Planet: [NULL]
Branch: [NULL]
Twig: [NULL]
Location: [NULL]
OUTSIDE
"Why is he so persistent? It's unbecoming."
"Have you looked in a mirror recently?"
Zelretch scowled. "I didn't know Guardians could joke."
The Guardian of the Root shrugged.
"We rarely have the time. To the point, however: it would be naive to assume he'd let it go. Time does not apply to the bargain made between he and Gaia. I cannot claim to know an Aristotele's perspective, but I assume the concept of 'renegotiation' does not quite... exist."
Frustrating, to say the least.
"I wish he was more like Venus."
"Don't we all?"
"How bad is the leak?"
A model of the Tree of Life appeared with a snap of the Guardian's fingers. The being gestured to one of its many limbs.
"As you can see, it's bleeding causality. Things will get messy; Akasha's modeling predicts a thirty percent convergence."
Zelretch pinched the bridge of his nose. "I should've waited for Britain's fall before putting him in his place. Unbelievable."
"You know what they say. Hindsight's twenty-twenty."
"Very funny. Where do you need me?"
"Well, this is the problem child we're talking about, the most corrupted limb. Alaya is, obviously, unsuited for this venture, and Gaia can only do so much. The Archetype's handling things as best she's able - it's her territory, anyway. I assume you will not be joining her?"
"You know how I feel about vampirism."
"I thought as much. In that case, it would be appreciated if you could watch over the other limbs and maintain their quarantines. One leak is bad enough. We don't want to overburden Alaya's favorite pet, now, do we?"
The magus smirked. "Akasha forbid."
The Second Magic pulled him away—
"Alright, ghost."
—only for someone new to take his place.
The visitor clucked their tongue, peeved. The act amused the Guardian, for 'emotion' was very much a Gaian concept. The creature before him did not truly have the right - but she tried her best, which, he supposed, counted for something.
"I was wondering when you'd arrive."
"Were you?" the visitor monotoned. "Good. I'll be blunt, then. You guys like blunt, dontcha?"
"That depends."
"Shove it. I'm so totally not in the mood, you dig? Just this once, I'll ask politely."
The Guardian inclined his head, as if to cede the stage. This was a diplomatic discussion, after all, and these things had both give and take.
He would give, she would take.
She would give, he would take.
Her golden brow twitched in anger, her angelic wings unfurled to their full length. The 'woman' pushed the body of her guitar into the nothingness upon which they stood.
And the Guardian of the Root just grinned.
"Where the fuck is my roommate?"
In my youth, Sir Ector routinely cautioned against hate.
Hate is unwise, he would say.
It is the emotion of the sword, not the mind or heart.
Like the sword, it pierces the body.
It cuts deeply into the flesh.
Once lodged, it is just as painful to remove.
You may reasonably dislike, my father advised.
But never hate.
Seek understanding with others.
Be mindful of their circumstances.
And if you must come to blows, let the exchange be measured, prompt, and swift to conclude.
'Tis to my chagrin, then, that I must confess to hating four things.
The first is Morgan, who, thankfully, seems to have not pursued me into this life.
The second is Saber's situation.
His enslavement to an eldritch god's will.
'Tis a problem for which I have no solution, but...
But I refuse to let such a kind soul be governed by so foul a master.
The third is the unfair torture delivered unto my mind by my body, heart and soul.
I long for his - wholly inappropriate - company.
I dream of his - wholly inappropriate - company.
I cannot have his - wholly inappropriate - company!
I achieved that in another life, apparently!
Curse you, other me! I have stolen my man from myself!
Agh, egads!
—Ahem.
"Must we always meet in this accursed place?"
The fourth is Camlann.
"...I am trapped here. There is no other locale available, Artoria."
This hill.
This dreadful, horrendous, bloody hill.
Why does she do this to herself?
I shan't allow it. No more wallowing!
"You cannot truly believe that."
The knight does not respond.
She stands there in silence, leaning on Excalibur.
I resist the overwhelming urge to roll my eyes.
Instead, my fingers snap.
Our environs change.
A familiar, sparsely decorated room greets us.
We sit across from each other on arranged mats.
I run my wistful hand across the wooden table.
This mansion... his mansion... brings me comfort.
It is my home.
Our home.
I have begun to label them the Universal Truths.
Things that are shared across lives, across time and space.
His cooking is one. Avalon is another.
Most important, perhaps, is our loyalty to him.
Any Artoria who has met Shirou will recognize this place.
'Tis an area of relaxation. Of peace.
Here, we are safe.
We are his Saber, and nothing more.
"..."
And yet, her shoulders remain tense.
That is the extent of Alter's damage.
—I hesitate in calling her that word.
Alter.
And never would I vocally address her as such.
In this moment, her physical scars have faded.
She is identical to Arthur, the Saber journeying with us.
The me of fifteen years. A young girl.
Green eyes and golden hair, never without her bun.
But mentally? Emotionally?
When we are here, I call her Saber.
Not Artoria, or Arthur, or any other title or name.
Her name is Saber. Just Saber.
The word grounds her. It eases the trauma.
It reassures her that she is, and always will be, his knight.
For her, this place is no longer safe.
It is a home she has attacked.
Owned by a dear friend she has assailed.
Perpetually occupied by his purple-haired junior.
Sakura. Innocent, defiled, tortured Sakura.
A sweet girl, burdened by a great many sins.
A girl who, in her jealous mania, forced us from his side.
I understand my counterpart's agony.
Who are we, if not his staunchest ally?
Where do we belong, if not in his home?
What do we do, if he chooses another?
If we are cast out? If we are no longer wanted?
Without him, we are naught but our armor.
I think of the conundrum often.
'Tis easy to piece together the clues.
Alter's memories imply many things, as do Arthur's reactions to his words.
I am the exception. I see the differences plain as day.
But my counterparts do not.
Every person they have ever met...
No matter our relationships, no matter the time and place...
Merlin.
The knights.
The people.
The world.
Rin.
Sakura.
Kiritsugu.
The Servants.
To all of them, this girl in front of me is not a girl at all.
She is a king that leads.
A knight that slays.
A tool that fights for a cause.
And I remain unseen.
"Saber."
Her gaze shifts from the door.
It is the look of a child watching the closet for a monster.
To me, the monster is naught but a vivid nightmare.
To her...
"—I am fine, Artoria."
"You need not lie."
She does not expect the rebuttal.
Her cracked shields crumble away, like one of my Saber's many swords.
The similarities are cruel and taunting.
He lied in my home. My other self lies in his.
We are not fine.
We are two broken mirrors.
Our reflections dance together.
Tumbling through time and space.
In that one place, we finally understood, I think.
Our guilt is the same. Our pasts are the same.
Through no fault of our own, our worlds collapsed.
And we alone survived.
I wish only that it was here.
That I was the shard who won.
'Tis a selfish desire, I know.
I should not think such things.
But I do so anyway.
I again pretend I am the girl he seeks.
For just a moment...
—I assume the role of a former king.
If I could see the future...
If I knew, after that business as the king, that I would meet him...
That I would love him...
That he would love me...
That, for the briefest, most ephemeral of moments, we would be happy...
Would I draw the sword?
Would I damn the kingdom?
Would I risk the Grail's corruption?
Would I allow him his escapades with Rin and Sakura?
Would I wish him his happiness, even if it meant suffering in return?
I give the wounded girl my best smile.
I know my eyes are gold again.
But that is not an issue.
'Tis just another of my many shades.
"It is okay to not be fine, Saber. He shall understand."
Her eyes flash.
Her hands are clammy.
Sweat glistens on her brow.
The girl leans over the table, distressed.
"I... I d-do not deserve—"
"It is not a question of whether you deserve forgiveness."
She freezes.
We both know my next words.
I say them anyway.
Because...
Because he is different.
I believe that difference is the reason I summoned him.
When he sees us, he sees me.
He sees the girl beneath the armor.
Shirou Emiya and Artoria Pendragon understand each other.
"Shirou will always forgive you. You are you."
And that is a Universal Truth.
What little Arthur knew of the Altered state told her Artoria's situation was peculiar.
It stemmed from the Grail's corruption, yet Artoria was not corrupted. Its mental and physical pollution could not be reversed, yet Artoria entered and left it with the mere flexing of her muscles. It compromised one's soul, yet Artoria's personality remained intact. It reduced one's control over their prana, yet Artoria shifted whenever she concentrated.
Arthur couldn't make blade nor hilt of the situation, so instead she deigned to watch. She observed the faint twitching of the girl's brow, the flexing of her pale fingers, the shifting of her lips.
For better or worse, it seemed to be a simple side effect of her merge with Alter. A lingering quirk - much like the sudden murderous flare up Arthur experienced whenever she thought of Caster. Such a thing hadn't been there before their bout with the Crystal.
...
How dare that stupid witch use her against Shir—breathe. Inhale. Exhale.
...
Better!
"Arthur?"
Golden irises cut through her thoughts. Altoria had returned from meditation, head tilted in curiosity.
"Solidus for thy thoughts?"
The past was the past. No matter.
"'Tis nothing. Thine eyes, however, Artoria..."
The girl blinked.
"A-Ah, aye! Um... one moment..."
Her face scrunched up. Arthur caught the tail end of her low mutter.
"...Dam the river... Dam the river..."
'Dam the river'? An unusual phrase, Arthur thought, and one she'd never heard used in the context of magecraft. She opened her mouth to ask for clarification, but the words died in her throat; color returned to the girl's complexion. The Altered state fell away.
Artoria blinked her green eyes and heaved a sigh.
"Better?
"A-Aye..." she replied, a fair bit hesitant. "Did you find... ah..."
"I... did. 'Twas not a book as you'd assumed. 'Twas her."
"'Her'? As in, the person? Alter?"
In their quiet journeys, Arthur had taken to training Artoria, per her original goal before... well... everything else led them off course. They bickered often, much to Shirou's amused exasperation, and rarely did the obstinate girl follow Arthur's directions to the letter. She modified the instructions, was fond of asking Shirou for his second opinion. His reply never changed:
"Just listen to her, Artoria. Saber knows what she's talking about."
Yes, of course she did! Mhm, mhm! As expected, she had her Master's support in these matters!
But Artoria would pout and reply, in that childish, insufferable tone of voice:
"But... Saber..."
And he would sigh, and give in, and provide a suggestion! She admired his kindness, truly, but she wished he would not baby Artoria so. The girl never failed to get what she wanted! Life did not work that way! She never received that opportunity!
—Ahem.
Today, they were attempting to understand Artoria's peculiar tendency to change skin tone. Arthur assumed her situation mirrored the Throne - as in, a Heroic Spirit 'reading' about the experiences of their Servant selves.
But apparently, the girl found...
"'Tis as I have been saying, Arthur," Artoria sighed. "I meet with Alter. I know not from where you've gotten thy library comparisons."
...
Peculiar.
"And how often do you meet?"
"Every night, thereabouts."
Pecuuuuuuliar.
"When you are dreaming, I assume?"
"A-Aye? Saber once referred to them as... as lucid dreams, I believe. Where one knows they are sleeping, and thus retains control."
Arthur squinted at nothing in particular. This situation seemed... familiar.
"How do these dreams unfold, Artoria? Describe them, if you would."
Artoria scratched her cheek.
"I always meet her at the top of that accursed hill. Alter is quite the despondent one, you see. She has... mood swings. At times she passes the memories willfully, at times she ejects me with nary a word. 'Tis normal that I find myself needing to... ehm... butter her up."
"...Butter her up? An exchange, you mean?"
"A-Aye."
...
Why was she blushing?
"What did you offer her?" Arthur demanded.
Artoria coughed into her fist and looked away. Arthur felt the beginnings of a headache work at her temples.
"Artoria."
Artoria squirmed beneath her gaze, chewing her lower lip, but finally chose to explain.
"We are the same person, all of us. The only thing separating us from each other are our experiences. Her giving me a memory means I must give her one of mine. The more we see, the more similar we become, until..."
...
"...Until you become one person," Arthur finished. "The Altered state cannot be undone. Therefore..."
Artoria nodded.
"I am not sure what the end result shall be, but for now I assume it is... passing between us, in a way. When she is Altered, I am not, and vice versa. 'Tis like we are two rivers slowly merging together, and we draw closer whenever I use the dragon's heart."
Dam the river. Momentarily stop the process, block it from continuing.
"And where is Alter when this occurs?"
Artoria shrugged - the kind of shrug one gave when they truly did not know.
"W-We have the same eyes, do we not?"
"Is she alright, by the way?"
Both girls turned to Shirou, who for the large part had focused on meal preparation. He'd developed a system whereby half of their hunts were consumed immediately and half were preserved for the journey. The Crystals had a tendency for ambush tactics; saving jerky for emergencies was just good logic.
In the end, 'twas more for Artoria than either of them... though being who she was, Arthur preferred to recuperate her energy via a meal than leeching Artoria's prana.
"Alter," he repeated. "Is she okay?"
"She..."
Artoria trailed off, searching for a way to phrase her answer.
"She is afraid of Sakura."
Shirou's hands froze for no more than a split second. Something between sympathy and disappointment flickered across his face.
"...I see."
His reaction concerned Arthur. Sakura? Demure, quiet Sakura? Why, the girl could not maim a fly!
"Shirou? Did something happen to Sakura?"
Next came a flinch, followed by the clearing of his throat.
"A-Ah... well..."
It occurred to her then that she had never actually questioned the sequence of events behind Alter's blackening. Chaldea's Alter - the one modeled on Artoria's mental denizen - did not smell of the Grail's taint, and so Arthur had assumed some other reason for her situation.
Artoria seemed almost beside herself with worry.
"You do not need to, Saber, so...!"
"No, it's fine," Shirou responded. "Just... tch. It's such a messed up situation."
He leaned over himself, gathering his wits, as if searching for a way to put his duress into words.
"So... as it turns out, there were two Lesser Grails, Saber."
...
...
...Eh?
"Y-You mean in addition to Illyasviel, Shirou?"
"Right. She was the White Grail. But after the Fourth War, the head of the Matous, this creep Zouken - he collected the pieces of that Lesser Grail and implanted them in Sakura. It turned her into a second Lesser Grail, the Black Grail. In Alter's world, the second one awoke. Things..."
...
Ah. She should not have asked. She knew that look well. 'Twas the gaze of trauma.
"Things... didn't go so well. Sakura... I fell for her. She couldn't take it. The Grail fed on her emotions. Overwhelmed her. The Grail War derailed, the Servants were caught in the crossfire. Including..."
Arthur suppressed a chill.
"That is why Chaldea's version was a copy, then. I was incarnated, was I not, Shirou?"
He swallowed.
"I did it myself. Rest's history."
The relief she felt surprised her.
"Thank you."
The air left his lungs. "S-Saber?"
"She is not here, so I shall speak in her place, and do so without hesitation. Were such a situation to befall me, I would rather die. And, if given my choice of executioner, I would want it be you. I am sure Alter thought the same, Shirou."
"She does," Artoria clarified. "She is fearful because Sakura removed her from your side, Saber. To her... t-to us, the Master-Servant bond is absolute. Anything or anyone seeking to undo that is not to be trusted, friend or otherwise. We are your Saber. 'Tis not up for negotiation."
A rueful, pained smile came and went from his lips.
"That's exactly why the Shadow grabbed Alter. Sakura... even though she didn't practice much, she was still a mage trying to stay out of the war. Alter introduced herself as 'Saber', and Sakura knew Shinji was participating in her stead, so..."
Artoria's jaw dropped.
"She tried to remove you from the war to keep you out of harm's way! We - our goals were... that explains everything! That is why Alter behaved as she did!"
But Arthur's expression soured.
"Hmph. I did not think my alternate self to be so foolish."
"Eh?"
The King of Knights leaned back on her hands, head tilted to the chilly sky, and heaved an exasperated sigh. Her exhale condensed into a puffy cloud.
"Shirou is Shirou!" she lamented. "Our absence and his recklessness go hand in hand!"
His shoulders slumped.
"I'm not that bad, Saber..."
"Yes you are!"
"Yes you are!"
Sighing, Shirou resumed slicing and curing the venison.
"Still, it's good that we acted. That thing inside the Grail was a Beast-level threat. Counter Force would've gotten involved if we hadn't stopped it when we did, so in hindsight my recklessness actually paid off a bit."
Artoria reached over and grabbed the map they'd been using to track their journey's progress.
"What are Beasts again?"
Arthur shuffled closer to look over the parchment. "Annoyances. Consider them the equal to seven Grand Servants."
"Grand...? Ah! The Lady of the Lake called Saber a Grand, did she not? Saber! Would you have been summoned had that thing come out of the Grail?"
He shook his head. "To tell you the truth, I can't remember any deployments as a Saber, so I wouldn't know. I know I've been used before like this, but..."
Artoria and Arthur shared a silent, knowing glance. Best not speak of that, for his own well-being. The Master steered the conversation in a separate direction.
"What about the Crystal, then?"
"Stronger."
"Stronger."
The two Sabers voiced their answer in unison.
"I'm less worried about the Crystals than I am the hypothetical on the other end," Shirou clarified. "This 'Spider' is bound to be a problem eventually, to say nothing of Vivian's warning."
Arthur nodded her agreement. She traced their path along the map.
"I agree, Shirou. It would be best for us to brainstorm... some... plans..."
Her sudden pause came as a surprise, as did the jovial exclamation that followed soon after.
"E-Eh?! U-Um! Um, um, um!"
Artoria leaned away from her counterpart's exuberance, her expression that of a poor bystander seeking to avoid some crazed lunatic. Not Shirou, though. Shirou knew that reaction.
The King of Knights wanted to do something most unkingly.
Again.
"What is it, Saber?" he drawled, resigned to his fate.
Arthur stole the map for herself, leaned in far too close to actually comprehend its contents. Her knuckles whitened, her eyebrows twitched with excitement.
"Sh-Shirou! Shirou, Shirou, Shirou!"
"Saber, Saber, Saber."
"If I am correct, our current path shall take us right by Aquae Arnemetiae!"
...
"HUUUUH?!"
Artoria's gleeful shout pierced him like a crystalline tendril. The girl raced over on hands and knees fast enough to kick up a trail of dusty frost. She planted herself in his lap, stars in her eyes, and shook him by the shoulders.
"S-Saber! Saber, Saber, Saber!"
"Artoria, Artoria, Artoria..."
Their reactions to the obscure Latin name threw him for a loop.
"We must depart at once, Saber!" she declared. "I have heard stories! Marble from floor to roof! The relaxation of one's soul! The purging of sin! Sin and dirt, Saber!"
She wasn't making the least bit of sense.
"What is Aquae Arnemetiae?" he pleaded.
Artoria gasped, utterly appalled. "You do not know?!"
Her betrayed cry was at odds with the simple truth of the matter: it was of so little import that the Counter Force saw no need to pass along the information. Shirou sent Arthur a look that could only be described as, 'I beg of you, please explain'.
"In your time, I believe the town was called 'Buxton', Shirou."
Buxton? That actually rang a bell. Tohsaka mentioned it once during their stay at the Clock Tower, something about Buxton and the city... of Bath... in Somerset...
...
He glanced at Artoria. A bit of drool seeped from her mouth's corner. Arthur wasn't much better.
Well... when in Rome?
"Fine."
Few things could get these two girls to set aside their rivalry. World-ending alien threats were one, Imperial extravagance was the other. They jumped in place, hand in hand, cheering like a pair of teenage sisters.
"Roman baths! Roman baths!"
"Roman baths! Roman baths!"
It struck him as entirely out of character. And for that reason alone, Shirou tried - and failed - to suppress his grin.
"Hm? Is it that cold outside?"
The receptionist's innocent question caught the Pendragon girls off guard. To Artoria's relief, Saber swept in with his smooth talk.
"We've been walking for a bit, so we're frozen down to our bones. We were hoping to warm up."
Aquae Arnemetiae sat at the top of the isle's central, hilly landscape, far above sea level. Arthur made mention of its location during their admittedly expedient trek, and how, due to how removed it was from both the coastal invasion and the Cornish chaos, they might not need to cover themselves at all. Nevertheless, they still adorned their cloaks and let Saber take point as their bodyguard.
"Ah! You've come to the right place, then! Public or private?"
"Private, please."
"Mixed or separate?"
A-Ah! B-Bathing with—
"Separate."
Hmph! No fun! Sighing, she lowered the hood hiding her golden locks. Arthur let her gaze linger on the receptionist for a moment, then spun in place to marvel at the architecture. Wide green eyes drank it all in.
"You truly have never been here?" Artoria asked.
Arthur shook her head, her voice a whisper.
"My knights would at times urge me to recline at Aquae Sulis, but... due to my circumstances, I refused. I wished also to avoid the image of the Imperial buffoon romping in the baths. 'Twas not a good look for one whose country suffered."
How depressing, to have one's life controlled in such a manner.
"Yet you still wanted to come, aye?"
Artoria recognized the look Arthur wore; it matched the expression she undoubtedly held when, as a child, she attempted to pry open Saber's scroll.
"My feelings on the subject mattered not. My duties took precedence."
She pitied the King of Knights. "You speak as thought you did not have a choice."
Arthur stiffened, but otherwise did not reply. Saber chose that moment to approach, towels in hand.
"Everything is sorted, Artoria, Saber. Here."
Unlike so many things in her life, this wool was clean. She grinned at the receptionist.
"I am glad this place has survived."
The silver-haired young woman inclined her head, stifling her laugh.
"The Imperials would be surprised, I'm sure, to see lowly barbarians understanding the value of these waters. This way, please."
Their footwear clicked and clacked against the marble tile lining the hallway. The receptionist led them to the far end, to a pair of red silk curtains hanging from archways. One wooden sign read 'men', the other 'women'.
Saber slung his towel over his shoulder; the mere act steered Artoria's thoughts in an... improper direction.
The heat on her cheeks came from the warmth simmering on the other side of the curtain, surely.
"Have fun, you two."
"W-Wait, Shirou!" Arthur stammered. "How did you...?"
He checked the hall for the receptionist, but she'd vanished around the corner, back towards the large public changing room, the apodyterium, that served as the bath's entrance and reception area. His voice lowered to a whisper.
"No one ever said a fake couldn't match the original."
...
He did not! "S-Saber! We could have—!"
"They won't disappear, Artoria. I made sure of it. If anything, the coins are more valuable now, right?"
Answer given, he walked through the curtain, a sly smirk dancing on his lips.
Her jaw dropped. Unbelievable! That oaf! Why, she should—
Arthur nudged her through the curtain. "What is done is done. Come."
Her protests died with the warm gust of steam tumbling into the private changing area. A single breath cleared her sinuses.
"I am surprised at how empty it is," Arthur commented.
Artoria pulled her tunic over her head.
"'Tis only mid-afternoon, and these are the private baths. The townsfolk are tending their fields, perhaps."
She prayed Arthur couldn't hear the way her heart hammered in her chest. That memory of the day in Camelot's smithy barged into her mind - the way he lifted his shirt, as he did currently on the other side of—nay!
Naaaaay! Nay nay nay, bad! Behave thyself!
Her counterpart had already stripped and wrapped herself in the woolen towel. But for some reason, she would not make eye contact. Artoria found it odd, even as she undid her bindings.
"Is something the matter, Arthur?"
She stuffed the clothes into a small inlet in the wall and likewise wrapped herself in her own towel. Arthur shifted her weight between her feet. She made a point of staring at the decorative murals lining the marble walls.
"Nay, 'tis nothing."
Liar.
But, well, if she did not wish to discuss whatever plagued her thoughts, so be it. She came here to relax and most certainly not try to sneak peeks at Sab—bad! If Arthur wished to continue her brooding, 'twas her prerogative.
Artoria pulled her ponytail loose, laid the ribbon atop her clothes, and marched into the steam, humming in satisfaction. She dropped her towel at the bath's edge.
...
Eeeeeeeeeeee—! Medraut would be so jealous!
The men and women's private baths drew from the same piping, and as such were situated next to each other. A stone barrier the height of a man gave each section their needed privacy... but...
Hmm! Hmm-hmm!
Maybe she could—
"What are you planning?"
Arthur sank into the waters with a pleasant sigh. The king regarded her with a critical eye.
"Nothing!" Artoria quipped in reply.
"Your persistence is unwanted. Do not bother him, Artoria."
"At lease I am honest about my intentions, you hypocritical girl."
"I am not—"
"You blush like a babe with each of his unnecessary compliments."
Her other self's cheeks puffed in defiance. "They are quite necessary! Necessary and well deserved!"
"What would Rin say if she saw you attempting to swipe her territory?"
Arthur crossed her arms and sank into the water like a petulant child. The water bubbled with her huff.
"You incorrectly assume my intentions," she answered at last. "I... I do not wish to..."
Artoria refused to entertain the king's drivel. "What is your type, Arthur?"
"My... type? What is a type?"
And Medraut called her the eternal maiden. She at least gave these things some thought!
"The type of boy that tickles your fancy. The preferences that whet your blade, so to speak."
Blood rushed to the other girl's cheeks and ears. "Wh-Wha—"
"And do not claim to be a man and insist you prefer a woman's company," Artoria interrupted. "We both know that is not true."
More than anything else, Arthur just looked uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and off put, like she'd been forced to gaze into a secretive chest, with its lock picked and its contents heretofore unknown. All her life had the king gone without asking these questions. She knew nothing of herself, of her wants or needs. The knights and citizenry saw Arthur Pendragon. They knew the king, the ruler of Britannia, with her battle plans and her magical dominance and her immortal androgyny.
Not even Merlin, perhaps, understood the concept of Artoria. How could one understand that which no longer remained? A figment, a discarded shadow?
And for those reasons, she'd never been pressed about the invisible person wearing the suit of armor. The invisible person who now hugged her arms about her tomboyish figure, eyes wide, in the midst of an existential crisis within the luxurious baths of a ruined empire.
Artoria sighed. She guessed the answer, but asked anyway.
"How old do you think you are?"
The king searched the waters for an unseen answer.
"My... m-my early to middle thirties, I believe."
...
"You do not know exactly?"
"I ceased counting a few years after drawing Caliburn. I did not see a point."
"Be that as it may, the answer is still incorrect. You are fifteen, Artoria. You have been fifteen for thirty some-odd years."
As always, Arthur refused to acknowledge the taunt. She instead focused on the logic, not the emotion.
"I do not understand."
Which proved that she was fifteen.
"Sir Ector always told me that with adulthood comes an ever-growing understanding of one's place in the world. Were I to extrapolate those lessons, I would argue that a king of thirty years, an adult, would be capable of balancing his base desires with his duty. He would not deny himself of his passions. He would take offense to a man sleeping with his wife. He would find time to seek personal happiness. He would—"
"A king cannot be human!"
And there it was.
As if to resist, as if to deny, Arthur hyperventilated into the steam and fell back onto the most sacred of all her lessons, the cornerstone of the wall she'd spent eons constructing.
"A king is something more. A king cannot exist for himself! A king is an ideal, a force of nature, a concept meant to safeguard the people so they can live instead! I must be their role model! I was created to fulfill that duty! It is the reason for my existence!"
"Then who am I?"
Arthur looked at her the same way a vampire would stare at their suddenly visible reflection. She did not respond, so Artoria stood from the water and approached her through the steam.
"As a child, my favorite hobby was tending to the horses."
Flinch.
"As early as I can remember, I felt responsible for the chaos Cornwall unleashed. I wanted to repay the town that had so selflessly protected me, so I took up the sword as soon as I was able and demanded my family teach me."
Flinch.
"I dislike the villain, the tyrant, the sloth. I dislike those who would judge me for my gender or blood. I welcome challenges by which I might prove myself, but loathe second place. I sigh whenever Kay attempts to win our spars with his words and not his weapon."
"Please stop."
A small voice. A child's voice.
Her voice. She at fifteen, when she was just as confused and just as afraid of the world beyond Camelot's walls.
She would not, could not stop. This was her duty. She would drag the girl out, kicking and screaming, whether she liked it or not.
The one person who understood Artoria Pendragon better than Shirou Emiya was Artoria Pendragon. She stalked closer, the edge in her words sharpened by cold, hard truths.
"I seek the approval of others, though I pretend I do not. Losing frightens me. I cannot stand appearing weak, despite secretly fancying cliche, romantic stories of damsels in distress and knights in shining armor. I prefer cats over dogs. My favorite animal is the lion."
The girl hiding beneath the name 'Arthur' came face to face with the thing she'd always denied. Her abandoned face, her abandoned voice, her abandoned likes and dislikes, all given form and a will of their own.
Artoria put her hands on her shoulders and went in for the kill.
"I am attracted to tall, red-haired foreign boys, with strong jawlines, broad shoulders, and kind eyes. He must have a big heart and be an excellent chef. 'Tis an exotic taste, I admit, and to this day only one man has met the criteria."
Arthur shied away from her touch, desperate to find some way to avoid the cognitive dissonance wreaking havoc on her mind.
"My duty does not allow me to make that choice! I cannot regain what I threw away!"
"Your duty brought you to him for the same purpose! The divergence in your worlds happens after you are summoned! You start from the same place! You have the same regrets and beliefs! Saber told me the night of your summoning is the same across all his lives!"
Artoria would never forget that moment.
"If you say it is impossible, that our halves cannot be reconciled, then why is he so desperately searching for her? She came to him, which means she is King Arthur, yet the actions she has taken are undeniably those of a lovestruck human girl!"
The moment the wagon wheels in Arthur's head began to turn.
"You two are identical. Your bodies, minds, and ideals are the same. She found a way to become a human king, so why can you not?"
The crazed, willful, human gleam in her eyes.
"Are you going to let her beat you? She is not here! Are you a winner or a loser, Artoria?!"
The girl took a breath, and for the first time...
"Wh-What do I need to do? T-Teach me!"
...shed her armor.
"We are almost there! To the ports! To the ports!"
These men and women, a scant two dozen in number, were perhaps all that remained.
"They come, Executor!"
Of civilization. Of sanity. Of humanity.
"Defend it with your lives! The Lord protects!"
"The Lord protects!"
Of the Holy Church.
Armed with Ash Lock and Black Key alike, the last vestiges of the mainland's civilization barreled through the ancient Roman port town of Bononia - what would one day be the city of Boulogne, France, just to the southwest of Calais.
Would, for it was a city no more. A city was its people.
"Sir Balin! Thy left!"
And its people were dead.
"Aye!"
The knight Balin readied his Sacrament, his holy lance, and swept the creature's legs. The mere act burned the ghoul to ruins.
A red ripple crossed the evening sky. The crimson moon pulsed—
"I see it!" cried Balan, brother of Balin, pointing to the golden horizon. "Salvation awaits!"
—and thirty more dead burst from their homes.
Their journey had been long. An unseen relay it was, filled with sacrifice and exhaustion. The members of the Church had brought this last relic two thousand miles, across ruined two continents. It alone remained of their faith; this woman, the Executor, was the last of her profession, the strongest of her peers, charged with seeing it across the channel to safety.
Her name was Narbareck.
In another time, in another place, her progeny would co-found the fiercest of the moonlit organizations - the Burial Agency.
A shadow bounded across the rooftops.
"Apostle! Apostle!"
The vampire hunters.
One of the clergymen made the sign of the cross. At the same time he extended his left hand, pointed his index and middle fingers. The rosary beads wrapped around his palm and knuckles glowed a pale, sanctified light. A malevolent whisper seeped from his hood's shadow.
"Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto!"
The holy laser cleaved the Dead Apostle's waist. The torso separated from the pelvis, and in that moment another priest jumped to launch his weapon at supersonic speeds. The Black Key pierced the vampire's head all the way to the hilt. It dropped behind the buildings with a thud.
They didn't spare it a glance - its kind numbered in the millions.
More and more thralls charged them from the shadows. The priests and their knightly escorts scrambled through the stone roads, gasping, their sleep deprived fatigue overwritten exclusively by the urgency of this holiest of missions. Narbareck clutched the wrapped bundle tight against her chest. Sweat descended her hooded features in waves. Shouts and screams reached them from the back of the line, as the stragglers fell to the hordes.
The dead jumped from windows, clawed through doors, tumbled from alleyways and rooftops. An ominous blood red glare cut deep shadows across the ruined landscape. Its light reflected off the vampiric eyes drawn to their frantic sprint. Like moths to a flame the ghouls and their masters hounded them all the way to the docks.
Blood stained Narbareck's cloak. Balin and Balan barked commands over the howls and the snarls. Knights and holy men alike sacrificed themselves to buy her scant seconds.
Their surviving party of twelve fought their way onto the docks and to the last of the Frankish ships bobbing in the evening waves. Balin charged ahead; the Lance of Longinus made short work of the ropes binding the vessel to the pier, and he shoved off with an almighty, adrenaline-fueled roar.
"JUMP!"
Narbareck bounded the full length and made it safely, as did Sir Balan. The priests and knights followed them and scrambled for oars and seats, all while Balin and Balan fought off their vampiric boarders.
The dead would not abate; the horde spilled into the channel. Claws carved deep gashes into the vessel's wood. Holy chants rang out, Ash Locks swung and stabbed and punched.
As the distance grew, Narbareck at last stood to face the fallen hell of Bononia. Chiseled black eyes fixated on the pier. Black waves lapped against the vessel's prow.
So began the condemnation.
"And it came to pass, when they had brought them forth abroad, that he said: 'Escape for thy life; look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the Plain; escape to the mountain, lest thou be swept away!'"
A white spark glistened on that focal point of her gaze. Ethereal fire took to the wood. Gusting tailwinds pushed them into the channel, onto a journey wrapped in fate's weave.
They, too, undertook the sacred passage.
They, too, sailed towards the light.
"'Hasten thou, escape thither; for I cannot do any thing till thou be come thither.' Therefore, the name of the city was called Zoar!"
To the stone, to the thatch, to the very air itself. White light encircled homes and streets. A repulsive shriek churned within Bononia, for the ghouls disintegrated and the vampires burned. Narbareck shouted above them all.
For sacrilege: exorcism.
"The sun was risen upon the Earth when Lot came unto Zoar!"
The bloody skies above that city gave way to a newborn star, a singularity of glorious omnipotence that twinkled against the crimson moon plaguing their world.
And the Executor raised her closed fist.
"Then the LORD caused to rain upon Sodom—"
And the Executor channeled His rage.
"—and upon Gomorrah—"
And the Executor burned them all.
"—brimstone and fire from the LORD OUT OF HEAVEN—!"
And He overthrew those cities,
and all the Plain,
and all the inhabitants of the cities,
and that which grew upon the ground.
Fate/ess
Bononia vanished beneath that pale column.
Its deathly light illuminated the Shroud of Peter.
The Shroud protecting the object in Executor Narbareck's arms.
That object...
Blue Grass - 1
...was a small, wooden cup.
THE MAGICIAN
A chalice.
Confusion Corner
ugh, laaaaaaaaame
This chapter was written before Tsukire officially confirmed the First Magician's lineage, and the chapter title as such reflects previous hints that it was Big J-Man, which have since been disproven. But it's a cool chapter title, damn it, so it (mostly) stays! It's the Holy-fuckin-Grail, it can totally do magical stuff! HMPH! Also, since we've officially exited Notes (not really, more on that later), we're now moving onto Tsukihime! Vampires, baby! Narbareck, baby! Or, err, her ancestor. Whatever, it still counts! The Executor and her squad of PTSD-stricken clergymen definitely take the role of side characters here, and they're mostly just plot devices I'm using to move the Holy Grail to its proper location for later on, lol. We'll check in with them on occasion, but right now they're just moving in the background until they're in position for later, err, events. It also lets me get Sirs Balin and Balan into the story, both of whom are Round Table knights that Fate has (mostly) forgotten.
Balin's by far the most important here (Balan is just his brother), so he'll be the focus. Who is this dude, and why the hell does he have Longinus? Ain't that Percival's weapon? Well, let's take a look at Percival's FGO mats:
Bond 5:
Longinus Count Zero
Another Holy Spear, that is said to have pierced the chest of the Messiah.
When its true name is unleashed, Longinus exhibits the true might of its powers that was observed back when Sir Balin wielded the Holy Spear and battled King Pellam. It functions as an anti-fortress Noble Phantasm that has even levelled the royal castle (which is the same as the Grail castle Corbenic).
It is a fearsome Noble Phantasm of destruction, but it also has the ability to heal.
The Holy Spear has 2 seals placed on it by Galahad and Balin. This can be seen as a downgraded version of the 13 seals placed on the Holy Lance Rhongomyniad wielded by the King of Knights (or the Holy Sword Excalibur wielded by the King of Knights from another world).
As we've discussed previously, in IRL Arthurian lore, there are far more than just twelve Round Table knights. Guys like Bors and Balin have looooooong lists of their own, long enough to definitely warrant inclusion. Balin's most famous feat, in fact, is so impressive that is has its own damn Wikipedia page.
It's a Wikipedia page for an attack. As in, a Noble Phantasm attack. It fulfills all of the requirements right there in the text itself. Any Arthurian nerd worth their salt will know what I'm about to discuss here, lol.
And I quote:
"The castle rocked and rove throughout, and all the walls fell crashed and breaking to the earth."
I am, of course, talking about the single most famous strike in the King Arthur legends:
The Dolorous Stroke is a trope in Arthurian legend and some other stories of Celtic origin. In its fullest form, it concerns the Fisher King (King Pellehan or Anfortas), the guardian of the Holy Grail, who falls into sin and consequently suffers a wound from a mystical weapon (often the Spear of Destiny from Christian eschatology). He becomes the Maimed King, and his kingdom suffers similarly, becoming the Wasteland: neither will be healed until the successful completion of the Grail Quest.
The stroke is usually described as being to the king's thighs: this has been taken as a euphemism for the genitals, which are explicitly stated to be the location of Anfortas's wound in Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parzival. In the Post-Vulgate Cycle, Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur, and later works based on them, the stroke is delivered by Sir Balin. He ignores an "unearthly voice" warning him off, strikes the king when he is deprived of his weapon, and thinks that the stroke is justified.
A single blow aimed at the poor king's dick, so powerful it obliterates half a castle and curses the surrounding land for years. This attack serves as the inspiration of Percival's NP release, Longinus Count Zero.
Remember, Fateless is first and foremost a story about Arthurian lore told through the lens of the Nasuverse. We're gonna do these guys justice, all of them, even the ones left to gather dust in the background while Gawain and Lancelot hog all the glory. If you're here expecting Shirou to invalidate the knights, well... sorry.
(im not sorry)