"I-Is this not unnecessary?"
"'Tis very necessary."
Arthur clutched her towel, hands trembling with trepidation.
"But... but..."
She suffered from a severe lack of confidence. Artoria, meanwhile, swallowed her nerves and pressed on ahead. She grabbed her own towel and guided the king closer to the stone barrier separating the two baths.
To Arthur, it was less a barrier and more Mount Olympus.
"O-Our presence shall make him uncomfortable!"
Artoria whispered in her ear.
"So we ask for permission first, aye?"
And with that, Artoria approached the stone and raised her voice.
"Saber?"
...
The seconds ticked away. Arthur fidgeted in place, her mind a pendulum swinging between all-encompassing embarrassment and an odd amount of self-righteous determination. Though Artoria had a better handle on her own emotions, her heart, too, hammered in her throat.
Then, at last, Saber's reply reached them. "What is it, Artoria?"
The sheer exasperation lining his voice told them he already knew their plan. It made sense; the walls were long and the ceiling high, and their argument hadn't exactly been quiet - to say nothing of his Servant nature.
Artoria shook off her sudden hesitation. "May... um... may we join you?"
...
She prayed for her heart to calm down at least a little bit.
"I won't stop you. Do what you wish."
If she didn't go now, the little bit of confidence fueling her decision making would evaporate like her sweat in this steam. A burst of prana let her clear the stone wall with little effort. She didn't wait to see if Arthur followed, but the pitter-patter of feet landing on marble revealed, to Artoria's surprise, that she had.
Saber cleared his throat to get their attention. He reclined in the water against the bath's edge, eyes shut and arms extended. Something akin to undergarments dangled from his hands.
"Put these on," he instructed. "Saber, the ones in my right hand are yours. They'll fit you. Artoria, yours may need some adjusting. I... I don't think swimsuits have been invented yet, sorry."
Eh? 'Swimsuits'?
Arthur swiped the white fabric from his palm like a woman possessed. She tied the blue ribbons into place, and once suitably covered breathed the largest sigh of relief Artoria had ever heard.
"Thank you, Shirou, it fits me well... though it is not my style."
He grinned, careful to keep his eyes squeezed shut.
"It's funny you say that, Saber. The alternate you picked this out herself - with a bit of prodding."
"Eh? I did?"
"Yeah. We went to a big water park with Tohsaka. Lots of pools there."
"I see. 'Tis a shame I cannot remember. Come, Artoria. I shall help you put this on."
Her chosen swimsuit was a brilliant shade of purple... and did not fit her well, to say the least.
"S-Saber? 'Tis a bit... um... big..."
"I figured. Hold it in place, I'll adjust it until it fits. Tell me when to stop."
With Arthur's help, she kept the two pieces steady while the fabric shrunk.
...
"That is fine, Saber."
"Can I open my eyes?"
"Aye."
It did not require much adjusting - Arthur's swimsuit would have been far too small - but a tinge of childish jealousy sprouted in her heart all the same. Whoever originally wore this was quite well-endowed, both up top and down below, and Saber could only conjure what he had seen.
Arthur reached the same conclusions.
"Shirou? Whose swimsuit is this?"
He cocked an eyebrow.
"Hm? It's Rider's."
"Ri—?!"
The King of Knights recoiled; her bangs shadowed her eyes, her fists clenched.
"Shirou! Why are you attending leisurely activities with Rider?! She is not thy Servant! She is an... an enemy!"
"Rider's quite nice once you get to know her, actually."
Arthur clearly did not agree.
"I see. So Shirou prefers that type of woman, does he?"
What did she mean by that type of woman?! Furthermore, was Rider not that insufferable Servant who dueled Alter in the cavern? The one with the flying horse? The one who incorrectly claimed to have her Saber's trust?
Artoria crossed her arms.
"I do not appreciate wearing some hussy's undergarments, Saber!"
Her counterpart nodded in agreement.
"Indeed, an adequate descriptor. Rider is a hussy."
Saber lowered himself further into the bath. Artoria chose to occupy herself with her silly jealousy. Otherwise, she'd end up admiring the way the water traced his shoulders and biceps aaaaand there she went again!
"You two just don't know her well enough," he attempted. "She's a surprisingly reliable person. Extended family, almost. I've always seen her as Sakura's older sister. And she's attractive, sure, but she's not my preferred type."
...
His...
"Wh-What is your... um... y-your type, Shirou?"
She'd not expected that question from Arthur, of all people. Neither had Shirou, if his surprise was anything to go by. A faint blush tinged his cheeks, and he averted his gaze, scratching his temple. He swallowed.
"A-Ah, well... the thing is, in most of my lives I get distracted and never realize it, but... I have a thing for Welsh girls."
Arthur went stiff as a statue, but Artoria was just confused; the term fell into one of the many 'gaps' in Alter's memory. She failed to mask the jealous panic lining her voice.
"A-Arthur? Arthur, what is a 'Welsh'?!"
With a jerking motion, the other girl grabbed her arm and dragged her in close. Arthur whispered in her ear.
"In his time, the region of our childhood is called Wales. We are Welsh."
...
Eh?
She knew of his affections already; the two of them had discussed it, after all. She understood his goal, admired his dedication. But for some reason, the... simple, almost innocent way he worded it put a halt to her thoughts. Her throat dried in spite of the steam. She plopped down in the bath and wrenched her hands in her lap underwater.
"What... kind of Welsh girls, Saber?"
He made a point of not meeting their bashful gazes.
"I like it if they have a strong, willful personality. That's why I fell for Tohsaka. But a shy and loving girl who needs my help, like Sakura? That's attractive, too. Physically, though, I like girls on the shorter side. Blonde girls. Maybe with big green eyes - the kind that see right through you. And it's a bit weird, but I've always been a fan of women with swords. There's more, I guess, but that's the gist of it."
The more he described them - described her - the deeper the two Pendragons sank into the water. Perhaps the steam made her delirious, but Artoria wanted nothing more than to snuggle up against his chest and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. The distance separating them was physically painful, so she instead tried to focus on not making Arthur more uncomfortable than she already had.
Saber continued regardless. An incomprehensible expression halfway between madness and hope creased his forehead and twisted his lips. He opened his mouth, swallowed his words, then tried again.
"I've told Artoria this, but I don't think it's strange to love multiple people. Tohsaka and Sakura are Tohsaka and Sakura. I wouldn't trade them for the world, and I lived long, happy lives with both of them. However, the time I spent with them is dwarfed by the time I've spent as a Counter Guardian."
His posture, his figure - in that moment, he looked less a Saber and more an Archer.
"My memories came and went. Alaya gave me the minimum I needed to complete my tasks, and removed everything else. And despite all that, when I confronted those apocalyptic threats, I didn't think of Tohsaka, Sakura or anything else. The one thought running through my head was, 'In this situation, what would Saber do?'."
He stared long and hard into the water.
"I didn't save her in that life. I did as she asked, and played it safe. I supported her from the rear, as a good Master should. We won. That was that."
Yet another one. One she might never meet. Saber looked up, then, at the stone barrier they had leaped over.
"I never forgot her face. Even when I went to hell, I made sure to remember. And I was... I was... happy... to learn that another me had succeeded where I'd failed."
She asked the question automatically, on instinct.
"Is that why you are..."
'...so desperate to find her?'
The unspeakable hung over them like the steam caressing their bodies. Saber met their eyes; the intensity swirling within his amber orbs froze her in place. She heard Arthur suck in a breath.
"It isn't that Sakura and Tohsaka are lesser, because they aren't. The truth is... despite having known her for two weeks at a time, that young woman has taken up permanent residency in my mind. I owe it to the girl I saw that night to follow this path to the end. I will find her again. That's all."
Each lovely word cut Artoria's heart to ribbons. They were the confirmation of the truth she had always known and always avoided.
She lost.
She had lost before she met him. Before seeing his eyes, or hearing his voice. Despite his assurances of the contrary, Saber saw them as separate individuals. Individuals with the same voice and the same appearance, but unique nevertheless.
And she could not find it within herself to blame him.
How could one stay sane when confronted with such torture? Arthur was his beloved's clone, her mirror image. He saw her face every single day - a face that did not remember their journey nor return his extraordinary, emphatic love. He had no choice but to separate and label them as Artoria A, B and C. For his own well-being he had locked away his heart, and that mysterious girl alone held the key. A metal man with a heart of tin.
And yet... and yet, despite that!
"Am... am I not good enough, Shirou?"
Arthur trudged through the water, wounded, her eyes downcast. She had reached the same conclusions.
"I saved Rin that day because you cared for her. I abstained from my duties long enough for her to escape the Grail. I wished to stay. Both times, I wished to stay, but... but it was not my place. And when I did so, I could not bear to see you age whilst I stayed the same."
He rose to his feet as she rambled and ranted. Her desperate eyes searched his features for any possible answer, any clue that might stem her self-doubt and worry.
"What separates me from her? I do not understand, Shirou! If we are the same person as you say, why her, yet not me? Have I failed you in some way? Please, I—"
"The wind is strong today."
Rarely did he raised his voice. The odd sentence pierced the steam and reduced Arthur to silence.
"The clouds drift and the moon appears for a brief moment. The silver light shines on the girl in knightly form."
...
And it dawned upon Artoria, then, that she did not know which meeting Shirou Emiya described.
Because they too had met on a moonlit night.
As if caressing a painting, he brushed aside a golden bang and cupped Arthur's cheek.
"I'm speechless. Not because I'm confused by the sudden turn of events. I'm at a loss for words because of this girl's overwhelming beauty."
His voice was distant. His mind was everywhere and nowhere, spread across innumerable lifetimes and uncountable first meetings. His smile was hopeless, his voice drenched with pride over one simple truth.
"Shirou Emiya falls in love with Artoria Pendragon at first sight. Even if he were to eventually connect with another, that fact doesn't change."
That fact. Not an opinion, but fact. He spoke of their meeting the same way one described the weather. He could do nothing to change that aspect of his life; its futility matched one commanding the sun to stop shining.
"It is an ironclad truth," he continued. "It is the glue holding my soul together. Despite the hypocritical differences seeking to undo my person, when asked the question, 'In that moment, was she beautiful?', the answer is always, 'Yes, she was.' If a Shirou Emiya was denied that opportunity, the question becomes, 'Would you like to meet her?' The answer then is, 'Yes, I would.'"
Theirs must have been a different love, Artoria thought. Not one born of absolute, unconditional necessity, like Sakura. Not an endeavor to support and cherish out of fear for an uncertain future, like Rin.
Arthur held his hand in place. A simple yet impossible act.
Two people who were never supposed to meet, met.
A boy met a girl.
A girl met a boy.
And that was all.
Somehow, despite all the forces seeking to undo that meeting, they grew closer and closer. Superficial crushes gained inordinate depth. The lake seemed small on the surface, yet below was as vast as the ocean.
"You're talkin' about him like he's your soul mate. Wizard or not, he's still just a man, yeah?"
Medraut's disbelieving words suffocated everything she wished to say. She could not interrupt this. It both was and was not her moment.
Saber's... Shirou's sad smile said a million things at once. His thumb stroked Arthur's cheek.
"We bickered constantly, all the way to the end. When we finally saw eye to eye and learned what we'd gained, the war ended. You destroyed the Grail because you wanted to. I was so proud of you. I am proud of you. I'm proud I fell in love with you. And I'm prouder still that in your lives, you came to those same conclusions all on your own. You didn't need me to return Avalon, project Caliburn or fight off Gilgamesh. You didn't need me to hound you about your past or confront you on your beliefs."
That smile widened. Big and warm, with so much happiness, so much genuine honor and appreciation for another human being.
"That's why I can't impose myself on you. You don't need me."
Though he looked at Arthur, his words were meant for all three. For his Saber, for his Alter, for his Master.
Not out of any desire to protect himself. Not out of any longing for a companionship he had never lost in the first place. Simply, it was because—
"I respect you too much to do that, Artoria."
...
Even so...
"It is not need! It is want, Shirou!"
...Arthur would not let go of his hand.
"I... I am a selfish, petty girl. I can bear the pain of failing as the king, but never could I accept failing as your Saber. I received more fulfillment in my time at your side than all the years I reigned as king or fought with Chaldea. That is more important to me! So... so...!"
And she squeezed her eyes shut, and wound her fingers tight around his wrist.
"P-Please impose on me, Shirou! Please disrespect me!"
...
A long silence followed. She trembled against his hand, not knowing how he would respond, until, at last...
"Saber."
Arthur's... Saber's eyes opened, just in time to see his free hand lift out of the water. He cupped her chin, tilted her head up.
"...!"
Their lips parted. Stunned stiff, Saber at last released Shirou's hand. He turned to Artoria next.
"Want one?"
Who knew two words could have such an effect on her heart. Her jaw dropped. Was he jesting? He had been so adamant before, so why...?
"But what about your Saber?!"
He walked through the water, shrugging.
"You're all the same girl. I'll keep a tally."
In the background, Saber remained rooted to her spot. She touched her fingers to her lips, dazed. Hmph. Thirty some-odd years without once kissing a boy, to say nothing of however long she'd spent as a Servant. But it would be hypocritical of her to pass judgment; none in Camelot tickled her fancy.
"A tally?"
"One for you and Alter, one for Saber, one for... ah... Saber. If this continues, it just means I'll have to kiss her multiple times once I get there. It's a better solution than torturing ourselves, right?"
How could one man be both shameless and heartwarming at the same time?! N-Nay, nay! Breathe, Artoria! She was finally receiving a victory!
Alter likewise jumped at the opportunity; her skin paled with the slightest bit of concentration. Shoulders squared and fists clenched at her sides, she closed her golden eyes, tilted her head back and puckered up.
"R-R-Ready, S-Saber!"
...
His chuckling only deepened her blush. How dare he! She was trying!
"W-What?!"
"There's no need to be so tense. Relax, Artoria."
Opening her eyes proved to be the wrong decision, for he was close. Far too close. She counted similar occasions on one hand - but this time, he wore a swimsuit and nothing else. To her absolute horror, she found her gaze trailing from his neck, to his shoulders and then his chest.
He told her to relax. She did the exact opposite.
"U-Um... um... ah..."
"Here, I'll guide you. Close your eyes."
She tried again.
"Now lean your head back... there, that's good. Tilt to your right, angle your face a bit."
Her heart was failing. Had she leaned too much? How did she look? What was she supposed to do with her hands? What if she smelled?! Did she have bad breath?! What if—
"Mph—!"
The pressure against Artoria's lips deepened, then faded, then tingled. His breath tickled her cheeks.
She blinked, she processed. The stories she loved described it as a bolt of lightning from head to toe, or a spark that set the soul ablaze. But this was neither. It was... comforting. Comforting and warm, with a one-sided awkwardness that highlighted the gap between the party with experience and the party without.
She cared less about the kiss itself, and more about the man doing the kissing.
Shirou kissed her. On the lips. Her first time.
Steam billowed from her ears, and it came not from the waters.
"Th-Thank you v-v-very m-much, S-Saber!"
He pulled her into a hug, laughing, perhaps in an effort to hide his own blush. She felt faint.
"You're cute, you know that?"
Ever the multitasker, he both teased and complimented her in one fell swoop. Her poor heart lurched in her throat. Then he pulled away and released her, turning around with a bright grin.
"We've been here long enough. Let's get going, alright?"
But something deep inside, something long missing, compelled her to move. Her arms wrapped around his stomach to hold him in place. He froze. She pushed her forehead against his back.
"Shirou."
Fate/ess
"Thank you... for trusting me.
I am sorry for burdening you so much.
But I want to help you, so...
So please do not leave me behind."
Blue Grass - 2
"...I should be thanking you, Artoria.
You've helped us all more than you know.
And... I'd like you to meet her, as well.
If you're okay with that."
THE PROMISE
"I... I would like that very much."
Needless to say, the spawn was not in Camelot.
"Ah... my life is forfeit..."
Lancelot scoffed. "Must you be so dramatic? 'Tis not the end of the world."
"You do not know that!"
They could do only so much without drawing attention to themselves. And while the town's denizens looked lively enough, it didn't take a spymaster to see the lingering strength in their eyes, or the way simple peasants would stop and surveil the two newcomers whenever they thought they weren't looking.
Uther's heir lived here - and the city considered him its own.
Enemy territory.
"We shan't get anywhere like this," Lancelot advised. "Knowing the state of things is enough, is it not?"
Gawain grunted in between bites of his bread. The two huddled in the back of the local tavern, their cloaked, shadow forms not at all suspicious, no sir. Agravain wouldn't have a nervous breakdown seeing their sorry attempts at concealing themselves, no sir.
Their current assignment was, perhaps, a mismatch for their skillsets.
"That guard, the one in the marketplace," Gawain noted. "Did you note his breastplate?"
"Aye. Of fine make, that. I must admit I did not recognize the design. The Imperials did not angle their armor in such a way, correct?"
"Nay, they did not. 'Tis curious. That metalwork caught my fancy, as well. I wonder if—"
The opening door silenced Gawain's pondering. Two men walked in, both wearing the unusual chest pieces. Right away Lancelot deduced one to be a foreigner - his skin was much too dark for someone native to the isle or the mainland. He leaned his elbows on the table, humming.
"A Saracen? Here?"
Gawain frowned, but said nothing. Their gaits were that of soldiers, well-trained and used to armor. No spare movements, no idle posturing. A dozen swift steps took the two to the tavern's barkeep, who nodded in obvious recognition and respect. They descended into hushed conversation.
"A Saracen in charge, for that matter," muttered Gawain. "I fear we've overstayed our welcome."
"You know of him?"
"Nay, not personally, but some of the veterans in the camp told stories. He is the sergeant of the city guard, so they believed. Good with a sword."
Sure enough, the barkeep tilted his head in their direction. The Saracen nodded his thanks, pursed his lips, and loosed a short, shrill whistle. The various tavern goers paused in their activities and promptly vacated the building.
Lancelot rested his hand on his sword's hilt. He and Gawain exchanged a silent, knowing glance. They'd been had; no use blending in with the crowd when the guard already suspected their place of origin.
Once the last person had left, the barkeeper locked the door. He passed the key to the Saracen, then retreated upstairs himself. The two men approached their table.
Lancelot blinked; the second man, the Saracen's partner, seemed familiar. A broad scar lined his forehead - one the mercenary had seen before, albeit briefly. He needed to be certain, but if true...
"May we sit here?" the guard sergeant asked.
Gawain gave a cocky smirk in return.
"Since when do guards request permission in their own city?"
"When they wish to be polite. I am Palamedes, sergeant of the guard. This is Bors, my second."
They took a seat at the table opposite theirs. Lancelot's mind raced. He knew it! He had their out! Blast, of all the times for a family reunion! If Lionel was in Camelot as well, perhaps—
"Gwalchmei," came Gawain's smooth reply.
He needed to think fast. Something obscure. Something only his cousins would know, yet vague enough to... aha!
"Galahad."
Bors' thick brow dipped low. His scowl turned up into his beard; hawkish eyes searched Lancelot's features, suspicious.
"Lower yer hoods, travelers," he requested. "No need to hide th' hair in these parts. We ain't the Cornish, not gonna lynch ya."
Sighing, they did as asked. Bors took one look at his hair, then leveled him with a disappointed stare strong enough to boil a deer.
"The hell're you doin', Lancelot?"
"Hello to you too."
"Answer the question 'fore I gut ya, tadpole."
"A moment, please," Gawain blurted. "You two know each other?"
Bors rolled his eyes. "Course I know 'im. He's my cousin."
Palamedes scratched his cheek. "So he is Ban's son, then?"
"Aye."
Lancelot raised his hands.
"In my defense, I did not know where you and your brother had been taken. The Lady told me you had escaped King Claudas. Had I known she'd sent you to Camelot, I..."
He paused.
"...Lionel is here, aye?"
Bors rolled his eyes. He twisted his head to the door.
"LIONEL!"
A muffled shout bled through the wood.
"Aye?!"
"Lancelot says hello!"
"'Ello, Lance!"
Lancelot palmed his face, very cognizant of Gawain's betrayed glare.
"Hoh? Leaving me out like a tunic in the rain, art thou? Fine! Have me imprisoned! Threaten me with execution! My family shall pay any ransom! I guarantee it!"
"They shan't," Lancelot drawled.
"Thy words are vicious, mercenary!"
Palamedes cleared his throat, not at all phased by the melodrama. He'd dealt with it in spades himself, it seemed.
"Many here would jump with joy at the opportunity, traveler, and 'twas our original plan, I admit. However..."
Gawain crossed his arms. "However?"
"I recognized cousin dearest as he stumbled 'round the city like a drunken fool. We're willin' to strike a deal with ye," Bors explained. "'Tis the only reason I've yet to make Lancelot here a eunuch... ah, no. I can't say that. There might be more reasons. Maybe. Tch."
His odd rambling gave them pause. Palamedes scowled, his expression a mix of frustration and tempered worry. He turned to Gawain.
"Before we continue, I must know if Gwalchmei is your real name. I care not if you're a Cornish spy, as we suspect. Not right now."
Now they were just perplexed. Lancelot and Gawain shared an odd look.
"...Sir Gawain," he answered at last.
Bors leaped out of his seat, growling, and charged back to the entrance. A flurry of expletives tore from his lips.
"Blasted Saber! Drops a godforsaken thrice-shat half-baked necrotic whore of a prophecy and then leaves! He best pray at night! Kay! KAY!"
He fumbled with the door. It was locked.
"Pala—!"
"Calm thyself man, gods above. Here."
He tossed the key over. Bors fumbled the catch for a moment, still swearing, then unlocked the deadbolts and stuck his head beyond the frame.
"Lionel! Where's the lordling?!"
A hand shoved him back inside. It belonged to a clean shaven third man of similar age, with shaggy brown hair and a thick, vertical scar over his right eye. It paired well with the bags under his eyes; he hadn't slept in days, from the look of things.
"Who's the other one?"
Bors slammed the door shut. "Lancelot and Gawain."
The man they assumed to be Kay consulted a piece of parchment in his hands. Then his shoulders slumped, and he approached their table.
—And he slammed both the parchment and his palm onto the wood.
"I am Sir Kay, son of Sir Ector, and if I had my way, your heads would be on fucking pikes. Neither of you pissants will ever understand how much I want to disembowel you. You are only alive right now because you—"
He leveled a murderous finger at Lancelot.
"—are the cousin of some dear friends. You are lucky Bors recognized you. I am sparing your inconsequential lives for his sake, and Lionel's sake, not yours. Do you understand?"
...
"Do you understand?"
"...We understand," Gawain acknowledged.
The acidic rage seeping from Kay's person did not match a ruling noble's concern for peasantry and land. Their actions - Cornwall's actions - had in some way affected the man on a personal level. Perhaps he held a friendship with the heir, perhaps—
"I think you do not," Kay snarled. "Because you are after my little sister."
...
...
What?
Gawain sucked in a breath. "The spawn is a—?!"
Faster than anyone could blink, Kay had his sword under Gawain's chin.
"Say the word again."
Gawain raised his hands in surrender. A bead of sweat dripped down his cheek.
"I... I understand! I do! I have a little sister, also! Her name is Gareth! I understand your fury!"
That did not come as a surprise to Lancelot; neither Gareth's face nor voice matched a man's. Kay withdrew his blade, and Gawain rubbed at his throat. Palamedes grinned, though it was by no means friendly.
"You're lucky Kay is the merciful type. Had her Servant heard that, I daresay your head would be a stain upon the wall."
They stiffened at the abomination's mention. Lancelot caught himself too late - they'd seen the reaction, and Palamedes' grin thinned.
"So you've met him, aye? Come to see how the enemy's faring whilst you lick thy wounds?"
"And what of it?" Gawain retorted. "Her gender does not change the fact that she is the heir! What we think matters not, Duke Gorlois shan't care! Man or woman, he wants her dead!"
"She is not the heir!"
A claim of that magnitude required an explanation, so Kay collected his wits and powered on.
"She may be my adoptive sister, but by blood she is the twin of the true heir, who is a man. Our city is bait. She is bait! That witch, Uther's mage - she used us as a decoy whilst protecting the one chosen by that accursed sword. My sister wishes nothing more than to be free of her name and thine antagonism, so she and Saber have devised a plan to retrieve him and give him to you."
Revelation after revelation. Lancelot fought off his headache. Gawain, meanwhile, picked his jaw up off the floor long enough to lean forward in his seat.
"How do we know you are telling the truth? Where is the proof of this claim?"
"The proof is Saber's word, and this list of names he left us. Do you know any of these people?"
Kay slid the parchment across the table. Lancelot leaned over to peruse it with Gawain. A list of names, twelve in number, a few of which he recognized, if only because he had just met them in this very conversation: Kay and Palamedes, Gawain and his siblings, in addition to himself.
Gawain bit back a curse. "Agravain, Gaheris, and Gareth are my siblings. I know of Tristan as well, though I have not seen him since that infernal business with his uncle concluded years ago."
He returned the page. Kay's mood hadn't lifted in the slightest, and he turned to Lancelot.
"Do you know of these two? Percival or Mordred?"
"Nay," he responded. "What is this about? How does the Servant know our names? Why are we listed together if our sides are at war?"
...
Bors put the tavern's key on the counter, huffing. "Just show 'em, Kay. We'll never get to the bottom of this nonsense elsewise."
"...Aye, you've the right of it. Come, both of you. There is something you must see."
They stood to follow, but not without hesitation.
"You do not have qualms with us seeing your city unbound?" Gawain asked dubiously.
Kay just scoffed. "You've seen most of it already, but ask again and we might reconsider. Consider it an act of good will."
The group exited the building. Civilians regarded them with frosty glances, somewhat eased by the notable escort. Much trust was placed in the city's guard, Lancelot thought, perhaps due to the soldiers being fellow citizens and neighbors. A single city focused exclusively on its own survival had no need to send its guard or militia far beyond the walls into foreign conflict. At most they would patrol the surrounding lands, or secure the trade routes to the city's outskirts. It allowed the guard to build a rapport of trust; seeing the same faces everyday paired well with credibility and mutual respect.
Palamedes patted Lionel on the shoulder. The young man had dutifully guarded the door for the exchange's duration.
"Any trouble, lad?"
"Nay, Sergeant. They're thankful it's been handled, mostly."
"Good. Hold here until the keeper's ready. Once he resumes you're free for the night. Thank you as always, Lionel."
"'Course. Don't let Bors cause too much trouble, aye?"
"We shall try, but no promises."
Bors rolled his eyes. "Buncha arses."
Lionel gave Lancelot a grin and nod as they departed. He made a mental note to buy his cousins a pair of ales. Family stuck together, even if politics and business sometimes threw an axe betwixt.
Even so, the conversation between sergeant and soldier was far more personable than the ones he'd seen in Cornwall's armies. That wasn't to say the latter was cruel or devious; 'twas a simple fact of life. Cornwall was a kingdom, with quite a few cities and castle-towns scattered within its territories. By necessity vassals would be called to the Duke's service, whether it be to fight off the ever-present barbarians encroaching from the southeastern shorelines, or to scour a town for Uther's heir.
The Cornish men simply did not know each other as well, and throwing in mercenaries and sellswords like himself did not help things. And 'twas foolish for the civilians to grow amicable with their guards when war could steal the latter from the former in a heartbeat. History had a tendency to repeat; the trope of quantity versus quality was no exception. The Servant's introduction likewise skewed Camelot devilishly towards quality above all else.
Speaking of quality...
"We must find some way to call off Emiya, Gawain. Or pass along the message, at the very least."
Gawain's brow tightened at the mercenary's mention.
"We know not where he is. Without a location we cannot send a bird nor runner. He's a smart one, however. Perhaps his connections with the Servant will help reconcile things on their end."
"A man of yours?" Palamedes asked.
"Aye," Gawain replied. "A mercenary in the employ of my brother, Agravain. He knew the man before he became the girl's Servant, or so he claimed. We could not hear the conversation they held, but it appeared amicable enough. He wished to seek a nonviolent resolution..."
He trailed off, as if questioning whether he should speak his next words.
"Forgive my impudence, but this Saber - is he... living? What is the... nature... of their..."
He waved his hand through the air in a superficial manner, unsure of how to phrase the question. Kay sighed.
"No one here knows whether he is truly living or dead, but if your question is about his freedom, know that his mind is his. He operates under his own power and protects my sister because he chooses to do so."
"I see. Thank you."
The Cornish man kept his eyes forward, careful to not let them wander. Lancelot smiled in spite of himself. Despite his brashness and penchant for the dramatic, Gawain at his core was an honorable, decent man, a noble in both noun and adjective. He probably felt a great deal of relief at the prospect, however slim, of ending the heinous blood feud consuming his adult life.
Palamedes led them around another corner and past the barracks, beyond the town proper. The walls blocked the forested horizon. The smell of charcoal filled the air.
A smithy.
"We are here."
Three more awaited their arrival outside the building: a sleepy man with crimson, shoulder-length hair; a fellow with a single arm and ashen braids; and a shorter, tomboyish woman sporting a high, golden ponytail. The girl cocked an eyebrow at their approach and wiped a charcoal smudge on her cheek with her sleeve, but the attempt only made it worse.
"'bout damn time! Idiot number two over here was startin' to snore."
She gave them both a once over, unimpressed, but approached nevertheless.
"So Bors was right, eh?"
Kay gestured to them in turn. "Lancelot and Sir Gawain."
She skewered Lancelot with a stink eye, then shuffled over to Gawain.
"Name's Medraut. Nice to meetcha."
"'Tis a pleas—agh!"
Her shin impacted full force with his groin. The poor man dropped to his knees in agony; Medraut grabbed his hair and wrenched his head up, so their eyes could meet.
"You fuck with Artoria any more 'n I'll find yer sleeping quarters 'n castrate ya with a hammer."
"U-Un...der...stood...!"
She patted his cheek like one would wake a dozing child.
"Glad we're in agreement! On yer feet, wimp."
On second thought, he would buy Bors and Lionel five ales apiece. He helped the poor man to his feet and supported his weight while they followed the group to the back of the smithy. The man with red hair took up his other side.
"Gawain."
"T-Tristan. S-Sorry... about—ngh!—King Mark..."
"The fault lies with your grandfather, not you. These feuds are pointless and trifling, aye? Let sleeping dogs lie."
"A-Aye..."
The group entered a small field around the building's back, reserved for the testing of armor and weapons. Lancelot found its disarray a welcome, familiar sight; all smithies equipped for war and general use had something similar. Adaptation and innovation separated the survivors from the slaughtered - especially in an age without Imperial law - and judging from the controlled chaos, this forge was livelier than most.
"I am... better now, I believe, thank you. Whew..."
He and Tristan released Gawain, who wobbled and groaned before steadying himself. That Medraut girl wielded a dangerous kick and a temper to match, and Lancelot made a note to keep a sword's length between them should they ever meet again in the future. He'd like children one day.
Kay looked back to the building, to its outside wall. He addressed the one-armed man.
"Any change, Bedivere?"
The fellow's eye twitched. "Why do you persist in asking that question despite knowing the answer?"
"'Tis better to be safe with witchcraft."
Witchcraft?
He and Gawain turned with the group. Against the wall stood a suit of stark white armor lined with golden trim. Twin crosses stylized the corners of its visor, a blue plume topped the helmet. Altogether an oddity, and far too advanced for any smith, Imperials included.
"I realize the dubiousness of this question," Kay began. "But do either of you recognize this? Does it make you falter? Endow you with an insufferable headache, perhaps?"
The longer Gawain stared, the fouler his mood became.
"It gives me the sudden urge to punch a wall, though I know not why. What is this?"
"N-No, I have no right to see her..."
"An image left by Saber," Medraut drawled. "And I seriously wish he hadn't. Thing's creepy. Ain't real, though. Here, watch."
Medraut stepped closer and swept her hand through its waist. It passed right through without affect, like an illusion, a hallucination.
"Arrrrthurrrrrr...!"
What...?
"Feels like someone took a pickaxe to my noggin," Bors complained. "Neither o' ye recognize it, aye? Aye? Are we done here? I need an ale."
Gawain nudged him in the side. "Lancelot, what say you? You're awfully pale."
"You... were..."
"I... I-I..."
"Lancelot?"
It had his stature.
It matched his build.
It matched his height.
"...the greatest..."
He took a step forward...
And the suit did so, too.
The others recoiled, terrified.
"O-Oi! What in the—!"
"L-Lancelot?!"
"...amongst the kings..."
"I... know not where... but..."
His heart hammered.
His head throbbed.
Lancelot extended his hand.
And the suit did so, too.
"All... who... served you..."
Their palms touched.
Ethereal met physical.
"I... believe I have... seen this before..."
The Knight of the Lake began to remember.
"...believed... thus..."
And the suit did so, too.
Confusion Corner
and so it begins
Remember: a Noble Phantasm is the crystallization of a hero's legend, and Shirou can project more than just swords. Chronology is out of whack, Fateless is a temporal paradox. We're going to see things that make little sense - like, for example, some knights learning of their legends before they happen.
Family matters
It's hopefully common knowledge that Lancelot was raised by the Lady of the Lake - Lancelot du Lac literally means "Lancelot of the Lake", after all. Less common knowledge, however, is why she raised him in the first place. Lancelot is actually royalty; he's the crown prince of the kingdom of Benwick (located in France), which was razed to the ground by Claudas of the Berry. Lancelot's father, King Ban, died during that conflict, as did Ban's brother Bors the Elder. Bors the Elder's sons, Lionel and Bors the Lesser (aka the Round Table Bors, the Bors in Fateless), are therefore Lancelot's cousins. In the Vulgate Cycle, Bors and Lionel escape their captivity in Claudas' castle and are also subsequently spirited away to the Lady's lake, where they become Lancelot's junior companions.
The key difference in Fateless is: instead of going to the Lady's lake, Bors and Lionel are instead immediately smuggled into Britain, where they soon join Fateless!Camelot, and Lancelot enters the island after them. Which makes the jolly ol' family reunion in this chapter...
"...Lionel is here, aye?"
Bors rolled his eyes. He twisted his head to the door.
"LIONEL!"
A muffled shout bled through the wood.
"Aye?!"
"Lancelot says hello!"
"'Ello, Lance!"
Lancelot palmed his face, very cognizant of Gawain's betrayed glare.
...peak Arthurian comedy.