it clear that the sin in murder is hatred, not the act of killing itself. Anyone who possesses such all-consuming hatred for someone will be judged under his eyes in the end."

Abruptly, images of his burning cottage, the bodies of his wife and son around him, the natives on horseback yelling and chasing his neighbors with axes and torches, he remembered his grief, his shock, his sheer blinding rage-

Bard shook his head.

"You can't just cherry pick bits of the Bible and twist their words to suit your life choices, that's cheating!" Bard snapped with a little more fury than the situation merited. "That's a cop out, and you know it."

"Luke 7:9 had Jesus proclaim a centurion had more faith than anyone he'd seen in Israel." The wounded soldier went on, growing distressingly more lucid by the minute. "In that very same book, he'd told Roman soldiers not to quit, only to be honest. And who can forget that upon the cross, he forgave the very soldiers that crucified him-"

"That forgiveness was conditional that they knew not what they were doing." Bard raised a hand up. "I knew perfectly well what I was doing when I joined the army. I wanted to kill Indians. You're not going to start saying you mistook the army for a place to get three meals a day and free lodging and nothing more? That suddenly absolves all the killing we've done?"

"No one can say that they are without sin." Terry's tone brooked no argument. "I'm not saying I am either."

"And if suicide is just another sin you can throw onto the metaphorical pile, what's stopping you?"

Terry pursed his lips, looking uncertain for the first time.

"... you might laugh, but… I can't help but think that a greater punishment lies waiting for me should I choose to end my own life."

Bard raised a hand to his temple.

"Terry, as admirably misguided I find the conviction of your faith, we just saw that-" Bard struggled for a moment to describe it, "We just saw the stuff of Abigail Williams' nightmares summon fire and move the fucking earth with swings of her hands. We just saw someone use magic to decimate our comrades. We just saw that witch hurl boulders at us as we made our way inside here. And you still want to believe that someone would punish you for just… not wanting to suffer the rest of your days in agony?"

"Let's leave me aside for a minute here." Terry gave him a sharp look. "If you're so sure we're going to die, why haven't you done it yourself?"

"Why haven't I-" Bard stopped himself, suddenly hesitant. "Well it's not exactly a natural thing to do, is it? You've got to work yourself into the correct mindset. And ideally, it'd be done somewhere with nice surroundings. Somewhere with flowers, and coffee… maybe with music. Nothing too upbeat. Melancholy music."

"... Right." Terry made a show of looking around. "So whereabouts in this cave are you planning to find this magical musical suicide forest? If it helps, I can whistle Dixie."

"No, I got enough of that on the road with Pete." Bard waved him off, pacing. "Ignoring all my rambling, the truth is…" and he stopped, facing away from Terry, "well the truth is I don't know, alright? I mean, I know it's all very bleak, and I'm fully aware of how imminently fucked we are, but there's just a part of me that can't accept that."

"I think you'll find that part's called denial."

Bard gave him a sour look. "I don't want to hear that from you."

Terry deflated, looking almost kind. "You know, you can just admit that you're scared, you know? I'm not going to judge."

And something in his tone finally made the lieutenant snap. "Terry, let's get one thing straight, alright? I am not afraid to die." Bard snarled. "I wouldn't have joined the fucking corps if I was afraid of what comes after. Frankly, I can't fucking wait to see my family again. But dying like this? After what we've just been through? Against something we had no chance against? Fat fucking chance, I refuse to accept this as how I kick the bucket. No. I want… I want…"

Bard looked down.

"I want to die on my own terms." He finally said. "The choice between waiting for it to come naturally and doing it myself is no choice at all."

He allowed the words to settle, the space between them suddenly larger all at once.

"... It's funny." Terry mused. "You not really believing in God but you're so certain there's an afterlife."

"Of course there is." Bard muttered. "This can't be it. There has to be more to all of this. Especially after what we've seen."

"Have you ever considered that your reluctance to accept God into your life is due to your fear of what comes after?"

"Did I not make myself clear?! That has fuck-all to do with it." The lieutenant snapped, a little too quickly. "I don't possess any feelings on the matter at all, alright? I never put any serious stock into it. I mean, I married Joanna in a church, but that's only because that was the way things were done."

"So… you don't care whether he exists or not?"

Bard looked pensive.

"I believe that there are things outside of our control, Terry. Who or what's controlling them, I don't want to know, especially considering what we just experienced."

The two descended into a terse, tired silence.

"Hey, we're gonna make it, ok?" Bard muttered, for the lack of anything better to say. "And in a few years, we'll be sitting around the fire talking about this with a classic 'so no shit, there I was', like Jerry used to do about his time in Shiloh."

Terry smiled wistfully. "Maybe… I'll see if I can make sofky like Bill used to."

"With the little lumps of meat he tried convincing us were squirrels."

"I always assumed it was fox."

Bard shrugged. "Eh. They all taste the same, don't they, when minced and charred to a crisp?"

They laughed, and for a moment there was some much needed levity in that little cavern of theirs.

Quickly, though, Bard focused.

"I should move Bill." He muttered.

"Yeah. Sure. And I'll just… not shoot myself." Terry closed his eyes.

"Sounds like a plan." He agreed, and without further ado slung Bill's arm around his shoulder with a grunt, carrying the corpse deeper into the cavern.

Said carrying gradually turned into dragging by sheer necessity, as the walk grew narrower, twisting and turning in odd places that Bard was forced to keep a hand out and feel his way out in the growing darkness, a darkness that only allowed the thoughts he'd kept away to fester and grow.

He didn't lie, back there with Terry, but he hadn't given him the entire truth either.

No one wanted to die, that much was certain, but he'd been through enough near-death experiences convinced he was going to die and come out relatively unscathed that it was particularly difficult for him to accept that this was how he was going to go. It was a large part of why he'd received the battlefield promotion in the first place. His superiors had believed that a soldier that'd always come back alive must be doing something right, and saw fit to bestow upon him the role of a second lieutenant. But Bard understood that whatever reason for his success on the battlefield that didnt boil down to sheer, dumb luck wasn't something that could be so readily taught.

He didn't do anything particularly impressive. Hell, his capabilities against a regular soldier could only be said to be slightly better than average, and he'd be the first to admit that they could do anything he was capable of. But whatever action he took, he had an edge. The actions he took were less prone to failure. There was always a route open for him should he look hard enough for it in the heat of the moment.

It was – he'd reasoned as much to his superiors – just a single-minded desire to survive at all costs.

The man cursed as he ran his hand over a sharp edge, wincing as he kept on going.

He'd accepted that they were stuck, and that there was no easy way out, with boulders blocking the entrance that could not be moved for fear of making things worse, but stubbornly, defiantly, he refused to accept that he was going to die. Certainly not by his own hand.

And he certainly wasn't afraid of what comes after.

All those thoughts and roiling paranoia were only due to his condition and the pitch-black surroundings, he was sure.

Soon enough, he reached the marker he'd left behind hours before, and gently set down the body amidst the pile of rocks, taking care to place his hands over his chest. Fumbling through his coat pockets, he found the little box of matches and struck one, the warm, flickering flame illuminating them both as the lieutenant committed Bill's face to memory.

His expression wasn't peaceful, by any sense of the word. Formaldehyde painted quite a false picture of the grim reality of death, he knew, but despite that, he couldn't shake the feeling that underneath the marred and world-weary features was a man glad to have passed on.

"... It's been shit knowing you." Bard finally said. "But I hope you're happy, wherever you are."

He allowed the little flame to singe his fingers before waving the match out, the little fire disappearing into a puff of smoke.

---

"Well, it's done." Bard announced, wiping his hands as he approached Terry, still lying where he'd left him. "Gave him a semi-decent eulogy. Had we any oil, I'd even give him a viking funeral… which sounds in bad taste, come to think of it, now that I'm saying it out loud, but I think he'd appreciate the gesture."

"..."

"You know, I was thinking of our previous conversation," he mused, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a rag, "and it occurred to me that it's not really that I don't believe in him, but the whole thing with people like the Mormons and the Catholics and all the other ones just drawing different conclusions from the same text just doesn't sit right with me, you know? At some point, you'd lose faith in any one of them actually stumbling upon the real thing, and at that point, I might as well just go by my own beliefs, d'you know what I-"

Bard stopped short.

An upturned palm laid open and inviting in the corner of his vision.

Numb, he turned around and was greeted to the sight of Terry, peaceful, head gently tilted as if deeply asleep, his chest as still as a forest creek.

The lieutenant stood there, back against the wall, barely cognizant of it scraping along his back as he slid into a heap, hoping against hope for some movement, but it was not to be.

Terry had died, and now he was well and truly alone.

He observed his friend, his brother-in-arms, in stony silence.

Sighing, Bard wiped his eyes.

"You could at least have said some better last words." He mumbled.

---

Back in the Phantomhive manor, a young gardener was facing a markedly more mysterious malady.

"...nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…" Finnian's voice trailed off, frowning as he surveyed the little vegetable patch. "Sir! Do plants ever eat one another?"

From where he sat on the manor's landings, Tanaka looked up from where he sat, root scissors in hand. "Not that I am aware of, no." He said simply. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, some pea plants have just disappeared!" The boy reported, and Tanaka watched with some degree of satisfaction as he visibly resisted his nervous tic of sucking his thumb. "We planted forty seeds, thirty-seven have ger… germi…"

"Germinated?" Tanaka offered patiently.

"Yeah! Germinated!" He nodded, his straw hat bobbing up and down behind his neck. "But twelve are missing from yesterday!"

"That is a serious problem." Smoothly, the butler stood up, carefully avoiding his potted plant as he made his way down the front steps to where Finnian squatted. "What do you think is happening?"

Face scrunched in deep thought, Finnian scrutinized the vegetable patch with an intensity that would unnerve a baby hippopotamus.

"... Thieves!" He finally exclaimed.

Tanaka blinked.

"... Thieves, young Finnian?"

"There are always bad people coming to the manor in the middle of the night!" Finnian went on, sounding undeservedly surer by the second. "Might be they've learned entering the manor is difficult, so they settled for thieving the garden!"

An autumn breeze scattered leaves – a myriad of warm hues of red and yellow – across the garden's path.

"... Possible." Tanaka finally remarked, for the lack of anything more polite to say. "But there is a far simpler explanation."

With more fluidity than could be expected from a man of his age, Tanaka squatted beside Finnian, gently pushing apart a small patch of tall grass with a gloved hand. And sure enough, a small mound of irregularly striped pellets were nestled in the dirt

"You see that?" Tanaka murmured. "Rabbit stool. And coupled with the errant nibbles you can see on those leaves and stems, this is a simple case of rabbits entering our garden."

"Rabbits?" Finnian blinked. "Well then, there's nothing we can really do about it, can we? It's just an animal."

"On the contrary, there are many things we can do." Tanaka calmly pointed out. "And as a gardener, you have a responsibility to ensure that the garden is free of pests and that they don't endanger the crops and vegetation."

The boy appeared a combination of horrified and awestruck. "I have responsibilities?"

Tanaka could not help but chuckle. "Of course you do. You might have done your duties under the supervision of Emiya, but there will come a time where you'll have to do this all by yourself so that the young master can put matters of the grounds to rest. Treat this as practice in the meantime. What do you propose we do, young Finnian?"

Finnian's brows furrowed. "Have you ever had to save peas from rabbits before?"

"Well, not directly," Tanaka demurred, "I was only the butler, and we had someone else to handle matters concerning the garden. But I suppose they did, in a way."

"Well, how did the previous gardener manage to solve this problem?"

"Well there were a variety of measures we employed. The groundskeeper usually carried out one or two hunting parties around this time of year, when summer gives way to autumn, and the rabbits come looking for other sources of sustenance. We set traps, we destroy hutches, the cook makes potted hare, it was a good system. But I suppose, with our staffing problems, such measures are unable to be employed at present." Tanaka mused. "This would have been a lot simpler if Sebastian was here."

Finnian blinked. "Sebastian?"

"He was the hound that belonged to my previous master." Tanaka informed him, not without some degree of wistfulness. "A loyal, german dog, it would make its rounds throughout the manor and scare off deer and rabbits alike."

"Whatever happened to it?"

Tanaka fell silent, amidst the distant rustlings and scratchings of leaves on the walkway behind them.

"... That's a story for another time." He finally said, standing up with a sigh. "I'm afraid that there are some things that remain in my confidence even after death."

Finnian frowned, mulling over his cryptic words for a bit before his attention was brought once more to the rabbit droppings.

"What about the rabbits?"

"I suppose we can always find some wild onions and plant them around the manor." Tanaka mused. "Rabbits dislike the taste and smell of onions, and it's toxic for them besides. We plant enough of them in the manor's periphery, and that should do the trick in the future."

"I like onions!"

"I'm sure you do. You like everything Mr. E prepares for you. But those seedlings will take time to germinate, so we need an immediate solution in the meantime. I suppose we could always erect some sort of fence, nothing too tall, just enough that getting into the vegetable patch would be a hassle."

Finnian looked around the flowers in bloom and tried to picture it in his head.

"Wouldn't it look odd in the garden?"
"A salient point." Tanaka admitted, gently running a gloved hand through the boy's golden locks. "But needs must when the devil drives, as my Master used to say. At the very least, we have no official guests, beyond the lady upstairs."

The butler gave a critical eye to the pathway strewn with leaves behind them.

"In the meantime, let us focus our efforts on the more immediate problems." He clapped his hands. "Finnian, fetch a broom and a rake. There's a walkway that needs clearing up."

"Yes, sir!" And with a quick salute, the youth bounded off, straw hat bobbing up and down as he ran to the toolshed.

Tanaka watched his figure disappear past the manor's walls and sighed.

Age really was starting to catch up to him.

Face set, he made his way back up the manor's steps where his pot of tree saplings stood beside a small pile of fresh moss.

He'd just begun to sit down when all at once, he felt a presence before him and tensed.

"Don't get up."

Relaxing, he allowed himself to sink back down onto the cushion with a sigh, before looking up.

"Emiya." Tanaka smiled. "I'm glad to see you're alright. I'm sure the young master will be delighted to know of your return."

"That makes one of us." Emiya quipped, taking in the manor's expanse with a relaxed air. "I must say, what with Finnian to take care of, I half-expected the manor to be in a state of disarray."

"I've been doing this for many years, Emiya." Tanaka chided him gently. "The Phantomhive household can manage without you."

"Yes, well, one can only hope." Emiya muttered, before taking an interested glance at the pot between them. "It's been a while since I've encountered a Bonsai. Is it oak?"

"Beech, actually." Tanaka supplied, pleased. "I thought this was another good use of my time, now that you've taken over most of my duties."

"Beyond drinking tea in front of the heater?"

Tanaka chuckled. "I'm sure you're aware of what they say about idle hands."

"Of course. It suits you." The butler admitted, leaning forward for a closer look. "I mean, I've never grown one personally, but my grandfather of a sort enjoyed tending to his yew on the occasions that I visited. I see you're about to transplant moss."

"You know your trees." The old man clicked his root scissors for emphasis. "I'm just ensuring that the soil is free of debris and any aerial roots, but I'm hoping to get the rest of it done before night falls."

"I'm sure that in a couple of years, you'll have quite the impressive miniature forest here." Gently, the man set the large rucksack down, landing with the soft clinks that denoted the bottles of wines within. "Out of interest, any particular reason why you picked beech in particular? Is there some aspect of Feng Shui or Kanso that I'm unaware of that makes beech the optimal choice?"

"The late Earl Phantomhive never put much stock into such superstition, I'm afraid." Tanaka shook his head. "But I thought Beech would bring something this manor would need, going forward."

"Stability?"

"Not quite." The old man looked thoughtful. "It is said that beech signifies the change one undergoes through revelations, the crossing of the thresholds that challenge us. I'm sure you'd agree, with the young master and his new servants in mind, that such change and progress would be very much something to strive for, would you not?"

"Progress." Emiya scoffed. "That'd be the day."

"Oh, don't be so cynical." Tanaka chided him gently. "That boy has made great strides in his time under my care. In fact, I'd be confident in stating that-"

"MISTER E!"

Emiya barely had the time and sense of mind to lob his backpack to an alarmed Tanaka before the world lurched, a sudden whirl of force as he was tackled. Ornately carved stone crumbled against his body in the few milliseconds of take-off, and his body hit rock, jarred into a wild spin, great chunks of concrete pulling up in waves as he hit the pavement again and again as he bounced as finally, his body broke free of the ground, twisting into a wild spin again, and slammed on to the pavement with a great crash.

Head swimming, body aching, Emiya let his vision refocus as he gently lifted his head and assessed the damage. As he'd thought, a sizable portion of the elaborately chiseled banisters had crumbled into pieces, and craters had been gouged onto the courtyard on where he'd crashed and landed.

It was there, lying under pieces of rubble and snapped gardening tools, an excitable blonde babbling excitedly over his chest, that it truly sunk in for the Counter Guardian that his holiday was well and truly over.

"Finny." Emiya muttered. "I've told you before not to tackle me at full strength like this, remember? Anyone else would have ended up with a spinal cord injury."

"I'm sorry, Mister E!" Finnian beamed, grinning like a golden retriever that found its favorite ball. "It's just, I missed you! You've been gone for so long!"

"Yeah." Emiya sighed, gingerly extracting himself from the wreckage. "Clearly not long enough."

Distressingly, the boy looked no worse for wear as he followed Emiya as he made his way back towards what remained of the front steps. "What's in the bag? Did you bring back presents? What's America like? What was the cruise like? Did you see any bears-"

"I will answer all of your questions once I've met the young master and you have finished your duties for the day." Emiya hastily held a hand up, wincing as he set a hand on his back and surveyed what remained of the stairs. "Which will now presumably include lessons on stonemasonry and advanced household repair. Tanaka will-"

Emiya paused, something occurring to him as he turned around.

Tanaka smiled, cup of tea once again in hand, from where he sat atop the stairs.

The butler sighed.

"Tanaka will take a very long, well-deserved rest." He finally said. "In the meantime, go and do something useful and clear all of this up."

"Yessir!" Finnian saluted, before turning back, finally noticing his broom snapped cleanly in two. "I'll just uh… get another broom… or maybe I should do it by hand? I can do it, it's only rocks, maybe I should see if I can get a shovel-"

"Finny."

"Right, right!" And just like that, the servant bounded off as quick as he came, leaving two generations of Phantomhive butlers alone with their thoughts.

Emiya turned to Tanaka, unamused.

"Progress, you say." He muttered flatly, slinging the bag back across him. "You're a marvel, Tanaka. First rate."

"The path to competence is an arduous one." Tanaka said easily, shifting his focus back towards his bonsai. "And just give him time. I'm sure under your guidance, he'd eventually flourish."

"Yeah, well," Emiya sighed, making his way back up the front steps. "I'm beginning to think that we should place more hope towards your potted plant."

---

He heard voices coming from the sitting room and paused, a knuckle just shy of rapping the oak doors.

"... never did appreciate the game, your father. He'd play it with you, and he enjoyed it, don't get me wrong, but he never really saw the point of it outside of it. He'd prefer billiards with us. One would think he'd appreciate how it teaches one to think strategically."

"That's rubbish." His master sounded bored. "Both sides have identical pieces, the rules remain the same, thinking that any of this can apply to real life is naive. It is a game, nothing more." And here he heard the soft thumps of wood on wood. "Check."

Archer smiled to himself, giving his bearings a once-over before clearing his throat.

Knock Knock

"Come in."

Archer opened the door, and the visitor stood up in surprise.

"Emiya! It's been ages! How lovely to see you."

"Lady Durless." He supplied smoothly, making his way across the room and gently lifting her hand to his lips. "As always, you are a sight for sore eyes."

"Oh, pooh." Angelina pouted. "And here I thought I'd managed to get you to stop standing on ceremony with me. You're as good as family."

"You flatter me." Archer smiled, "But I'm afraid I am still but a lowly servant."

"A lowly servant is what I'd term my butler." She scoffed, shaking her head theatrically. "Goodness me, the man's about as useful as a sea slug. He can't even prepare me a decent cup of tea. I've a mind to have you show him the ropes, one of these days, if you've got the time."

"I probably don't." Archer shook his head. "It's a shame, really. I so very much enjoy ordering people around."

"So do I. It's one of the rare perks people like us still get to enjoy, isn't it?"

"Unreservedly." Archer took in her attire, still awash from head to toe in shades of carmine. "So where are you headed after this, Lady Durless? Who has the honor of having you grace their little party tonight?"

Angelina sighed. "The social season's over, Emiya! Gone are the parties and booze and canapes. The chandeliers are tucked away, the ballrooms are left to draw dust, no. I'm afraid this is just an aunt visiting her favorite nephew, and as an earl, one must still dress the part."

"Is that so? I apologize, I do hope I wasn't interrupting your game."

"On the contrary, you couldn't have come at a better time!" She laughed. "Any longer and it would have ended in yet another embarrassing defeat. As always, Emiya, your presence is a present."

"You're too kind. But all the same, perhaps I should come back at a better time?"

"No, no, I'd best be off, not only do I not want to prolong my inevitable demise, my butler's probably found some way to break something of mine again." She sighed, before giving Emiya another considering look. "I don't suppose you've changed your mind in coming over?"

"I'm afraid not. On the topic of breaking things that are ours, I'm afraid our resident gardener somehow managed to destroy a good chunk of the front steps, so between cooking dinner and getting back to the thick of things and tearing him a new one, I will be as busy as ever."

"Shame." She pouted. "And don't be too hard on him, that boy seems like a delight."

"That impression goes away quickly, I promise you."

"Is that so? Well, there's always the satisfaction of screaming at them, isn't there."

"I'm afraid that that too quickly loses its appeal."

"More's the pity." The lady sighed, before collecting herself. "Well then, Emiya, I'd best be off."

"Need I walk you to the door?" He offered.

"No, I think I can find my way on my own." She smiled.

"It's no trouble, really. And if I may be so bold, I am quite fond of your company."

Angelina blinked, before laughing out loud.

"You're very kind, Emiya, but really, it's fine, I'm sure you have things to attend to. You and dear Ciel, me and that blasted servant, let's table our talk for another time."

"Of course, my lady."

"Don't be a stranger."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Lady Durless."

Beaming, and with a healthy flush, the lady made her way out of the sitting room, and Archer watched fondly as she gently swung the door shut with a click.

She's a riot, as always.

"Emiya."

And just like that, the good mood was gone.

Chagrined, the servant finally turned to the other occupant of the room.

"Hello, Master." He smiled. "I'd say it's nice to see you again, but it's not nice to lie."

The look Earl Ciel Phantomhive gave him then made Pruneface from Dick Tracy seem downright sweet.

"Please," he muttered, voice loaded with equal parts disgust and horror, "please tell me that there's nothing going on there."

He affected his best impression of innocence. "Going on where?"

"You-" His arms lifted, poised as if he meant to strangle him, "that- that re-enactment of Anna Karenina between you and Aunt Ann!" He barked. "What the hell was that?!"

Archer shrugged. "I was merely being polite."

"You were being a lot more than that, Emiya! I'm not blind!"

"Trust me, master, as lovely as I find your dear aunt, and as funny as the prospect of being your uncle is, the idea of being related to you by blood is enough of a dampener to the entire idea."

"Thank fucking God." Ciel muttered, getting up from his chair with a sigh. "I've got a company to build from the ground up, Lizzy to entertain, matters of Parliament to discuss with Uncle Alexis… the last thing I need is you getting into a scandal with my Aunt."

"Yeah. Though if it ever came to it, would it be so surprising?" He smirked. "She does seem, as her epithet suggests, like a scarlet woman."

"EMIYA!" Ciel looked scandalized.

"Right, right, crossed a line there, my bad." He gestured towards himself. "As you just noticed, I'm sure that your Aunt's taste in men is far too high for such an insinuation to have any basis in reality."

"She's a socialite." The Earl snapped, making his way behind his desk. "Flattery and insinuation is what she does. Don't think you're so special, Emiya."

"Eh, who knows?" Archer smirked. "I was quite the heartbreaker back in the day."

"I am aware." Ciel muttered, sinking into a chair. "It's just another one of the many, many reasons I'd rather not have you get into something with my Aunt. She deserves better. More than anything either of us could give her."

Archer stood there, watching blankly as his master rubbed his temples, bone-tired.

Eventually, the Earl opened his uncovered eye.

"What?" He snapped.

Archer pursed his lips. "... It's just nice to see that underneath that prickly, mangled coat hanger you call a body lies a beating heart."

Ciel did not rise up to the bait, but it was a close thing.

Seeing no response forthcoming, Archer set about placing the pack onto a corner of the desk, atop a half-read copy of Thackeray's Vanity Fair.

"So, how was America?"

"Surprisingly beautiful." Archer smiled, unzipping his bag open. "Colorado is lovely this time of year. Wyoming too. Florida, not so much, so it seemed some things haven't changed."

Ciel tilted his head. "Lizzy had expressed interest in visiting New England one of these days. She's considering going on a cruise."

"I don't really see the point." Archer informed him. "From my impressions, New England is just England but somehow more Victorian. She'd be better off visiting Europe."

"Been there, done that." The Earl muttered, clearing the papers strewn across his desk away as his servant began haphazardly dumping bags upon bags of confectionery onto his oak desk. "She's been to Paris twice already."

"Yes, well, I think you'll find the continent to be more than just France." Archer set the last bag down with a smile. "Here we are. Regional Specialties from every corner of the United States. Salem Blackjacks from Massachusetts, Reed's candy from Chicago, Twizzlers from Pennsylvania, and artisanal popcorn from Chagrin Falls, Ohio. I'd rather you start with the latter, I can't imagine it'd stay good for very long. I got it on the way back, but the point stands."

"Funtom Co is not bloody selling popcorn." Ciel looked unamused, even as he opened the striped box for a taste. "And slathering the lot with caramel and sea salt doesn't automatically make something artisanal, thank you very much."

"You didn't ask me to get the best candy money can buy." The servant reminded him. "You sent me to do market research. And upon a cursory inspection of the entire stock, I think you'll find that as expected, it's not that much different from here. It really is a market consisting mainly of licorice, molasses, and toffee, with chocolate as a premium option. Unimaginative stuff, really, but that's where I come in."

"So your little expedition was just a waste of time?"

Archer held up a finger, bringing forward a red bag. "That isn't to say that there weren't some diamonds in the rough. Cella in Chicago has been selling chocolate coated cherries, for one. Lovely stuff. Peanut brittle from the South, it does seem people enjoy the added texture nuts bring. And as for what you're currently tasting-"

The Earl of Phantomhive spat a mouthful into the nearby bin.

"... Candy corn." Archer finished. "They're selling like hotcakes in Pennsylvania."

"But it tastes awful." Ciel protested, wiping his lips of spittle.

"I never quite saw the appeal myself." Archer agreed. "I'm given to understand people like the color."

"Oh, if that's all it takes!" The Earl pushed the bag of tri-colored candy away in disgust. "I might as well just dye some sugar biscuits in every color imaginable and sell that."

"Not quite a bad idea. It's already been done before in the form of Necco Wafers. I've been reliably informed they're a staple amongst soldiers." Archer shrugged. "At the very least, you'll pander to the lowest common denominator."

"But I don't want to pander to the lowest common denominator." The Earl protested. "I want Funtom Co to be the company selling sweets children beg their parents for, the kind of candy boarding school bullies buy with their stolen lunch money, the kind of candy people like me and Lizzy would enjoy."

"Those two goals aren't entirely mutually exclusive, you know." The servant reminded him. "And one of these days, we really need to go through the idea of product positioning once more. Decisions like where to base your first store, the first products you offer and so on depend on it."

Leaving his master to mull upon the future of his company, Archer returned to the bag. "And as requested, wines from the New World, cases of cigars – I didn't manage to actually make the way to Cuba, but I bought some off a rather nice tobacconist from his private collection, I assumed you wouldn't mind. I also took the liberty of taking photographs of some notable shops and factories as well, thought it would give you some ideas on issues like design-"

"Emiya."

The servant looked up. "Hm?"

Confused, the Earl gestured towards an open box. "Why did you bring back an oyster crate of sweet wrappers?"

Ah, the servant looked uncomfortable. There's also that.

"Well, that box originally contained saltwater taffy from New Jersey… taffy that I ended up giving away."

"Away." Ciel repeated.

"Yes, away."

"And what exactly prompted this act of charity?"

The servant looked oddly defensive. "Well, the man was dying, for one. And one dead person doing the dirty work in this household is enough, I'm sure you'll agree."

When the Earl of Phantomhive remained confused, Archer sighed and raised three fingers.

"Indebted to us, have nowhere else to go, and good at killing, wasn't that what you stipulated?"

"You mean-"

"Yeah." Archer looked tired. "I hired a chef."

---

It was common, Archer reflected, for people suffering from dehydration and malnutrition to crave salt.

Sodium was a natural electrolyte. Electrolytes were necessary to regulate the fluid levels within one's cells. When one was dehydrated, the body sent out cravings for salt as a roundabout way of encouraging one to drink more water. Of course, this had the unintended effect of people taking the craving of salt as a sign that they were hungry when water would have sufficed, but that was neither here nor there.

That being said, he watched with morbid fascination as the lieutenant ravenously made his way through an entire oyster crate full of saltwater taffy like it was going out of style.

"... you know, you might want to pace yourself. Eating so much after a period of deprivation can be a shock to your stomach."

The lieutenant looked up, cheeks bulging with taffy. "I'm already plenty shocked as is, I'd rather deal with all of this with a belly that doesn't ache every minute or so."

Having said that, he lifted the bottle of Taylor's Port and took a healthy swig, washing the candy down with substantive gulps.

"You might want to go easy on that too. Your body is already experiencing a litany of problems, I can't see how adding a hangover on top of that would possibly help matters."

"I asked for water, and you gave me wine." Baldroy set the bottle down with a dull clunk. "I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, not when the last drinks we've had were from the pool of stagnant water back there and what was left in our canteens."

Archer looked uncomfortable. "I gave you wine because I didn't carry any water."

"You didn't-" The lieutenant looked incredulous. "What kind of man treks through the fucking desert without a bottle of water?"

"A very confident man. A man of many talents. An idiot." Archer muttered. "Take your pick."

The soldier stared, chewing slowly, and not for the first time that day Archer felt like a particularly interesting bug being picked apart and examined.

Baldroy swallowed.

"You're like her, aren't you." He did not phrase it in the guise of a question. "You're… special."

"I knew people who'd laugh at you for saying that." Archer looked away. "I'm not like anyone. I'm all there is."

"But you're familiar with what she can do." Bard confirmed.

"I'm afraid I've always been third-rate, but I guess…" The Counter Guardian struggled for the right word, having dispensed with the need to keep a lid on things. "I guess I'm adjacent to what she is."

The soldier grew serious in an instant.

"... Well, you're not here to kill me, you wouldn't have bothered removing the boulders and feeding me otherwise, but what do you want?"

"What I want isn't important." Archer sat down. "What we need to do is talk about your options."

"Options?"

"... I saved your life." Archer muttered, and there was an implacable something to those words even Bard could not help but notice. "I feel oddly responsible for it, so let's talk about where you're going to go from here."

His stomach roiled, and Bard folded an arm over it, pensive.

"... I don't suppose that bag of yours has cigarettes?" He finally said. "I'm dying for a smoke."

Archer smiled. "I have cigars, does that count?"

"Do fish fuck under the sea?"

Minutes passed, during which Archer cut the cap off its head and evenly toasted the cigar with a lighter he'd projected, and the soldier was soon puffing away, smoke smelling of cedar, coffee and unsweetened chocolate rising between them. The soldier had watched him prepare the cigar with an unnerving calm, showing little surprise as the pocket knife and lighter had materialized from nothing into Archer's hands, but he supposed that after watching what the priestess had accomplished, his little display was markedly less impressive.

"... You know, you're not meant to smoke it the way you would a cigarette." Archer felt the need to point out. "You don't inhale, you let the smoke sit in your mouth to enjoy the flavors it carries."

"It's smoke." Bard muttered, looking markedly more relaxed as sweet nicotine entered his system. "Be it fancy or fag, it all tastes the same in the end."

Archer pursed his lips, wondering if he should correct him before he was reminded of other matters.

"So," he clapped his hands, "the way I see it, Lieutenant, now that you are the sole survivor, you have three options. One, you go back to where you were based and report what happened. You can give the truth, you can redact it, either way I can't see that going well for you."

"How so?"

"You give them a redacted retelling of the events, tell them you were the last man standing, that the Indians overwhelmed you in an ambush. They send you back here, with more men, more guns, more reinforcements, with you at the helm once more to ensure that they do not fail again. But as I'm sure you're aware, that isn't going to help much against her, is it?"

The soldier remained silent, cigar stuck firmly between his teeth, but from the sudden absence of the crackling of burning baccy did Archer know he was holding his breath.

"On the other hand. You give them the truth. Best case scenario, they think you've gone mad and you get decommissioned and retire. Worst case scenario, they believe you. People start talking about it. People like me are alerted to it. They'll be interested, they'll make you talk, they will silence you to ensure that the fact we exist does not get out."

"Silence me?"

"People like us have been around for a long time, Lieutenant. There's a reason why we've managed to stay hidden for so long." His visage darkened. "That reason is usually murder."

There was silence for a moment, before the cigar bloomed red once more.

"What's next?"

"Option two." Archer looked out. "You run away. Far away from here. Preferably north or south. Start a new life somewhere remote. Where they won't find you. Break free from it all, you have a chance to start anew." Was it a trick of the light, or did the man look oddly wistful. "Most people don't get that option. Someone as resourceful as you, I'm sure you could make it work."

"Run-" The soldier took the cigar out of his mouth. "Run where?"

"It's up to you." Archer smiled. "Were I in your position, I'd suggest the Yukon. The Klondike is surprisingly beautiful. Sure, it's relatively deserted now, but between you and me, there's gold to be found in those waters, and where there's gold, there will be people rushing at the chance to get rich quick. You could start a new life there."

"A new life…" Bardroy flicked cigar ash off his knees.

"... As nice as you make it sound… I cannot just start again." He admitted. "I can't just pretend none of this ever happened, that my family didn't die, that I didn't kill all those people. And above all that, I don't… I don't think I deserve it."

"Lots of people get things they don't deserve." Archer said softly. "Why should this be any different?"

"Forget it." Bard shook his head. "Imminent gold rush or not, it's not for me."

The cigar returned to the soldier's lips, Archer watching him puff away in stony silence.

"... there is the third option." He finally said.

"Hm?"

He took a deep breath.

"Work for me."

Bard blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I am the butler to a noble family, one of the greatest houses in the whole of England." Archer went on, ignoring how he must sound. "It just so happens we could use a man of your talents to join our household, managing the daily affairs."

"A man of my-" The cigar was out of his mouth in a flash. "What talents are those? If you're expecting me to sweep floors and polish silverware like a ponce, I think you have the wrong idea about me."

"I do have the right idea about you." Archer countered. "You're a soldier. One that has been through countless battlefields and came out unscathed. You're handy with a gun, you've been in a regiment, you're an officer. You can manage people. My master will need people like you."

"For what? I can't imagine I need to kill people for some lord on a daily basis-"

"That is exactly what's going on."

Bard nearly dropped his cigar.

"My master – by nature of his job – is the target of unsavory individuals throughout Britain." He went on. "People come to the manor to kill him on a semi-regular basis. Having you there to manage the defenses and guide the servants would be a boon."

"But I…" Bard grit his teeth, desperate, "you don't understand. I wasn't promoted to an officer because I can command! They just gave it to me because I always came back alive! I don't know if you've noticed, but everyone I've battled with is dead. I'm terrible at this! I'm not like you, I don't have magic, I can't do extraordinary things, I'm just… lucky. That's all I am."

Archer did not react to his outburst, instead waiting for him to settle down, leaning back against the wall.

"Take this from me: luck is more important of a factor than you know." Archer said slowly. "One of my servants only survived because he was the last one to be shot. My master only survived his ordeal because he wasn't the one picked for slaughter. And me?" He smiled ruefully. "I've always thought I could use more luck in my life."

"That's- that's bullshit, and you know it."

"It's not-"

"Fuck's sake, man, you caught me about to eat my friend!"

Silence.

"Moments after he died," Bard went on, having finally had the courage to spit it out, "I did the unforgivable. I cut into his leg to eat it before it could rot! This was someone I've talked to, done battle with, broke bread with! Just before he died, we had a long discussion about God like family! And immediately after he died, I just… I just…" The soldier deflated. "And then you came in, seeing me with a strip of meat in my hands, and asked if I wanted a drink to go with it! How are you not disgusted by me?! What makes you think I'd be a good leader to your men if I'm capable of doing that?!"

The Counter Guardian took in his outburst with an eerie grace, mulling over his words.

"It's not something to be ashamed of." Archer finally said, voice gentle. "And if I were allowed to be pedantic, you did it at the right time. Usually people only resort to cannibalism when they have no recourse, and consume bodies that were already severely malnourished, which would provide less nutritional value than you'd expect. Here, though this one seems to have suffered some extensive liver damage, at least there's a bit of fat to go around. You could do worse, which is more than I can say about you all drinking still water with a pretty extensive bloom of dead algae."

Bard glared. "Don't fucking joke about-"

"I don't think any less of you." The Counter Guardian went on, unperturbed. "Your friend is dead, he would have been of no use to you otherwise. You did what you need to survive, even in the face of certain death. How can I think less of an unshakable desire to live? Of your unyielding commitment to life?" Archer smiled. "It's human."

Bard looked away, eyes wet. "It's not so simple."

"It rarely is. But that's what I think. If you want to wallow in what you've nearly done, we can shoot the breeze, after the day's done in the manor. Hell, the things I could tell you…" Archer's eyes glazed. "It'd be nice to have someone I can drink with after a day's work."

Bard slacked, his outburst having taken what little energy he had left. "Putting that aside… before this I was just a farmer. I've taken care of cows, I've never taken care of rich people before."

"That shouldn't be a problem." Archer smirked. "My master is also a cow, if only in the metaphorical sense."

Having said that, the Counter Guardian reached into his coat pockets.

"Here." He passed him a sack of coins. "That should cover your fare. Take the transcontinental once you've reached a major city. This," he passed him a ticket embossed with the image of a ship, "covers your trip across the Atlantic. First class, I'm sure you wouldn't mind. Once you've reached London, make your way to the Phantomhive estate. I trust you'll be able to find your way there, military man that you are-"

"Hang on a moment." Bard raised a hand up. "I haven't agreed to anything yet!"

"No, you haven't." Archer agreed. "But it's time I must be off."

Bard looked around, lost. "Where the hell do you have to go?!"

"California." Archer informed him without a trace of irony. "I'm off to buy some wines and sweets for my master."

There were so many things wrong in that answer that Bard needed a moment, and by the time he looked up, the man in red had stood up, his back against the evening sun.

"Take some time to rest, and get out of here when night falls. Heading that way you'll reach civilization in a day or so." Archer smiled ruefully. "My offer stands for a period of two months. If you're not there by then, I'll take it to mean you've decided against it. Please don't feel obligated on my behalf to accept, I was serious when I said you have options."

And as he made to leave just like that, Bard could not help but blurt. "Wait, goddamn it, I don't even know your name!"

Archer stopped.

The cry of an eagle overhead echoed throughout the valley.

Finally, he turned around, face carefully blank.

"My name is Emiya." Two fingers rose and tapped his temple in a mockery of a salute. "Wherever you're headed, Lieutenant, I wish you all the best."

And as suddenly as he had arrived, the man disappeared, a small cloud of dust rising in his wake, leaving the lieutenant with his thoughts, his wine, alone but very much alive.

---

He finished his story, and the Earl of Phantomhive wearily ran a hand across his face.

"You hired a man with no kitchen experience as my head chef." He stated.

"You hired a lab experiment to be your gardener." Archer reminded him. "If that was meant to chastise me then, you have no leg to stand on."

"The difference being I'm not personally affected by the state of my gardenias." Ciel gave him a sharp look. "And I actually eat on a regular basis."

"He's not going to take over the kitchen for a good while, you know." Archer crossed his arms. "As reluctant as I would be to give that up, I wouldn't allow him to cook your meals unattended unless I was sure he'd meet my standards. It is one of the only joys I have in this godforsaken place."

"Still," the Earl mused, "I can't imagine it would be easy teaching him."

"He's a soldier, he's been through worse. I can't imagine cooking to be more difficult than what he'd been through on the battlefield."

"He's also American. The best chefs in the world are French, much as it pains me to admit, because of their long history delving into the culinary arts." Ciel considered it, popping a piece of chocolate into his mouth. "What is he used to eating across the pond?"

"Sofky? Etouffee? Cornbread?" Archer offered, sounding unsure. "... Green bean casserole?"

"Names that rouse one's appetite, I'm sure."

"I'm not sure that the land of boiled meats, toad-in-a-holes, eggs in a basket, spotted dicks and Eton messes can claim to be any better." Archer smirked. "Who can forget what's currently popular down at the chippies in London? Chip Butties. French fries between two slices of bread. Really groundbreaking stuff, that is."

"Oh, stuff it." Ciel snapped, opening a piece of Reed's butterscotch with more force than was strictly necessary. "Anyway, I'm getting off topic. The bottom line is, are you confident you can teach a battle-hungry neophyte to cook a decent meal fit for an Earl?"

"Hey, I trained you to be an Earl, and you were a nightmare of a student." The butler reminded him. "I think I deserve credit for that, at least."

Ciel sighed.

"Well, let's just hope that it goes better than your training of Finnian." He finally conceded, returning his attention to the bags of candy on his desk. "I'll look over your notes and photos in the time being, and continue with my research-"

"Actually," Archer cleared his throat. "It's rather close to dinnertime. I'd rather you didn't stuff yourself full of candy."

Ciel pursed his lips, clearly reluctant, but eventually relented, and Archer made to collect the sweets back into his bag.

"Anything you fancy for dinner?"

"... fish." The Earl muttered, clearly disinterested. "A stew. Something with chocolate for dessert."

Archer bowed. "Yes, my master."

---

A flick of the switch, and the kitchen came into light once more.

Archer made his way across the steel hobs, running a finger and checking for dust, making sure nothing was out of place in the time he'd left.

He'd miss this.

The kitchen had been something of a sanctuary for him, and to be honest, he didn't quite know how he felt about the fact he'd soon have someone cooking alongside him in a brigade. But as he explored the walk-in fridge mulling over what he'd be serving tonight for his master – fish, a pie, something with chocolate – and for Finnian – coq au vin, buttered bread and pease – he supposed it wouldn't be so bad to have someone there to handle the culinary minutiae and prep work. He'd survived years in the field. It'd stand to reason that he'd be well versed in the prepping and cleaning of animals for human consumption, which was already a good starting point. Surely, an army man would know his way around a knife to be able to wrap his mind around concepts like brunoise and julienne for the mirepoix.

And who knows? Maybe a bit of military regiment was just what Finnian needed to be kept in line.

Absently, he hefted a Winnie the Pooh 'Hunny' cookie jar he had projected months ago off the top shelf, lifting the lid to discover – as expected – it bereft of biscuits.

And judging by its spotless interior, Finnian had even gone so far as to lick the crumbs clean.

I'll make some more in the morning, depending on how well he does in repairing the courtyard.

Depositing the 'hunnypot' back on the shelf, Archer looked around, humming Something Stupid as he collected cherry tomatoes, basil, cooking sherry, lamb shanks, couverture chocolate and heavy cream in one corner before opening the icebox, rifling through fillets of dover sole and cod before something caught his gaze.

Long and slender, with jaws that would not look out of place on an alligator, the garfish was an ugly specimen. Often caught as bycatch, it lived close to the water's surface, and had the distinctive habit of leaping out of the water when caught on a line. Under the bright lights, he could begin to make out its strikingly teal bones.

The meat was too thin to be cooked conventionally, and was regarded as peasant fare in the Mediterranean. He'd wondered just why Tanaka presumably bothered taking the lot from the fishmonger.

Maybe it was for Finnian and his consumption, he mused.

Archer's gaze lingered, mulling over it a little while longer.

Why not, he shrugged. I like a challenge.

Settling on involtini – rolled meat or fish – as the appetizer, he brought the ingredients out from the larder, setting them gently on the counter top. Rolling up his sleeves, he slapped the fish onto the cutting board, and as he set about sharpening his knives in well-practiced motions, his mind wandered to when he'd last had the opportunity to cook it. Native to the Baltic and Mediterranean seas, it certainly wouldn't have been anytime he'd been home in Fuyuki, no.

Skewered, he recalled with a start. I had them skewered back when-

The knife slid to a stop.

Back during…

---

"Clarify something for me."

"Sure."

"We currently reside in the Clock Tower, the first branch and headquarters of the Mage's Association, ruled by the power struggles between several factions of Magi, under the control of a pseudo-aristocratic elite called Lords. We are expected to focus on nothing more but furthering our craft here, and the resultant atmosphere within is so dangerous and discriminatory that the first children of famous mages are always in danger of being targeted for their life, and thus have the right to keep their retainers or disciples by their side to protect themselves. Hence, me being here with you."

"Well, yes."

"So in light of all I know about the Clock Tower, there's something I still don't understand."

Shirou gestured towards the platter of battered cod and chips he'd cooked up between them.

"Why does the Clock Tower have a fishing club?" He asked, feeling puzzled as he cut himself shatteringly crisp pieces of flaky fish. "I mean, I'm not against the idea, I just find the presence of such normal clubs in such an abnormal environment to be… odd."

"Oh, it's not so odd when you think about it."

Shirou blinked. "It isn't?"

Rin Tohsaka smiled, raising a glass of bubbling Belgian White to her lips.

"Emiya-kun. On your numerous outings with them, did they ever mention who the head of the fishing club was?"

Shirou frowned. "I… the name doesn't really come to mind, but it's that Lord that's blonde with a huge figure."

"That's Lord Trambello." Rin nodded, setting the glass down with a clatter. "He's also the head of the rowing club, and they go against the local universities in friendly showdowns on the Thames when the occasion permits."

"... I had no idea Lord Trambello had so many interests."

"He's not the only one. You might have noticed that the Clock Tower does have a Band too. And it's not just Chamber music they play, I'm referring to an actual rock band."

"You're kidding." Shirou swallowed.

"No." Rin smiled, settling into the position of a lecturer with well-practiced ease. "It's a bit of a side project sponsored by Lord Inorai Valualeta, head of the Department of Creation. She enjoys it, carrying around one of those modern music players with her at all times. If memory serves me, the band is currently focusing on progressive rock, and the works of someone named King Crimson."

"As interesting as all of this is, how does that answer my question?"

Rin Tohsaka sighed.

"Haven't you noticed what all of these clubs have in common?"

"... they're sponsored by lords of the Clock Tower?"

"It's deeper than that, Emiya-kun." Rin shook her head, giving him the chiding look reserved for the countless times he missed the obvious. "The clubs are all fronted by Lords under the Democratic Faction. While on the surface, you would just see young magi finding people who share a similar hobby, underneath that is a place for young magi to network with one another, and for the Democratic Faction to indoctrinate young magi to their ideals that one's bloodline doesn't matter, and that it's people with talent in magecraft that should be in charge."

Shirou Emiya stopped mid-chew. "You're serious."

"Of course I am. You're not going to see anyone from the Aristocratic faction stoop to the level of forming their own extra-curricular clubs, what with their insistence that the management of the Clock Tower should be handed to nobility with proven excellent bloodlines. The Neutral faction never bothered with politics and would just prefer to further their magecraft in peace. The Democratic faction are fighting an uphill battle that would last for years. It'd only make sense for them to turn their efforts towards the next generation in ways that the others wouldn't think of."

Shirou Emiya gave the cod he'd caught the day before a complicated look. "And here I just joined the fishing club because I liked fishing." He muttered tiredly. "Why are these things never simple?"

"I'm sure you did. And this is delicious as always." Rin Tohsaka smiled. "But things are never so simple within the Clock Tower, Emiya-kun. I'd have hoped you'd have learned by now that everyone and everything here has an ulterior motive."

He gave her a loaded look. "Would you say Flat-senpai has an ulterior motive?"

Almost immediately, Tohsaka looked annoyed. "He's not your senpai, Emiya-kun."

"He's been here longer than me, I think he qualifies."

"Yes, well, I think you'll find that Flat is the exception that proves the rules, in many aspects." Tiredly, she dipped a chip into a small dish of malt vinegar. "While I'm not surprised, I wish someone other than dear Flat took a shine to you in class."

"Hang on." Shirou frowned. "Weren't you the one saying I should get to know my seniors better? See if I can learn anything from them, and that I need all the help I could get if I wanted to be a second-rate magus?"

"Yes, but you're not going to learn anything worthwhile from Flat."

"Why do you say that?" Shirou protested. "I mean, you've said it yourself, Flat-senpai is capable of achieving what was previously thought impossible.

Tohsaka pursed her lips, setting down her cutlery and steepling her fingers together across from him.

"Emiya-kun," she finally said, "do you remember that mathematician we saw a bust of in one of Cambridge's gardens? A little way off the Bridge of Sighs?"

Emiya blinked, swallowing a piece of battered cod. "... You mean Ramanujan? What about him?"

Tohsaka sighed. "Ramanujan was a mathematician that had a… peculiar way of going about doing things. You know how back in Homurahara, Kobudera-sensei would penalize people for not showing how you arrived at a solution to a math problem, even if your answer was correct?"

"... yeah?"

"Well, people had a similar problem with Ramanujan's theorems." She explained. "He'd intuit equations and proofs within his head and write it down without offering anything in the way of how he arrived at them. He explained that these proofs and theorems came to him within his dreams, and credited his mathematical acumen to his family goddess, Mahalakshmi."

Shirou considered it. "Well I guess we can chalk it up to a phenomenal insight."

"Yes, but that didn't fly amongst his colleagues at the time." Rin said matter-of-factly. "He tried to interest the leading professional mathematicians in his work, but failed for the most part. What he showed them was too novel, too unfamiliar, and additionally presented in unusual ways without any formal proof that they could not be bothered to seriously consider it. It's all very well and good if you offer a theorem you assert is true, but if you were unable to show how you arrived at it for others to replicate your methodology, it's as good as useless. Of course, future mathematicians were able to offer proofs of Ramanujan's texts and notebooks, but that happened decades later."

Shirou frowned, pausing to take a sip of Pilsner. "Are you saying that in this context, Flat-senpai is Ramanujan?"

"If anything, he's worse." Rin shook her head. "All of his spells do not use existing magical foundations, but use an impromptu foundation that he comes up with on the fly, and while such a thing isn't impossible-"

Rin stopped mid-lecture.

"Emiya-kun." She muttered, "You've got that slightly constipated and vapid look that either means you don't understand a word of what I'm saying, or that you're thinking about swords again."

"I don't have a look when I'm confused! Or when I'm thinking of swords." Shirou flushed, hurriedly schooling his features in huff. "And if I did, I wouldn't look constipated." He added half-heartedly.

"I've known you for years, Emiya-kun, I think I can discern when you're tuning out." She said.

Shirou sighed. "... do you mind explaining it in simpler terms?"

"Well I'm already being simple enough, but I can try using an analogy that doesn't involve magecraft." Tohsaka rested her chin against her steepled fingers, deep in thought.

"Bertrand Russell," she began once more, and Shirou resisted the urge to groan at what she considered simple, "once published a five-hundred page book on the Principles of Mathematics. The gist of it was, Math operates on a certain logic, right? And we take for granted what numbers symbolize and what symbols like the plus sign and the equals sign signify. What Bertrand Russel did was attempt to create a whole different logical foundation, a series of axiomatic truths, that could encompass and define the whole of mathematics. That involved taking a hundred pages to explain how one plus one equals two, without using numbers, an analogous addition symbol and an equals symbol."

Privately, Shirou Emiya thought that the man had rather too much time on his hands.

"What Flat does whenever he approaches a problem is do what Bertrand Russell did to math: attempt to create a whole new foundation to work on. Except he accomplishes this in a matter of seconds. And he does this every time. And like Ramanujan earlier, he can't quite explain how he managed the spell, even though to him it's obvious. He can't even do the exact same spell twice, he has to approximate it every time. Trying to learn magecraft from Flat is like him trying to teach you how to play a song on the piano, except Flat invents a whole new instrument everytime he wants to play it. He's an idiot savant of the highest order."

Lecture over, satisfied, she took another dainty bite of flaked cod. "So you see, Emiya-kun, if you really want to pick up a few things from your classmates, you're better off trying to befriend someone else in class."

Shirou watched her eat in silence, wondering how angry she would get should he voice his immediate thought.

Eventually, the urge won out.

"You mean like Luvia-san?"

The reaction was immediate, and if Shirou didn't know any better, he would have thought Rin had swallowed the wedge of lemon on her plate.

"... People like Luvia-san." She finally said, face sour.

"But not her specifically."

"You're being very chatty, Emiya-kun." And there it was, that smile. "Do you fancy sleeping on the couch tonight?"

Shirou raised a hand up in surrender. "You know I was only joking."

"I knew someone else who liked to make jokes at my expense." Rin gave him a hard look. "Had I not known any better, I'd have said Kirei was a terrible influence on you."

Shirou frowned. "I barely knew the man."

"Which only goes to show how remarkably effective he was." Tohsaka said, temper short.

Shirou looked amused. "He was your guardian, not mine."

"I'm a magus, and I've been dealing with him my entire life, Emiya-kun. You are not me. Deal with it."

Wisely, he let the matter drop, returning his attention to his meal.

"It just so happens I'm meeting her later."

"For another impromptu sparring session?" Shirou snarked.

Rin Tohsaka flicked his forehead playfully. "No, dummy. Reines invited me to tea. I had to ask Luvia if she wanted to come along."

Shirou pursed his lips, surprised. "You had to?"

Rin rubbed her temples in annoyance. "We were in front of real people. I would have looked petty and vindictive not to. And as a petty and vindictive individual, I have to take extra care not to appear petty and vindictive."

Despite himself, Shirou smiled. "It's nice to see some things haven't changed since Homurahara."

"High school politics is still politics, Emiya-kun. Just without the murder and threats."

"And heroes in blue spandex."

"Usually." She agreed.

"You know, it is odd Luvia-san hasn't asked me to act as her butler during this." Shirou mused, feeling some odd mirth watching the characteristic twitch of her temple burst into life. "Maybe this is her way of being nice."

"Keep joking, and maybe I'll ask you to wait on me." Rin muttered. "Let's see how she likes that."

"Really." Shirou raised a brow. "You'd want me, a third-rate magus, right there in front of Reines, someone you want to be on your best behavior with?"

Rin Tohsaka had to concede he had a point.

Shirou gave a disapproving look towards her plate stained with crumbs and smears of mushy peas. "You're going to tea. And yet you just filled yourself up with fish and chips."

"I certainly don't go there to dine on sandwiches and Earl Gray." Rin shook her head. "One can never be too careful ingesting anything around dear Reines, what with that morphing, mercurial maid behind her at all times."

"You really think she'd bother to poison you?" Shirou asked.

"Hardly. I'd like to think that we like each other. But I'd rather not be seen as careless." Rin said simply, bringing her empty plate and glass to the sink, turning the faucet on with a squeak. "Now come on, I've got to change into something more presentable, and you can't keep putting off Lord El-Melloi II's essay for long."

"Leave the dishes there, Tohsaka-san." Shirou got up and moved to join her. "I'll take care of it."

"You've cooked already, Emiya-kun." She said, voice soft. "At least let me do this much."

Gently, he took her hand and guided it out of the sink. "I have nothing better to do." He said simply. "Come on, we both know how long it takes for you to freshen up."

Something inscrutable flitted across her face for a moment before she schooled it blank once more.

"If you insist." She finally said, before she closed the distance between them and pecked him gently on the cheek. "I'll see you in a bit!"

And she hurried to her room, Shirou watching her dumbly as she left.

It wasn't the first time she'd done such a thing, and it had never been more than chaste, but it was enough for a fleeting moment for the young magus to consider whether staying with her longer would be so bad.

They made each other happy.

What more could a normal person want?

But as he mulled over their conversation – on Flat, on the fishing club, on Luvia – he found himself reaching for his pockets, pulling out the business card Luvia had given him one night after his duties.

Eggshell, raised lettering. A name neatly penned in cursive. A phone number underneath.

He knew what calling it meant.

He knew what it represented.

He knew it would be the point of no return.

But it was the best chance he had at achieving his ideals… and what more could be said about that?

Shirou examined it over and over, hearing Rin bustling about in the adjoining room.

Sighing, he tucked it away.

He would not make use of it today.

These halcyon days could go on a little while longer.

---

There was – Archer reflected – another simpler reason why he'd taken a liking to Flat despite Rin's best efforts.

It was early on, barely a few days into their first meeting, when the excitable boy had asked him why he was here and why he wanted to study magecraft. In a rare moment of candidness, and hoping that an honest answer would get him off his back, Shirou had told him that he wanted to be a 'hero of justice'.

And instead of the incredulity and mockery he'd braced himself for, Flat was nothing short of wide-eyed and enthusiastic, effusing how it was cool and not at all dumb, much to the consternation of Rin beside him.

It was perhaps the nicest anyone had ever been about his ideals. How could he push him away after that?

Of course, much later, there occurred yet another incident within the Clock tower that had the Lord El-Melloi II run out of the lecture hall, hurling obscenities, presumably to search for the conspicuously absent Flat.

The details of the incident had been kept secret under pain of death by the department of Policies, and Flat had returned days later to the lecture hall without a care in the world, but it didn't take a genius to put two and two together: Flat had succeeded in contacting the world.

And as the Counter Guardian stood there, fileting garfish off their luminescent green bones for involtini, he wondered – not for the first time – just what to make of the fact that an idiot had managed to contact the world, but somehow had the smarts and insight to correctly say 'no' to whatever they were offering.

Just what did that make him, by comparison?

He'd finished rolling the last of the Garfish with filling, and set about bringing a pan to high heat.

And as for the business card…

Archer frowned, gaze lingering on the jar of pig's blood he'd brought out for the coq au vin.

He would not make use of the card until he'd decided that there was nothing more to be gained from staying within the Clock Tower, that there was nothing more to say with Rin. It had always been meant as a temporary arrangement, but after the entire fiasco with the necklace he'd decided that it was probably time to put an end to their little arrangement.

A sentiment surprisingly unshared when Rin found his bags packed days later. The argument that followed…

Archer shook his head, dropping a knob of butter onto the cast iron pan.

What's done was done.

What had happened with Rin was hardly final, he had plenty of opportunities to turn things around.

Unlike that man in the desert, Emiya had no second chance.

He'd made his choices in life, one misguided one after the other that eventually left him alone, ending with that final, irreconcilable moment in the reactor, agreeing to something that even Flat had the insight to decline…

Gently, he placed the rolled pieces of fish onto the pan, detachedly watching it spit and crackle.

As for who it was Luvia had recommended he'd visit…

He had not thought about them and the deal they'd made for a very long time, a deal that in retrospect he failed to uphold, yet another person he'd let down.

But that was a story for another time.

He'd rather not think about Rin again anytime soon.