"Say that again?"
"Sir Ector asked Saber to destroy the Sword in the Stone. I'm going with him."
Palamedes loosed a long, heaving breath.
"Saber I have no control over, but you I shan't permit unless you prove you're ready. Come. Again."
"Right!"
She'd survived this long due to Palamedes' tutelage.
What little Shirou knew of the man warranted respect. Though the more famous members overshadowed his legend, Palamedes routinely matched the likes of Tristan and Gawain in swordplay. The sheer skill behind such deeds merited him inclusion in the Throne, though he was a lesser spirit compared to, say, Lancelot. Shirou had no information on the man's Noble Phantasm; unlike various other Round Table knights, Palamedes' chosen blade never featured prominently in his stories, and whether it held any magical properties remained unknown. The man himself was a shadow in Saber's memories; she preferred to deploy him on special quests or assignments, oftentimes with Galahad.
A strange gap in his knowledge, but not one of much concern. Something to do with the Questing Beast, Shirou assumed. Perhaps a technique used to slay the creature, or a summons. Either way, he had no access, for much the same reason he couldn't mimic Tristan due to Failnaught, or Bedivere due to Airgetlam technically being a Divine Construct.
Palamedes taught Artoria the same way Saber taught the young Shirou: through example. He guided Artoria through the subtle, positive manipulations of her form and mindset. She alone corrected her weaknesses and deficits; Palamedes just suggested where she look.
A good starting point for when he taught her how to access her prana reserves. No tutor could compare to Merlin himself, but the gap between Artoria and Saber was smaller than Shirou expected, at least in martial prowess.
An odd comparison to make. Saber had more experience, but Artoria had a better body.
...
Not like that.
The dulled swords impacted yet again; Palamedes slid his blade down to her blade's guard, planted his foot between her legs, and shoved Artoria off balance. Her weapon left her hands. She scowled.
"Blast!"
"What did you do wrong? Think it through."
Pensive green eyes stared at the sword. Artoria retrieved the weapon from the ground, but offered no response. Shirou could see the gears turning.
"Problems have multiple solutions," he offered.
Multiple mistakes meant multiple answers. Sloppy angling allowed Palamedes access to her sword's guard. Slow reactions let him out-maneuver. Had she taken just a single step to the left, the duel would still be continuing.
The guard sergeant approved of his wording and resumed his stance.
"Figure it out. Again."
Artoria readied herself; the session commenced once more. Kay grinned from his position against the training field's wooden fence.
"Not going to give her the answer, eh?"
Shirou shook his head. "She's smart, she'll figure it out."
"Long as we've known her, that's how she's learned," Bedivere noted. "Doing, not seeing. With her hands."
"She beat him yet? Palamedes?"
Kay barked out a laugh.
"Closest she's gotten is a tie. She's a bad habit of powering through her swings, you see. Wants to fight like a Pict, though the muscle's not there and neither's the speed. Palamedes knows about it, exploits it whenever she gets ahead of herself and - ah, there she goes. Watch."
Frustration creasing her features, Artoria lifted her sword up high and closed the distance. She fell into a series of slow, long slices, punctuated by the occasional stab and pivot. Each swing's momentum transitioned into the next maneuver, but during that time she remained exposed and open to counters. Palamedes avoided them all with grace and finesse. Once he saw his wanted opening, he sidestepped her next attack and maneuvered to her rear. His elbow pushed into her back; he gave a little shove.
Caught off guard, Artoria stumbled forward.
"Like that," Kay grunted. He raised his voice. "Artoria! You know better, lass! Come now, keep calm!"
The girl heaved a sigh and returned to form.
Shirou's gut knotted.
Saber's - King Arthur's - fighting style, to a T. Same maneuvers, same overpowering approach, with one core problem.
No prana usage.
Saber herself knew how to compensate. During their training she compacted her style into something swifter, something less open and more guarded. In Archer's reality, of all places, he noticed it rather early on, and it helped him progress in his abilities once he managed to project Caliburn. Saber used both 'styles', closed and open, depending on the circumstances and the opponents they fought. Against someone like Lancer she kept it closed, against Berserker she opened up.
Problem was, the open style didn't work without prana usage or Mana Burst. Slow and heavy blows gave the energy time to build and accumulate between attacks, to explosive results. Alter used it to great effect during her time as, well, Alter, and rarely returned to the closed stance once the Grail supercharged her prana generation.
Without that energy, all it took was some dude poking a spear into her gut, and that was it. In Saber's youth, closed evolved from open as she gained more experience with her magical energy and the speed at which it replenished. Artoria lacked the natural strength and musculature to make the style work, but couldn't avoid its usage due to King Arthur's latent influence. No prana to understand meant she was stuck in open, with no way to progress to closed. Rock and a hard place.
"How long's she struggled with that?" Shirou asked.
Kay scratched his cheek. "What, the over-swinging?"
"Yeah."
"Since she could lift a sword," Tristan answered between yawns.
Bors sighed. "Palamedes keeps tryin' to break her out of it, but Artoria's the impulsive type. Always says it feels natural."
Yeah. Hard to fight against a style of combat engraving into one's very soul. Would be like him trying to change the way he used Kanshou and Bakuya.
"You guys mind if I try something?"
Kay arched a brow. "By all means, Saber."
Shirou cupped his hands over his mouth.
"Palamedes! Can I interrupt for a moment?"
The two opponents looked his way. Palamedes waved him onto the field.
Ironic how his 'weakest' life, the one with the fewest projections, solved the problem the earliest. Well - Tohsaka did, technically, but the point remained. In the suicidal timeline he continued to power through and remake his magical circuits for years after the war.
Artoria's problem differed; unlike him, she could be a competent magus if she tried. Things would start to change once she understood the problem.
"Sorry, Palamedes, I don't mean to take over your training. I have an alternate solution."
The man shook his head. "By all means, please."
Shirou turned to a confused Artoria.
"That moment before we met, the moment before the scroll - do you remember what you felt?"
...
He'd always found her concentration cute.
"What I... felt?"
"Heat or pain within you. In your heart or your arms?"
Artoria leaned on her sword's hilt. Eyes roamed to and fro, searching through her memories.
"I... when I was in the tunnel, I believe, as I ran from my pursuers. I felt it churn within my breast. I wanted to use it, but it felt... stuck? Aye, stuck."
As he suspected. "Have you tried to use it since?"
She shook her head; the ponytail danced between her shoulder blades.
"I've not, no. Should I be, Saber?"
To have their roles reversed in such a manner - the way she focused up at him, the sharpness of her gaze, the desire she had to learn.
Strange. Strange, but not uncomfortable.
"The energy is a tool, Artoria," he explained. "Think of it as another style of swordplay. It needs to be trained."
"How do I do so?"
Shirou took a step back.
"Visualize something you can win with."
That look - that one, right there. That determination, that focus.
The air began to tremble.
"Something... I can..."
That look, he loved.
"Saber?" Palamedes asked. "What are you doing?"
"I believe her various problems are related."
"In what way?"
"She can use witchcraft."
Kay choked on spittle. "Witch—?!"
Palamedes backed away. "I... see. Is there anything else we should know?"
Sweat pooled on Artoria's forehead. Her mantra repeated in short breaths.
"Something I can win with. Something I can win with. Something I can win with."
Shirou gained some more distance, pointed to the training area's far end. "Stand over there for now. Control comes with practice. The first time, there's none."
The men jogged over without complaint. His attention turned to Artoria.
"Summoning me built the gate leading from your heart. Find it. Push it open, and venture onto the path. Let it flow like a river."
Her hands shook on the sword's hilt. A cyan glow spread beneath her tunic, down her sleeves and trousers. Jagged, brilliant lines carved up her neck, along her palms and fingers.
"Like a river. Like a river. Like a river."
The dull blade shattered. She clenched the hilt, shaking beneath the power's influence.
"By the gods..." Bedivere whispered.
Artoria hyperventilated. He expected it. King Arthur could access her prana before her thirteenth birthday. Merlin taught her in her dreams, and her understanding grew with her capacity. Yet here Artoria stood at eighteen years, accessing a reservoir dwarfing Saber's in her prime - for the first time.
Once it flowed, once she opened the dam, she would lose control. To regain it, she'd need to exhaust herself and empty the well. Only then could their training begin.
She whimpered. "S-Saber? What is... what..."
"Open your fingers," he coaxed. "Let the hilt go."
Her muscles spasmed. The hilt dropped to the ground, and a projection of the same training sword coalesced in its place.
That one hit his prana a bit. Its reinforcement level surpassed Durandal.
"Use that one, Artoria. It can take it, don't worry. Don't hold back."
"It... 'tis too hot, I cannot...!"
He projected for himself an equivalent training blade.
"Artoria, look at me."
Dilated pupils lifted to his face.
"Everything you've ever wanted to do? Let it out."
A human mind in a dragon's body. The overwhelmed girl choked out an almighty gasp, even as her quivering sword lifted into a stance. Unshed tears hung in her eyes' corners.
"I... I d-do not want to h-hurt you, S-Saber...!"
He graced her with his patented Shirou-smile. Eyes closed, head tilted.
"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."
She grit her teeth, blinked away the moisture clouding her vision.
Artoria's charge broke the sound barrier.
Every strike cleaved the wind from their lungs. Bors flinched against the torrential assault.
"I can barely see 'em move!"
Clang. Shockwave. Clang. Shockwave.
Artoria's sword rebounded off Saber's; the girl planted her foot and swung the weapon around. The momentum powered her next blow.
Saber intercepted the attack before it landed. The collision's force cratered the earth, shook the trees. Palamedes watched the duel like a hawk.
"She's over-swinging."
"'Tis a problem no longer," Bedivere observed. "Saber said her issues were related, did he not? I daresay this is what he meant."
Kay braced himself against the fence. Another vicious gust threatened to bowl them over.
"Not a malformed habit, but a misunderstanding," the one-armed man continued. "Her body adapted to a beneficial style without us knowing. She's wanted to fight like this all along. I imagine 'twas like going to war without a weapon."
Branches snapped. Frost and snow tore from the ground. Bors grunted.
"Yet the lass still can't touch him. He's taken not a step back. 'Tis absurd."
Tristan's jaw clenched. "He knows where she's going to attack."
"He what?"
"Look at his hands, they're moving before she does. Saber's predicting her. His mind's five paces beyond."
"Not possible. Men cannot see the future."
Palamedes covered his face with his forearm. Snow blew into his sleeve. "Aye, but he's no man. What was it you called him, Kay? A weapon?"
Silence was the answer.
...
"Kay?"
'Her dearest companion', huh?
"I..." He trailed off, in search of his voice. "I have many questions, and few answers."
The odd reply graced him with his companions' concerned interest.
"What do you mean?" Bedivere asked.
Kay's adoptive sister continued her arcane rampage. Saber's unending resilience met her blow for blow. Foresight? Perhaps. But Kay saw something beyond simple witchcraft.
"Something tickles my mind. 'Tis just a curiosity. Think nothing of it."
Saber identified her problems within an hour - problems the lot of them struggled with since the day Artoria began to train with them over a decade ago. He matched her every step of the way. His body curled and twisted against her attacks, his weapon flitted this way and that.
Eldritch knowledge? Precognition? Nay.
Saber knew how his sister fought. Knew how his sister was supposed to fight. He understood her better than she understood herself.
And that bothered Kay.
Because he was her brother, and Saber had met her mere days prior.
My legs become yesterday's rabbit stew.
My arms melt.
My fingers fall off.
Everything burns.
It feels as though I am fire itself.
Scorching and uncontrollable.
This strange body of mine moves on its own.
"Ha!"
He continues to smile.
I do not wish to hurt him.
I do not wish to hurt him.
I do not wish to hurt him.
More than anything else-
More than my fear of losing control.
Or my fear of turning to ash within this blaze.
I can not...
...will not...
...hurt Saber.
"...!"
My blow is deflected.
'Tis the strongest strike I have ever delivered.
Saber pushes it aside. His feet have not moved.
He stands his ground, awaiting my next attack.
It does not offend me. It cannot.
Against Palamedes, or my brother Kay, or Sir Ector, I would feel only the need to prove myself.
To show I am not weak. That I do not need their protection.
But with him, with this man, I am relieved.
So very, very relieved.
Because he is strong.
And kind.
And he knows me better than I know myself.
"Haa...! Haa...!"
He knew this lurked inside me.
This power that moves my limbs.
And spurs me forward.
And sears me with every breath I take.
It scares me, and I think 'tis why he is here.
He chose to approach this now when we are safe inside my home.
Our home.
And not in the wilderness beyond the walls.
Here, I can burn it all away.
Saber can draw it out of me.
'Tis what I shall do.
I have decided.
"Ha! Haaaa—!"
My strikes blow apart the ground.
Craters form in the frost and snow.
The wind gusts into the silent trees.
Saber does not move from his spot.
His arms shift to new positions. He predicts my actions before they occur.
Never have I fought someone like this.
Palamedes would not stand a chance. Neither would Kay.
No one in Camelot equals this man.
That one thought fills me with joy and pride.
My stalwart guardian and protector, this person I met in a different, forgotten life...
Even now, as I rain these destructive blows upon him, he ensures my safety.
He is protecting the people I care about, and making sure they are unharmed by the dragon's heat.
"...!"
My strength starts to wane. Saber seems to notice.
Faster than I can blink, that gauntlet wrapped in red shimmers around his left forearm.
His armored hand catches the blade he's given me.
All this energy, and I'm still nowhere near his level.
He is incredible.
"Breathe, Artoria. Breathe."
I gulp down air.
Saber is not winded. He shifts closer to steady me.
Being this close to him normally warms my cheeks, but my whole body aches too much to notice the lack of distance separating us.
"I'm... I'm tired, Saber..."
I cannot close my hands anymore.
They release the sword.
Saber throws it over his shoulder, and it vanishes together with his gauntlet.
His own weapon soon follows.
"When you first began training, did you outpace the veteran guards? Could your body match their endurance?"
His words confuse me, yet also make sense.
In my exhaustion, I find them hard to interpret.
"No..."
My lungs burn with each breath.
Agonized muscles scream.
My very bones shiver.
"One must... train... first..."
Saber leans me against his chest.
He is comfortable.
I could fall asleep like this.
Part of me remembers Kay and the others are watching, but in this moment I find myself uncaring.
"The same principles apply here. Your magical circuits are like muscles, and they can fade and grow weak with disuse. This is the first exercise you've gotten. You'll get stronger as you practice."
"As I... practice, huh...?"
"Yeah."
Why is he always so reassuring?
Well, 'tis fine.
I know he's right.
I shall get stronger, and catch up to him.
"Ah... Saber...?"
"Yes?"
And when I do...
"I'm hungry..."
"Yes, yes."
...I will finally learn his name.
Stares ceased bothering her a year into her reign. Whether they be friendly or neutral, approving or mired in distrust, all people gazed upon the king.
Yet these were not the looks she remembered. Hesitance and uncertainty danced around the people in this city, this Isca Dumnoniorum. All of it, directed at her.
Saber knew of this city, though she did not remember it being this large or prosperous. Nor did she venture into Cornwall's territories all that often; the Saxons came from the south and southeast, and her focus remained there.
Still, she could understand their trepidation. It must be a strange sight, to see the king of Britain walking around in a commoner's tunic, without any sort of armed escort.
"You there! Laddie!"
'Laddie'?
Saber shifted her attention to the blacksmith waving her over. She approached, admiring his luck.
Words held no sway over her, but Gawain?
A different story.
"Th' hell're ya doin', boy?" the man hissed. "Waltzin' 'round like that? Ya got a death wish?"
Now she was just confused.
"I do not understand. I am allowed to travel where I please. Explain yourself, good man."
"Where ya-"
He cut himself off, pinched his brow in exasperation.
"I see. Yer not from around these parts, are ya, lad? From overseas, I take it? One o' them mercenary folks comin' for the wars 'n coin?"
The man did not recognize her, yet from what she could tell of her surroundings, she was indeed back home, in her own place and time.
Something odd had happened here. A singularity, perhaps. Like that filth with the Lion King.
Saber suppressed a shiver. Nasty business.
"I am. I fear my information regarding this land is insufficient. Please explain to me how my actions risk malevolence."
The man's response came in the form of a pointed finger.
At her hair.
...
He sighed at her confused reaction.
"Ya really don't know, then. Alright, come inside. We best get ya off th' streets 'fore th' guards notice."
Saber followed him to the back of the shop. The blacksmith locked the door; her irritation rose at the lack of answers.
"What is this about, smith?"
"The rapist dog Uther Pendragon had blonde hair. So does the spawn he sired with Duke Gorlois' woman, Lady Igraine. You're in Cornwall territory, lad. You're askin' for trouble, 'specially since ya look the spawn's age, thereabouts."
Her jaw dropped. The smith held his hands up to placate.
"N-Not sayin' ya are, 'course! Just... most mercenary folks comin' from overseas know 'bout the tale 'n Cornwall's distaste for anythin' yellow or gold. They either keep themselves covered or shave it off t' be safe. Only ones who can get away with it are th' royals - the duke's grandchildren, Sir Gawain 'n his brothers. Sir Agravain's in town too, t' muster y'see, 'n if he caught wind o' ya walkin' 'round like that he'd have your head in an afternoon."
Preposterous. She'd never heard anything quite so offensive.
The man who sired her? King Uther? A rapist? Why, he won Lady Igraine's hand as the laws dictated!
To be sent to such a shameful, blasphemous singularity! She would find whoever tampered with this history - with her history - and see them to the grave! Agravain? Gawain? Serving Cornwall, a simple province, and not the throne? Not seated at the Round Table, as their legends dictated?
Ha!
Nay, nay, this one, she took personally. Not since Camelot had she suffered such humiliation. Alter would be punished for this.
"My good smith," Saber spoke, "I thank you for the news. You have taken a great risk informing me of these happenings, and I apologize for endangering you and yours."
The man blinked, obviously not expecting such a thorough apology.
"N-Not at all, lad! 'Tis fine, 'tis fine!"
"I must ask of you one more thing, however. I came to this land due to a rumor, you see, a myth regarding a sword in stone, and a king meant to wield it. Do you know of such tales? Are they truth, or a mere fabrication?"
Bushy eyebrows furrowed low.
"Why, 'tis the whole reason for Cornwall's tizzy, lad. Not many of us take it seriously, y'see - witchcraft and all that nonsense. Rumor has it Duke Gorlois is obsessed, though, 'n Sir Agravain's musterin' for that reason. They're sayin' they found the spawn up past th' channel. Accursed child's th' one chosen for the blade, or so they say."
...
Oh no.
"And has this... spawn... drawn the sword?"
He shrugged.
"Far as I know, thing's been in that rock almost twenty summers. Why? Lookin' t' inherit this mess o' a kingdom?"
'Twas Artoria Pendragon's destiny, not hers.
...
Saber felt odd, having such thoughts.
"Nay, I would not dare. Tell me, though, this Sir Agravain - does he take mercenaries? Is the coin good?"
"Aye, so they say. If ya want t' join up, they're signing folks over in th' courtyard 'round the block."
Honor had its place, but right now, necessity dictated her path. If Fujimaru and her knights watched from above, Saber knew they would understand.
Meeting this singularity's Pendragon was her priority. There she would find her answers, guide her onto the king's path, and correct the mistakes that led to this insufferable situation. As of yet, she felt no drain on her prana; though her connection to Chaldea remained uncertain, for the time being she could manage with absorption of Britain's latent mana suffusing the air. Her experience and skill would see the day.
"Thank you, smith."
He held out a hand to stop her departure, then rummaged through some old stock.
"Here, take this. If they ask, tell 'em your old man passed it along. You're lookin' like ya got a bit o' Imperial in ya, shouldn't be a problem, aye?"
An old Roman suit, practically an antique. Helmet, breastplate, greaves.
On second thought: luck stayed with her, not the smith.
"Are... are you sure?"
If they saw her like this, her knights would laugh. Hmph.
"Gatherin' dust, it is. Times be changin', lad. Nobody's lookin' for it no more. I'd rather see it put to use."
Such goodness in the common man. It filled her with joy. To see these people smile...
...
Saber couldn't remember the last time she needed to strap on armor. Awkward, unnatural - but usable. She tucked her bangs into the helmet.
"You have done me great services this day, sir. Should I return, I will pay you back in full."
He merely waved her off. "They'll be leavin' soon, lad. Best be goin'."
Saber left without further fanfare. A crowd of all stripes gathered in the courtyard in the town's center. She pushed and weaved her way to the front, where a row of men, garbed in what she assumed to be Cornwall's colors, took down names and handed out spare weapons. Swift feet guided her to the next man available.
"Is this the muster, sir knight?"
"Aye, lad. Looking to sign up? Pay's good."
"I am."
The observant man noted her eyebrows.
"While in the tents your freedom is your own, but in public the helmet stays on, you hear?"
She bristled under the remark, but nodded anyway.
"Of course."
He readied a quill. "Good. Name?"
She opened her mouth, but paused. To be safe...
Yes, to be safe. With her in spirit, if not in body.
"Arthur," she replied. "Arthur Emiya."
"Milord, has he told you anything?"
...
Ector lowered his mug of mead to the table. No response was offered.
"'Tis a 'yes', then."
Old wrinkles deepened. "I didn't raise you the superstitious type, boy. What ails thee?"
"I can't make blade nor hilt of the man. His character confounds me, and I worry he's bewitched my sister."
"Bewi-!"
Ector choked on the drink. He pounded his chest, loosed a hearty guffaw.
"She's bewitching him, Kay! By the gods! She molds him like clay!"
Seriously? A cause of concern, and he focused instead on his want for grandchildren?
"Father, please."
"Nay! Use that head of yours, lad! He came to her from a scroll, yea?"
"Aye?"
"And they were outside the walls? Alone, purportedly? While we and ours did battle with Cornwall's dogs?"
"Aye..."
"So what stopped him, in all his eldritch power, from simply grabbing the lass and running?"
...
A headache worked at Kay's temples.
"That still does not explain his motives."
"His only motive is Artoria's safety and happiness. He's a simple character, one of little depth. Saber owes her a favor and wishes to see it repaid."
Kay blinked, lost. "A favor?"
Ector took a sip and reclined in his chair.
"This may sound strange to you, lad, but the boy's history differs from our own. He claims to hail from a world in which Gorlois died at Uther's hand. In that world, Artoria draws the rotten sword and becomes king."
Kay crossed his arms, suspicious.
"And you believed such a thing?"
In lieu of a response, Ector slid a piece of parchment across the table. Eyes skimmed the list. An odd feeling tensed Kay's shoulders.
...
"What is this, milord?"
"Were you planning on swearing yourself, Kay?"
...
"I want the truth, lad. On your honor."
Kay didn't meet his eye.
"Aye."
"Palamedes, Bedivere, Tristan. Were they planning the same?"
The sensation magnified tenfold. Who was this bodyguard? Could he really... know?
"We'd discussed it."
"Might I ask why?"
He'd underlined their names. Had Saber given him this list? Who were the others?
"I don't want her to draw it, Father. 'Tis my nightmare. But should it come to pass, I want to protect her. The others wish the same. She would need friends she could trust and rely on."
Ector's fists clenched on the table.
"So it's the same, then. Saber said you swore yourself out of duty."
Kay wanted answers.
"Just what did he tell you?"
"He told me Artoria dies on the throne."
...
He never knew words could hurt so.
"I... I-I..."
"That light he used to heal me, lad - it came from her. She regretted the path her kingdom took and found herself flung to him. That light is how they're connected. They share it, apparently. Master and Saber, Saber and Master."
"She was his Saber?" Kay asked.
"For a time, or so he says," Ector replied. "They found themselves separated against their wills, and the boy's been searching for her since. His lord sent him here. Our Artoria is not the one he seeks, but she sees in him a keen sort of familiarity. I dare say she recognizes him, deep down."
"And that's why you're letting them undertake the sword's destruction?"
"Ah, they told you. Aye."
A peculiar story, to say the least. Kay frowned away his misgivings.
"It would explain much. Saber corrected that form of hers, the one we've struggled against for years. Knew what the solution was not a moment after seeing her fight."
Ector harrumphed. "And I take it the lass took his word as gospel?"
"She listened to him without the slightest apprehension. For us she's impetuous, yet with naught but his presence Saber shaped her to his whims. I felt it terrifying."
"Because they've done the dance once before, perhaps. The trust remains."
Kay grimaced. "I don't know what to think of it, milord. I see his intentions as virtuous, yet his eldritch nature confounds me."
The old veteran glanced out the window, then sighed.
"You needn't worry. She wears the trousers in the relationship."
"C-Come again?"
Ector thumbed to the outside. Kay's gaze traveled down into the marketplace.
They shopped.
Or rather, Saber shopped. Artoria rode him piggyback, munched on a biscuit they'd evidently purchased some time earlier. The Servant remained unphased, as if it wasn't unnatural in the least. A common occurrence, even.
Fascinating and horrifying in equal measure.
"She's got him wrapped around her little pinky," Ector grunted. "And neither of them realize it. Stupid kids. The mind may forget, but the soul clearly remembers."
"And you're fine with that, Father? With them growing so close so soon after... after meeting? Reuniting?"
They watched Artoria point over Saber's shoulder, at a foodstuff she wished examined. The young man held it to her level, and upon her nod placed it in their basket.
Something ancient glinted in Ector's eye.
"What parent does not wish for their child's happiness?"
Vomit splashed on the ground.
Black armor flickered around her frame like a slowly dimming candle. Another blood red crack marred Excalibur Morgan. She struggled to catch her breath.
"My... destiny..."
Sword supporting her weight, Alter hobbled through the field and past the abandoned, crystallized jousting arena. The entity inside wouldn't pursue. It guarded the sword.
Such trivialities didn't concern her now. They no longer piqued her interest.
"My... fate..."
Her mantra gave her strength. Her mantra gave her purpose.
More than a weapon. More than a king. More than a knight, or a swordsman, or a tyrant. More than a dragon, more than a lion, more than Arthur Pendragon.
Not once did she gaze upon the blade of selection. Alter collapsed into the field, leaned against Caliburn's rock. A hand traced the cavity in her breastplate, the puncture left by the Azoth.
"Ahh..."
Here, she waited. The girl she shunned all those years ago would come soon enough; he would follow in her wake. Their arrival heralded the answers she sought and the ending she was denied.
"I see. You served him before me, after all. It's natural that you know his personality."
The ending she desired.
"...Saber. There's nothing that'll make you back down?"
"Stop asking me that. I said this is my role."
Not a death in the mud.
"-I see. Then I'll eliminate you here. I'm going to save Sakura. You're in my way."
Not a slave to the Grail.
"Have you ever considered Rider's words at that moment, Artoria?"
"I am not Artoria."
"You are. You fear yourself."
"I do not f—"
"But he doesn't."
Not a weapon to be used against the person she never understood.
"He cannot fear you, just as you cannot fear him. You are two fish in the same river. Your directions are the same. To separate from him is to swim upstream. You disillusion yourself. Blacken yourself. Curse yourself."
"Your riddles are aggravating. Speak plainly."
"As you wish. I shall tell you the blunt truth you so desperately desire."
The Master she took for granted.
"In another life, Artoria..."
The man who would one day free her.
"...you were his Sakura."
...
...
...
...
"My... Shirou..."
Fate/ess
Here, in the realm before the splitting of the paths.
Here, in the land within the trunk of that tree.
One beginning. One end.
An eternity between.
The Kingseekers - 3
Idealism.
Realism.
Necessity.
Three branching roads.
To Truth they all led.
TO END A DREAM
The woman in the white dress told Saber Alter a great many things, indeed.
Confusion Corner
Sir Palamedes
To this day, I really can't understand how he hasn't been added to FGO, given how central he is to the fall of the Round Table. Palamedes is a Saracen - an Arab - and in the Arthurian mythos is considered one of the best duelists Arthur has. Much of his legend revolves around the slaying of the Questing Beast (and his rivalry with Tristan), which, believe it or not, was probably the second of the two inspirations behind Fou's design (the other obviously being Cath Palug, aka Palug's Cat). I realize that might sound like an outrageous claim, so allow me to quote Wikipedia real quick. Regarding the Questing Beast's appearance:
The strange creature has the head and neck of a snake, the body of a leopard, the haunches of a lion, and the feet of a hart.[1] Its name comes from the great noise that it emits from its belly, a barking like "thirty couple hounds questing". Glatisant is related to the French word glapissant, 'yelping' or 'barking', especially of small dogs or foxes. The questing beast is a variant of the medieval mythological view on giraffes, whose generic name of Camelopardalis originated from their description of being half-camel and half-leopard.[2]
But olcon, I hear you say, that sounds nothing like Fou! Well, hold on, there's an alternate description, because Arthurian lore is whacky and prone to changing on a dime:
The earlier Perlesvaus, however, offers an entirely different depiction of the Beast than the best known one, given above. There, it is described as pure white, smaller than a fox, and beautiful to look at.
;)
Anyway, ol' Palamedes first appears in the prose Tristan, an expansion of Tristan's own legend Tristan and Iseult, where he and the resident mopey knight develop a love-hate relationship as they joust each other for Iseult's affections. We all know how this ends, of course, but that initial bout has long-reaching ramifications. King Mark, Iseult's actual husband (y'know, the guy she's married to), discovers her affair with Tristan. Mark kills Tristan, obviously, but he does so with Palamedes' spear. In return Palamedes kills Mark, and as Mark is Cornish, that puts Palamedes on the Orkney hitlist. Gawain offs him. This is important, because, as mentioned in Chapter 2's Confusion Corner, Palamedes and Tristan, along with Bedivere and Lancelot, are the neutral knights. They're unaffiliated with, and uninvolved in, the massive blood feud raging between the families of King Pellinore (Percival, Lamorak, et al.) and King Lot (the Orkneys: Gawain, Agravain, et al.). Between the Iseult and Guinevere affairs, that's why Arthur has barely anyone at his side during the Battle of Camlann, Mordred's rebellion, and why it all falls to shit. It's pretty much just Gawain, Bedivere, and Bedivere's family - Lucan and Griflet - because they're the only ones still loyal to Arthur who survived both the blood feud and Lancelot's rampage. And in some of the legends, Bedivere doesn't even survive to Camlann! Arthur had dozens of knights, and now, going into the final battle, he's got like half a dozen at the most!
Isca Dumfuckingwhat?
Starting in this chapter, we begin the long process of merging IRL history, Arthurian mythology, and the Nasuverse into one consolidated story. Fateless uses legitimate, real life historical maps and name-places as the basis of its setting. Prepare for Wikipedia inundation! We'll start with the city itself and then branch outwards, explaining things along the way.
Regarding Isca:
Isca Dumnoniorum, also known simply as Isca, was originally a Roman legionary fortress for the Second Augustan Legion (established c. AD 55) in the Roman province of Britannia at the site of present-day Exeter in Devon.
The town grew up around this fortress and served as the tribal capital of the Dumnonians under and after the Romans.[1] The city walls of Exeter (some 70% of which survive) mark the former perimeter of Isca.
For my fellow Americans who don't have the faintest clue about British geography, modern day Exeter is an English Channel-facing port city along Britain's southern coast. It's in the Devon county, which together with Cornwall to its west forms that southwestern peninsula directly south of Wales. Wales and the peninsula are separated by the Bristol Channel; this geography is relatively important, because in Fateless, Caliburn's rock is located just outside the town of modern day Gloucester - this is the "Glavum" Fateless!Artoria mentions in the previous chapter. Gloucester itself lies just northeast of where the Bristol Channel and the River Severn meet.
The tl;dr here is this: both Shirou/Artoria and the Cornish force are on a collision course. Gang Artoria is heading to Glavum for Caliburn, while the Cornish need to head there so they can loop around the Bristol Channel and head into Wales, which in Fateless is where Camelot's located. Whether their paths actually cross, however, remains to be seen.
With the geography out of the way, let's move on to the people inhabiting this area. We'll again quote Wikipedia:
The Dumnonii or Dumnones were a British tribe who inhabited Dumnonia, the area now known as Devon and Cornwall (and some areas of present-day Dorset and Somerset) in the further parts of the South West peninsula of Britain, from at least the Iron Age up to the early Saxon period.
Fateless refers to Gorlois' faction as Cornwall/Cornish for primarily two reasons:
The first is because, frankly speaking, no one knows what the fuck a "Dumnonii" is. I'm evil, but I'm not that evil. I draw the line at period-accurate settlement names; individual Celtic tribes are a bit too hardcore, even for me, and would needlessly raise the story's already substantial knowledge floor even higher. Most of us all sorta have a vague idea of what Cornwall is and where it's located. It's good enough.
The second is because Gorlois' faction isn't just his fellow Dumnonii tribesmen. Ignoring mercenaries like Lancelot here, the Orkney kids are Picts - Gawain and his siblings are from (an island off the coast of) FOOKIN' SCAWTLUN:
Orkney (/ˈɔːrkni/; Scots: Orkney; Old Norse: Orkneyjar; Norn: Orknøjar), also known as the Orkney Islands,[Notes 1] is an archipelago in the Northern Isles of Scotland, situated off the north coast of the island of Great Britain.
Now, since Gorlois is a Dumnonii from the southwestern peninsula, why in the seven hells are Gawain et al., his grandkids, Picts from way up north? The answer: Gorlois is their maternal grandfather, and their father is a Pict, King Lot. As most of you know, the Orkney kids were birthed by none other than Morgan le F—their mother isn't Morgan. Fate is wrong.
This Confusion Corner is far too long already; this is where we'll stop. I'll explain Morgan's situation in later chapters, when the Orkney lineage comes into play.
The woman in the white dress
Check this story's cover image.