Fateless

by olcon

He saved Sakura, he married Rin, he's yet to find his Saber... and then, amid a cataclysmic war between the planet and the moon, Shirou is summoned to an Artoria he has never met. She's not the one he seeks. She says she'll help him look. A fusion of FSN's three routes into a Nasuverse grand finale. One more deployment; one final journey; one last episode.

29. Return - 4

"Haa… haa…!"

"Keep going!"

"Damn it, where is that prick?! Those Second Seaters are always late!"

"Shut up and keep running!"

.̸̠̚,̸̬͑.̴̺̊,̶̭̽/̶̥̏;̷̡͑/̴̘͒;̶̺͋/̶̢̈́;̴͎͂-̶̜͋,̸̼̄:̸̜̀.̶͓͋-̸̖͛'̵̹̈́/̵̡̋;̷͇̾,̴͍̀,̸̩͛,̸͓̋-̸̛͈.̴̺͝-̸̰̑;̷̟̓:̵̙̀-̸̘̉/̸̤̌;̸̼̌/̴̠̀:̶̟̑-̶̪̑,̷̛̳/̷̙̕.̴̰̾.̶͍͂;̸̙̐-̵͚̏,̴̻̚:̴̥̎,̵̺̋:̶͙͒,̸̙͛-̴̩͐:̶̨͌-̵̞͛;̶̣́:̶͍́:̷̻̉,̵̺̎/̶͐͜-̶̜̒;̵͔̊

His throat was dry. So terribly dry. The poison came to kill them, the poison let them live. Irony described their world, and all Getlam could do was keep running and pray to their messiah for his family's survival. Someone waved to him from across the charred wastes, but he was momentarily distracted when a weak fist pounded his armored back.

"Put… me… d-down…"

"Shut up, kid!" he roared. "Eneu! Eneu, where're the transports!"

He struggled to hear the reply over the wind's roar.

"One minute!"

"We'll be stars ourselves in one minute!" Gilfaeth hollered.

Something dislodged from the ruins, taken by the gale. Up into the sky it soared - an old, battered vehicle, one of the wheeled non-Grain variants used by old humanity. Enhanced mind racing, Getlam determined from its velocity and angle that it would land… well, directly on top of him. Just his luck, of course. He'd be fine, he could take it, but the Last Seed wouldn't fair so well. Nor could he reposition without killing the man either; under normal circumstances, just a simple sidestep had the potential to shatter the fellow's back in five places, but now? When he was wounded? He didn't know enough about old human biology. Not a risk worth taking.

"Hrrn—!"

But the knights were never alone, and Bedrawd, Six of Eight, caught it with little fanfare. The Angel's Notes repeated the lesson often: when you act, do so with allies. A man was weak, but men were strong.

"Eyes up, brats," the old warrior chastised. "His light shines yet. Act befitting of your Seat. We are in his presence."

He spun on his heel and threw it back into the approaching storm, and with the obstacle removal, the others saw what he meant.

There it twinkled.

The star shone in the evening sky, brighter than all the rest, through the storm's haze and howl. It had remained visible since the invasion's beginning; the Aristoteles destroyed their world and their efforts to outlast the poison, but they did not destroy that shimmering light. Not even the almighty Jupiter, annihilator of an entire continent, could hide it from their gaze.

All they had. All they needed.

Getlam took a breath. Cool focus washed him of his doubts and fear.

"—Ah. He's with us."

The High Spark.

"Indeed he is, Bedwyr!"

Screaming engines announced the arrival of the VTOL transports and the reinforcements they carried. Ginus Lon, One of Two, jumped from its hold with humored grace befitting one of the Grail Knight's chosen. Getlam stared him down as he approached, hidden though his glare was by the helmet encapsulating his head.

"—Peredur."

He cocked his helmet. "Hm?"

Getlam prodded the man's breastplate with an armored finger.

"Would Sir Percival approve of your insufferable tardiness? Are you a Liner or a Sloth-type?"

Ginus cleared his throat, and Getlam braced for one of the man's well-practiced excuses.

"The cavalry, dear Bedwyr," the idiot began, "arrives precisely when it is needed!"

…

"Sir Percival was a Lancer, you buffoon, not a Rider."

"They used lances on horseback!"

"Spears, Peredur! Spears!"

"My Knight Arm is a lance!"

"Spark's grace, it's a damn spe—"

;̴̱̚.̴̭̌:̸̛̮;̶̨̎.̵̦̊,̸̗̀:̶͕̏;̸͚̐/̶̦̀;̶̩̐-̶̹̔,̴̡̔.̵̤̚;̵̯̊.̴̧̀;̵̼́,̴̙̔-̸̦͛,̸̲̑.̸̪͋,̸̛̠;̴͙̐.̴̰̌:̸̲̉/̵̞́;̵̧͝.̴̥̉,̸͈̏.̵̤̈́,̵̠̌-̶̮̀;̷̜͋:̸̼̍.̴̰̄.̶̙̄,̷͕̈́-̴͕͝;̶̧͋,̴͙̓:̵̖̾.̶͕͝.̵̘̓;̷̧͂

"F-Fuckin'… freaks…! P-Put… me…"

The wounded man slung across Getlam's shoulder summarized the situation - and the knights themselves - with crude eloquence. Ether Liners, Liners, old humans: different names for different things. A Liner, in the end, was simply a human evolved to survive in the Grain. True humanity, the Last Seeds, needed drugs and specialized equipment to withstand the poison. The air was toxic. The 'food' was far too nutritious and energy efficient. But despite their acclimation, the Liners were still 'human'; two eyes, a nose and a mouth, and ultimately just bags of meat and bone. Powerless.

By those standards, the Ether Liners were not human.

If a Liner child demonstrated that potential, that ability to shape the Grain outside their bodies, as Sir Mordred did so long ago, they were inducted into a Seat, where over many years they were trained and reforged into weapons. Ether Liners were freaks, and the strange belonged with the strange, but they were also a two millennia-old organization culturally ingrained in society. Far more than just the six knights representing an original forebear at the Round Table, Seats were more akin to houses or clans. The support structures ran deep, permeated every level of Liner society. The Round Table outlasted calamity after calamity. The Round Table predated the Grain. The Round Table was of the old world, the true Earth taken from them by that thing called the Spider.

The Round Table was necessary.
The Round Table was immortal.
The Round Table was humanity.

Just like the godsent angel, the Guardian who descended from the heavens.

Just like Saber.

"Who is that, by the way?" Ginus Lon asked. "And why do you carry him like a sack of Grain?"

"A Last Seed, I believe," came Getlam's reply.

"What, truly? I've never seen one before!"

"Shut… up…" the man hissed.

;̵̨̙́͗/̷̩̉͒.̴̖̝̆̕,̶̢̻̼́͘.̸͇̘̺͆͛̾,̷̭̓͗͠-̸̡͚̲̋;̷̖̼̀̉/̸͎̂:̴͕͚̪̈́̍/̸̟̍́͆,̴̯̮̭̏̆̋.̴͙̇̒͑;̶̫̝͒̂̕-̵̖͘,̴͚̝̉̈́͜.̶̭͙̰̐.̴̢̖͕̂,̸̢͔̩̍̅͝-̶̘̌;̷̰͠-̴̧͍̀̏͝;̵̗̝͐/̶̡̡̜̆̉,̵̗͂̈́/̸̲̞̈́,̸̜̹̃-̸̹̀,̷̳́͐͜-̵̜͖͛͆;̵̡̼̟͂̇͝.̴̮̂̿,̸̤̰̊/̷̮͐̓̾ͅ,̸̩͎̲̄͝͝-̷͕͇̯͛:̴̳̃̎̊-̴̪͉̺̂͋.̴͎͉̈́̎,̵͇̎̇/̷̝̺͆;̷̋͜-̷̫̦͑͋̾:̷̩͓̜̎͑̓.̸̹͇̩̆,̵͓̇̍̉-̵̥̓;̶͎̿́/̸̢͍̒̚.̶̞͐,̶̞̘̿͑̈.̶͓̇̿̏,̵͔̀_̴̩͋͆̈~̷̯̌̊́;̸̧̰̱͐̚;̸̠̋̆-̸̮͍͇͘:̷̧̆,̶̹̱̾,̷̮͇̌ͅ-̶̱͒̋̾͜:̴̜̆̌̇,̴̻̻͆̕/̴̮̥̦͋̚͝;̶̰̈

Around them roared the storm's wind, and to both of the knights' surprise, they found their stability lessening and their bodies pushed back. Dusty earth further atomized. Fresh ruins shredded beneath the howling gale. Red-tinged evening skies fell behind an ominous, alien darkness; it encroached on the horizon like the slithering tendrils of a long-extinct squid, twisting with a heavenly power that promised the end of all things. In the middle of it all rumbled a titan of eld, unfathomably tall, built like a disfigured, misshapen, featureless humanoid. An unsightly glow sat within the shadow of its chest, much like the sun but altogether browner and more rotten.

A foreign emotion broiled inside Getlam's gut, one that wracked him with untold discomfort. He'd never felt it before. He didn't like it. It made him feel weak.

Like he was about to die.

"—We should go," he grunted.

"Agreed," replied Ginus. "The transports are ready, let's—"

"Getlam! Ginus!"

The panicked shout came from Getlam's second, Gilfaeth, who ran up to them in a frenzy. He pointed off in the behemoth's direction, towards a man growing evermore distant, his ashen armor easily missed in the chaos of the Black.

"I-It's Edem!" the man barked. "He plans to challenge the monstrosity! He has the relic!"

Ginus recoiled like a man struck. "Wh—of all the times! That thing is not an A-Ray! His blasphemy will get him killed!"

The true terror of the situation finally dawned on them. Ether Liners weren't used to being powerless. Living weapons, all of them, each with strength surpassing a country's nuclear arsenal. They were used to fighting A-Rays thirty to one, and they first went into conflict with the Aristoteles thinking it'd be more of the same.

It was not more of the same.

"…The Heir is going to die," whispered Ginus, horrified.

Getlam practically threw the wounded Last Seed to Sir Percival's successor. His throat tightened with urgency and adrenaline.

"Peredur, take him and go. Gilfaeth, gather the others and go with him."

Gilfaeth stomped forward, fists balled. "No! Bedwyr, you know the teachings! We cannot—"

"I can outrun the transports!" he interrupted. "It is my duty as the Marshall's successor to stand beside the First Seat and see him home! Humanity must survive, and for all we know, right now that Last Seed is humanity!"

…

"—He's right," Ginus agreed. "Gather your people, Two of Eight. Our duty must be done. We have no time."

Gilfaeth clearly objected, but he moved to comply after sparing Getlam another solemn glance. Ginus followed, but paused a few steps later. He turned back to Bedivere's inheritor.

"I expect you at the castle mid-morning, Bedwyr. With the idiot in tow and his ancestor's light at your backs."

Getlam turned into the storm. "My Seat survives the impossible, and this will be no different!"

And he followed after Ado Edem, the winds roaring against his helmet.

Superhuman physiology paired well with desensitization and religious indoctrination. Ether Liners were individual microcosms of that particular Counter Guardian's extremes, both good and bad: selfless; fearless; prone to acts of manic heroism; nonplussed and aloof, and genuinely obsessed with their duty. Each Ether Liner interpreted the story of Saber's sacrifice a bit differently. Such views usually stemmed from their parent Seats and the cultures within. Loyalist Seats, hailing from the original knights who stood alongside Sir Mordred's rebellion, were more outward-facing and adept at maneuvering the politics of the day-to-day. The average Liner took well to personable men like Getlam and Ginus, heroes of humanity and stalwart guardians of remnant civilization.

But traitor Seats, they who fought with King Arthur? Knights like Tine Galat and Dight Aron kept to themselves. They took to their duties with frenzied, fanatic passion, for it was in the haze of service that they could demonstrate their Seats' loyalties to the cause. The names 'Gawain' and 'Lancelot' were used as slanderous curses, or not at all.

But none of their many personalities and histories and viewpoints compared a single bit to the exception at the fable's heart. Many factors governed which Seat an inductee joined: personal compatibility; the Seat's central location relative to the Liner's home; simple size and availability of openings; et cetera.

Of the thirteen Seats, twelve could be entered.
One was forever closed. One was… 'pure'.

"What are you doing, Culh—"

"I told you not to call me that anymore, Bedwyr."

Theirs was less a tribe and more a dying family, with barely enough bodies to field six knights. Replacements were few and far between. And yet, of all the Seats, the burden of the First was the heaviest. The man before Getlam now had been promoted to his station during the Great War's chaos years ago, but he'd not fought once. His reputation was poor, his Knight Arm unknown. Many secretly thought he was unworthy of the armor he wore. They called him a blasphemer, and that was before he started using a sacred name codified in the Angel's Notes, to say nothing of the A-Ray he took for a wife.

"You need to watch yourself, Ado," Getlam stressed. "You're doing your family a disservice."

The wind whipped and Jupiter's storm raged. Ado Edem, hunkered in place, continued to unwrap the holy scabbard - the sacred relic even he was forbidden from touching.

"I'm doing what needs to be done," he answered. "We're under his light. Avalon will respond appropriately."

Getlam couldn't believe his ears.

"Neither you nor I are worthy enough to speak that name, let alone touch it! You're defiling a damn relic! Exposing it to the poison! It's one thing if just I or the Eighth saw you! We can protect you! But you're pulling this in front of Peredur, you dumbass, and you know how he worries about you! If you don't think the first thing he'll do is tell that bitch Esyllt, or Spark forbid, Cai…!"

Whatever he was attempting apparently required two hands, because Edem wrapped Saber's red fabric tight around his neck. It billowed into the wind like a scarf, the only bit of color left in their decrepit world. He stood from his crouch with both hands on the scabbard, his helmet swiveling between the approaching monstrosity and the star so very high above.

"I'm not exposing it to the Grain," he corrected. "I'm exposing the Grain to Avalon."

He brought it to his hip. His knees bent, the fingers of his right gauntlet curled about an imaginary hilt.

"Trace: on."

The sudden expulsion of Grain combined with the Jovian superstorm to send Getlam tumbling. His feet went over his helmet and his vision blurred, until at last his right hand - his Knight Arm - managed to catch a ruined steel beam embedded in the wastes. Getlam took a moment to regain his breath, but when he lifted his head to check on Ado, it simply left him again.

Within the cathedral at the heart of the Witch Swift Umbrella, the castle built from the Spider's corpse, there were a series of murals depicting the rise and fall of the High Spark. Most famous among them was the painting known as the 'Sparks Liner High': the moment in which their messiah waded into the English Channel to face the Spider in single combat. It was an undertaking less than a minute in length, broken down into three 'acts' of salvation:

The Sparks the sword exhumed as it was drawn from its scabbard.
The Lining of the ether blade with all of his magical energy.
The euphoric High the onlookers experienced as he ended the apocalyptic threat.

It was a glory never regained, the pinnacle of human triumph. A mere mortal struggled to control a weapon he had neither the strength nor authority to wield, and, in defense of his people, used it to slay a god. The Ether Liners chased that moment. They sought it. Those scant seconds represented the very concept of survival: Saber saved those people, and their descendants wanted that for themselves. They wanted to feel that, too.

It was not the emotion Getlam felt now. Just yesterday was he so self-assured and confident in his ways - if he was there, he knew, he'd venerate Saber, as well. He'd feel saved, just as he wished to save others. But all he felt in this sacred moment was fear and dread for his friend, because he and Ado grew up together… and the High Spark had died alone.

It was a moment frozen in time. A repeat of history.

A young man, clad in the same ashen armor, struggled to control a sword he had no damn right to swing.

"Don't do it!" Getlam screamed. "You'll leave her behind! You'll leave Olwen behind!"

And the wind howled.
And that young man couldn't quite rise to his feet.
And the apocalypse loomed over him.
And his malformed godsent sword ripped and tore at the ground.

The holy relic burned yellow at his waist.
Ado Edem braced himself against the broiling dirt, and hollered aloud his rebuttal.

"Her name… is Irisviel!"

He began to stand.
Higher and higher his sword extended.
As though it would pierce his ancestor's watchful star.

Getlam fought for purchase against Jupiter's fury. He clawed blackened soot and fractured steel, and as the color bled from his vision, he forced his body to crawl towards the man who now stood against the end of the world. The red scarf churning about his friend's neck spurred him forward, as if to plead for his intervention. 'Please save my child,' it asked, 'I don't want this for him.'

He had not the strength to do what it requested, so he whispered prayers to Bedivere instead, to the knight who stood with the High Spark's family until the bitter end. And Getlam Air roared one final, desperate shout, right as the Black took a titanic step forward.

"Culhwch! You're throwing your life away! You're walking into Hell!"

Ado's hands shook, and his body trembled in fright.
His feet spread apart, his knees bent and flexed.
His own creation threatened to destroy him.
Already the Grain bubbled and pooled on his armor.

"I'll sift through the burning rubble!" he refuted. "Just like Kiritsugu! Just like him, I'll give Saber a second chance! I'll save his world!"

Two thousand years later, it happened again.
One man. A sword beyond comprehension.
The onset of an apocalypse.
And sheer force of will.

Ado Edem.
TYPE:Jupiter.

"And I'll cut this Hell in half!"

Slash Emperor.

---

"The other Seats are much displeased with you, boy. Tell me: what is your attachment to his name?"

"—In the story of his birth, Father, Saber speaks of the man who brought him from desolation. Kiritsugu gave him his ideals, and with them, he moved heaven and earth, and gave us our future."

"And you wish to renew that pledge?"

"I… I do. I believe that if I unlock the scabbard's secrets, I might find a way to reach him in time to advert the calamity. I'm… not sure how to do that, yet. Perhaps, with its magic, there's a way to invoke the summoning of the Otherworlders he mentions. Or with enough effort, perhaps I can force open the door to the… what was it - the Inner Sea? And warn him myself. But I… I just…"

"You wish to help him, just as Kiritsugu Emiya did."

"Yes."

"And is your refusal to manifest your Knight Arm related to this desire?"

"I don't believe it's ready. I think - I am

certain that the image in my mind is Saber's sword. I… until I learn more about the scabbard, I think…"

"…"

"Father?"

"You're sure of this, son?"

"I… I am."

"Then you are ready to wear Saber's armor. Don it, and head west, to the ends of the land. Avoid this war. Seek out the Six Sisters."

"The… Six Sisters? The leaders of the A-Rays?"

"Correct. One among them will have the answers you seek. Her name is Merlin."

…

…

Following his successful rebellion against King Arthur, Sir Mordred began the long process of converting his father's journal into the first edition of the Angel's Notes, the religious text that would guide Armageddon's survivors for the next two millennia. He reorganized the chapters into the Thirteen Prophecies, each named after - and thematically devoted to - one of the thirteen Servant containers. The prophecy of Saber spoke of Musashi Miyamoto's devotion to his craft; Archer's prophecy espoused Arash's steady hand; Lancer's: Leonidas' tenacity; so on and so forth. The High Spark's many experiences became the instructions from which his followers learned.

Conspicuously missing from these prophecies was the fourteenth Servant container. One might think its absence intentional, but the reality of the situation told a different story:

They were not heroes.

They held not a flickering candle to the legends they tried to mimic.
They were people born into a time of chaos, granted gifts of poison.

Were Shirou Emiya's followers hypothetically able to be summoned, every last one of them—

They became heroes anyway.

—would be a Pretender.

…

…

Updating Ether Liner information:

CULHWCH AB CILYDD

'Kiritsugu'
First Knight of the First Seat
Last Patriarch of the Pendragons
Ado Edem

Strength: N/A
Endurance: N/A
Agility: N/A
G̵̲̊r̶̻͌a̵̦͋i̸̻͝n̴̘̈́: N/A
Luck: N/A

The final Heir of Emiya, sixty-sixth in his line, Culhwch's lineage traces 1999 years to Sir Mordred's parents: the so-called High Spark, Shirou Emiya, and Artoria Pendragon, sister of King Arthur himself.

Knowledge contained within Emiya's Notes allowed the Pendragon descendants to maintain Avalon's dwindling Mystery for two thousands years of decline and, ultimately, apocalypse. The scabbard held many secrets, including blueprints that would ultimately see Culhwch to victory over two of the TYPEs, Jupiter and Saturn.

These blueprints were for a weapon.

A sword.

Nigh unreadable due to the Grain's everlasting corruption, each Pendragon before Culhwch failed to imbue the blueprint into their Knight Arms. Their weapons manifested before they deciphered Avalon's mysteries, but the young man was different. His passion for Emiya's story guided him down the path of blasphemy: Culhwch frequently associated himself with Kiritsugu Emiya, the High Spark's father, and modeled his ideals on what little he knew of the Magus Killer. He chose studying the stories and lessons of the Notes over developing his Knight Arm, the seed embedded in his right palm.

His hero worship grew obsessive during the Great War's long years, and the day he first called himself 'Kiritsugu' also marked his ostracizing from his Liner compatriots. To use a sacred name was the highest slander in the land; the young man didn't care, and neither did his family. It was Culhwch's father, in fact, who urged his ongoing study of their ancestor's scabbard, and of Kiritsugu's aspirations. The Pendragons sought to undo the apocalypse, and Avalon's corrupted blueprints hinted that Saber's legendary sword contained anti-Grain properties. So when he came of age and Saber's armor passed to him, Culhwch refused to enter a conflict in which he did not believe. The newly promoted First Knight abdicated his responsibilities, and set off into the wastes to forge from the seed in his palm the greatest weapon of all.

He made no progress. Not until, in the world's furthest corners, he met a strangely humanoid A-Ray girl, the daughter of a Giant-type, far from her home: a girl named Olwen, his Irisviel. But that is a story for another day.

It is the final Ado Edem who holds the unlikely title of being the High Spark's staunchest ally. Across the nigh-infinite multiverse, there is not one moment in which Culhwch ab Cilydd doubts, misunderstands, or betrays Shirou Emiya, unintentionally or otherwise. They are two men of singular intent, who lived two millennia apart. Nor would it be remiss to declare Ado the true hero of this strange tale, forever in the background, whose many heroics and sacrifices allowed for the genuine death of Crimson Moon Brunestud, and saw his distant ancestor to his final resting place in paradise.

And it is Fate's truest cruelty that the two men are destined to never meet at all.

---

Bedivere awoke from his nightmare to find Bedwyr Bedrydant's - Getlam Air's - hand embedded wrist deep in Castle Camelot's stone wall. The fingers were splayed and relaxed - he'd not punched or slapped, but reached out, to something distant and yet unseen. His face was clammy, his throat sore and his shoulders tense. Sweat soaked the bed in which he rested; 'rested', because Bedivere was exhausted. His hellish visions stole the energy he should have regained.

"What is happening to me?" he wheezed aloud.

To which the lord of the castle responded: "You grew an arm, for starters."

Bedivere withdrew his metallic hand with a concerning amount of ease, and twisted in the voice's direction. Two men accompanied Sir Ector, both of whom he recognized: Lancelot, and to Bedivere's immense surprise, Sir Lamorak, the town smith and Medraut's father. A retired knight himself, Lamorak was Ector's junior by some few odd years, and both men had served King Uther faithfully through thick and thin. He may not have been one for politics, but his contribution to Camelot's continued survival couldn't be understated. The man knew his trade and knew his materials… and his presence in the room suddenly made a surprising amount of sense.

"Well?" Ector gruffed.

Lamorak stroked his chin with a calloused hand. "Have you tried exorcisin' it? With a cross, mayhap?"

The lord sighed, evidently expecting such an answer. The smith just shrugged.

"Nothing like I've ever seen, Ector," he continued. "Should've called a priest. I can send a bird down to that fiend in Canterbury, if you'd like. Surely he's got nothin' better to do!"

Ector turned to Lancelot instead. "What say you, lad? Seen anything like this in your travels?"

The disconcerted look on Lancelot's face did nothing to stymie Bedivere's woes. The man retrieved a dagger secured in the loop of his belt, then stalked forward with a nervous swallow.

"Bedivere, lay your hand flat against the nightstand."

What was worse? To live with it, or cut it off and risk further agony - or, just perhaps, relief? It was a parasite, Bedivere knew, something foreign and outlandish. He wanted it gone, and with that thought in mind, did as Lancelot asked. His silvery fingers splayed across the aged wood. He turned away, squeezed his eyes shut.

"Q-Quickly," he implored.

Something dull shattered against the back of his hand, and brought with it a horrid, prolonged silence. Bedivere risked a peek. Shards of wrought iron littered the nightstand… and his accursed limb had neither cut nor scratch.

Lancelot ran a hand through his hair, heaved a pained whisper.

"—Curses, why me? Alone? Against this madness? Truly?"

Ector's patience ran thin. His foot tapped against the floor.

"Well? What say you, sir knight?"

"Milord," rasped Lancelot, "forgive me my impudence, but I must implore that the doors be shut for this conversation."

The lord craned a thick eyebrow. "And Lamorak here? Does he depart?"

"Nay! N-Nay, on the contrary, he—if there is one person who must be involved with this, 'tis the smith."

"Hoh…" Lamorak muttered. In a few swift steps, he had the door shut. A spin on his heel, his back against the wood, his arms crossed. The two elders leveled Lancelot with looks that demanded an explanation, and so the knight and Bedivere alike gathered their wits. One in preparation, the other, resignation.

And the first words out of Lancelot's mouth truly did leave Bedivere resigned to his fate, whatever that was.

"This isle is haunted."

…

Ector chose his words carefully. "Haunted in what way?"

A tense, dark expression steeled Lancelot's features. Bedivere thought it the look of a man who had seen too much, as though he himself did not truly believe what he was about to say. Both denial and traumatic recognition warred there on the man's face, and he spent a long moment to build the courage necessary to impact his tortured knowledge. Lancelot's reply came in the form of a story.

"Once upon a time, in the ages past, those knights gathered around a table gifted to their king. 'Twas a table rounded, with no head nor hierarchy. The king implored to her knights that at this table and elsewhere, everyone was an equal. Those knights - we - we believed her, and we celebrated as such. 'Twas one of those times on that day of the Lord's birth, with food and ale like men could not fathom. We sang and we drank. Aye, we were a joyous bunch.

Scarcely had the noise ceased and the first course been served in the court, when there came in at the hall door an ugly fellow, tallest of all men upon earth. From his neck to his loins - so square set was he, and so long and stalwart of limb, that I swore he was half a giant. And yet he was a man, and the merriest that might r-ride."

Lancelot's voice broke, and he took a moment to swallow his spittle. A strange, unnerved tremor coated his words.

---

"His body in back and breast was strong, his belly and waist were very small, and all his features - full clean."

Fate/ess

"Great wonder of the knight we in that hall had, I ween."

Return - 4

"Full fierce he was to sight, and over all…"

PARANORMAL PHENOMENA

"…b-bright green."

---

Lamorak's squint was best described as disbelieving. "Green? The man was… green…?"

Bedivere didn't understand, himself. Why did Lancelot fear green men? But the look in the man's eye was wild, and he threw his hands up in no small amount of offended outrage.

"Verily, all his vesture was of pure green, both the stripings of his belt, and the stones in his apparel, on his person and saddle! It would be too tedious to tell you even the half of such trifles, as were thereon embroidered with birds and flies in gaudy greens! The pendants of the horse's neck-gear, the cropper, the ornaments, and all the metal thereof, were enameled of green, as was the hair upon the steed's head!"

Lancelot pinched his brow, and collapsed into a chair with a mighty huff. He continued the tale once he'd regained his composure.

"Such a horse or his rider were never seen in hall before or with eye, and he had no helmet nor hauberk, nor was he plated in armor. In one hand he held a… a holly branch, of sorts, a peace offering. In the other: an axe, huge and uncanny. Its head measured an ell, thereabouts, and its grain was of green steel and hewn gold. This freakish brute haled into the hall, and pushed forward to the dais, fearful of nothing. He saluted no one, his eyes were scornful. The first words from his mouth were, 'Where is the chief of this company? Gladly would I see that man in the body, and speak with him seasonably in town.'"

Ector's thin lips curled into a scowl. His fingers coursed deep through his beard.

"He sought my daughter, aye?"

"He did," Lancelot confirmed, "but we said nothing. Bedivere and Kay, our seniors - their stern looks marked us to silence. We pegged the churl as faefolk or a phantom, and with them… speaking has… consequences…"

Murky dread took hold of Bedivere then, for he remembered nothing of these events, and he knew not what a 'faefolk' was, and neither, he supposed, did Kay. But unlike Kay, Bedivere felt torn between the choices. If Saber could unlock Lancelot's memories, he surely had it within him to do the same for everyone on that list. Those men in the dream knew his name, and one wore Saber's armor; whatever they'd done, whatever legacy they'd left behind, intentionally or otherwise, echoed into the black long enough to affect complete strangers - if those strangers were more than just a figment of his diseased mind, he meant. Did he not have an obligation, then, to remember? Whether they be crimes or heroics, a part of Bedivere wanted to know the truth. If he knew the truth, he could protect his family, and his friends, and his city. Tristan and Palamedes and his fellows in the guard. Artoria, their hyperactive little sister in all but blood. Perhaps even the lass's bodyguard, strange and aloof though he was.

The other part of Bedivere was scared stiff.

True, undeniable fear. The kind that froze a man in place and taunted him with visions of the Lord. He spiraled now into the unknown. The grisly contraption replacing his lost arm whispered to Bedivere knowledge of powers and history untold. In a way, it felt familiar, like an old friend. But that old friend's name was Brutus, and it held a dagger behind its back. He flexed its fingers, and felt them as his own. His fingers, and his hand, and his full arm, and he knew they were not.

Witchcraft. And he was trapped.

"This creature, what did he do?" Lamorak asked. "How did he meet your silence?"

Deep shadows cut across Lancelot's beady eyes. He stared beyond the stone walls into a life once forgotten.

"With taunts and jeers," he muttered. "He came to challenge our honor, our pride. 'I seek not to fight,' he gloated, 'for the men on this bench are but beardless children, and if I were clad in arms on a high steed, there is no man here to match with me. I only crave of this court a Christmas game, as this is the feast of Yule and New Year, and many here are brave. And if any in this house holds himself so hardy and is so boldblooded and so utterly mad that he dare strike one stroke for another in return, I will give to him this costly axe, that is heavy enough, and he shall handle it if he likes, and I will bide the first blow as bare as I sit here.'"

…

Sir Ector's expression terrified and relieved Bedivere in equal measure. 'Twas of a man who did not yet understand, but aimed to learn. The lord of their town hunted again, and mercy be to whatever creature standing against him.

"And the results of this exchange?" he demanded. "The consequences, Sir Lancelot, the motives. Was there a catch?"

Lancelot leaned his forearms over his knees and wrung his hands together.

"Whatever blow thus received would be repaid fully in twelve months and a day. We engaged not, to which the creature took mighty offense. He lambasted us and ours, and laughed heartily at our perceived shame, until, at last, the king rose from her seat. 'I know of no single man among us that is aghast at your great words,' she spoke. 'Give me your axe, for God's sake, and I will grant to you the boon you crave.'"

Bedivere's jaw clenched. The room chilled. Lancelot's words removed whatever lingering doubts the other men shared, and Ector and Lamorak shared frosty, tense glances. Everyone present realized what Lancelot had already learned a lifetime ago: if ever Artoria Pendragon wore the crown—

"What next?" Ector muttered.

—that was exactly how she would behave.

"She had him off his horse in scant seconds," continued the knight, "and took his axe in hand. She brandished it strongly, but the fiend stood there and stroked his beard, and with face unmoved prepared to receive the blow. But then and there: Gawain, who sat by the queen - to the king he inclined, 'I tell you the truth: this melee must be mine.'"

Lamorak's jaw dropped open. "The Cornish princeling! Those mad folk, serving a Pendragon? A child of Uther? Heavens, man!"

But Lancelot paid him no mind. He pressed on.

"Gawain rose then, and said, 'If you will allow me to come down from this bench faultless, and with the approval of my liege's lady, I will come to your aid before this noble court. For I think it unseemly that when such a task is asked in this great hall, that you should deal with it yourself, despite your eagerness, when so many brave souls surround you, none of whom are more able in body nor precious than you.'"

And as the two elders balked at the twist in Lancelot's tale, Bedivere swore he heard the echo of a man's footfalls upon the stone.

"'The truth seekers know the loss of my life would be a small matter. I have no fame, save that you are my uncle, and I have no goodness, save your blood that flows through my veins. Since this affair is none of yours, and I have first made demand for it, it falls to me. Let this court blame me if I acquit myself in a manner unbecoming!'"

Lancelot's fingers pushed into his eyes; he loosed a ragged, haunted breath.

"Gawain, at that time naught more than a squire, received his blessings from the king. He and the creature exchanged their pleasantries. The green man extended his neck. Gawain put his left foot forward, the axe held high, and it fell upon the creature's neck so that it sundered the bone and pierced the flesh, and the point of the steel bit into the ground. The head fell to the earth, where it rolled and was nudged with the feet of the onlookers, and its blood stained the man's green garments."

Ector's scowl deepened. "'Twas the end of it, then?"

But the knight hadn't finished. He stood with a start, a mad gleam in his eye.

"But the fellow's body strode forward on its haunches to where the men stood, and it scooped from the ground its head and held it high!"

"—What?"

"…!"

"Lancelot, wait—"

"Then he went to his horse!" he bellowed. "He seized the bridle, stepped into the saddle, and striding aloft, he held his head by the hair, and gravely he sat in the saddle, as though no evil had befallen him and he was not headless on that steed! Once year hence, he promised Gawain, and the blow shall be paid in full! And I wish to warn you now, milord, that these such creatures approach us again, and I admit I am fearful of the storm they bring! 'Tis true that men brought your daughter low, but the madness they suffered was a symptom of these lands! The famines that plagued us! The beasts that attacked us! The dragons and the hobgoblins and those things with the heads of snakes and the bodies of leopards! That arm—"

Sir Lancelot whirled about to level an imperious, accusatory finger at Bedivere's silvery, mysterious appendage.

"—is made of the same accursed material as the green man's axe! 'Tis the same make as the swords Gawain and I wielded, and Excalibur, the sword of our king! It is not an arm, Bedivere, it is a weapon! One that is not forged, but grown by dastardly, eldritch means! And if it holds a tenth of the power the king's sword demonstrated, it is full capable of wiping out an army in the blink of an eye!"

…

Bedivere's heart pounded in his chest. A weapon? 'Twas a weapon? What, like a blade or bow? If that was true, how did he use it? What activated it? Did he swing it, or punch with it, or… or make a sign or symbol with the fingers? Was he a walking fireball? Did his presence here risk the lives of his lord and friends, and all the innocents inside the walls? No! Nay, unacceptable! He needed some way to bind it, perhaps, some method of sealing—

"Are you quite done, lad?"

That weary, tough voice momentarily stirred him of his panic, and as his heart continued to pound, Bedivere wiped the sweat from his face with his left hand, his safe hand, before lifting his eyes to his lord. Sir Ector pierced Lancelot with a look that all but ordered the knight to calm down and take a breath - and that was what he did. Lamorak, likewise, seemed to have regained himself in all too short a time. Like they had some measure of experience with the insanity in Lancelot's story, almost.

Like they'd been through it before.

"I daresay he wasn't mad at all," the smith intoned.

Ector harrumphed. "Nay. Mayhap just desperate. Frenzied men will themselves to frenzied acts, aye?"

Lamorak barked out a laugh, deep from his belly, but Bedivere's confusion only rose at their unbefitting joviality.

"M-Milord?" he wheezed.

"King Uther spoke of this madness often," Ector clarified. "Dragons and witchcraft and the end of days. Bah! We thought him a fool at the time, but… ah, well. The past is bright and sunny, as they say. Are these foul daemons upon us yet, sir knight?"

Lancelot allowed himself another calming breath before replying.

"I-I am… unsure, milord, but I do not believe so. These things abide not by the laws of men. 'Tis not my place to accurately guess their intentions. Some are friendly, and seek coexistence. Others kidnap children for food. If that accursed arm is a harbinger of their arrival, as I expect it to be, there shall come a time in the near future when the people and the soldiery begin to see and hear things they shan't understand. Whispers in the dark, writings on their abodes in strange, unfathomable tongues, villagers drawn into the forests to never return… 'tis all possible."

Ector's mind raced this way and that.

"Will they walk among us in broad daylight? Shall we share our streets and markets with these creatures?"

"In my experiences, they prefer the woods and the black of the night. They are beasts of the dirt, at their most comfortable when the minds of men are addled and deprived of reason."

"Tch," muttered the lord. "The encampments and the marches - and as we prepare against the Cornish. No patrols outside the walls, either, until we see these things for ourselves. How do we kill them?"

"They despise the forge and the smith. Blades of iron work on the lesser things, the goblins and their ilk. But something tied mightily to the earth shan't be affected by a simple swing of the sword. Against those creatures, it becomes a battle of the mind."

At that, Ector shared another nod with Lamorak, who turned on his heel and departed for his forge. More weapons would be needed.

"And how do we fight a battle of the mind?" Ector asked, as he watched the man depart.

…

Lancelot fought past his own hesitance and resignation, and at last gestured, once again, to Bedivere's arm. His lips drew tight into a line.

"—With weapons of the mind."

---

I am a monster.
Nothing else can explain my present circumstances.
I am exhausted. I am full of energy.
The dragon's heart compels me forward, though I sit here in the shadows of my own doubts.

I hate this core of magic within my bosom. But at the same time, it gave me the energy needed to summon my Saber.
I suppose that summarizes my conundrum.
I despise myself. I despise the crimes I have foolishly committed.
But without those crimes, I would have never met him.

I know what happens to me in the absence of his presence.
Perhaps I become Lancer, or maybe the Lion King.
Aimless and without passions.
A weapon to to be used by Chaldea and Rhongomyniad.

"I want to go home," I mutter.

"Hm? That's where we're headed."

Shirou is being intentionally obtuse. It is a side of him with which I am heinously familiar.
He dances around the issue. He plays with meanings.
He and Kay are quite alike in that regard.
But unlike Kay, Shirou's deflections hurt.

They hurt because I know he is right.
I do not want him to be right!
I want him to be wrong! Because…

"Camelot is not my—"

"Yes it is."

"No it is not, Shirou!"

"Artoria, Fuyuki isn't…"

…

Something in my expression gives him pause.
He occupies himself by looking about the room.
Swallowing, he reconsiders his words.

"Fuyuki is… not your only home."

"'Tis the one I care for!"

"Don't say that."

I flinch.
My arms wrap about my knees.
I pull them in, and curl around myself.
Sitting here, atop this silly sleeping bag, I am naught more than a ball of misery.

I cannot help it.
I really cannot help it!
What right do I have to be anything but miserable?!
I… the things I have done!
The things I have done to him!

I am the cause! He should not speak to me!
Not at all, not a word! I do not have the right!
It is just as that witch said!
I cannot use his weapons! I cannot stand by his side!
Rin and Sakura - they came from a place of good will!
They, at the very least, can say they care!

What kind of despicable person ruins a poor man's life so many times over, and then has the gall to proclaim within the Imperial baths that she wishes to accompany him into paradise?!

He is just another one of my victims!

"They—Britain is doomed, Shirou. My country's fate cannot be changed, but you, at least…! You have a chance to…!"

"That doesn't matter."

I leap to my feet, a fire in my belly.

"Yes it does! Yes it does matter! You should not be bound to my… m-my curse, Shirou! I—"

"You aren't cursed!"

How can he say that when I created him?!
When I sent him down his path of suffering?!

He spins to me. His hands steady my trembling shoulders.

"You're a girl who cares, and I won't let you say otherwise, Saber! Wanting the best for others isn't a curse!"

"It is when my caring ruins an innocent bystander's life! I caused the fire! I killed your parents!"

…

…I said it. I finally said it! I confessed to the worst of my endless crimes!
My words are a rock shattering a carefully repaired mirror.
'Tis one deserving destruction. I cannot entertain my selfish desires to be by his side, knowing I am responsible for his trauma.
It is not my right. Sakura and Rin are more deserving of his—

"N-Never say that again."

He pulls me into his chest.
'Tis less of a hug than it is a clinch between two combatants.
He squeezes and squeezes, impossibly tight, until my arms are trapped by my sides.
Any tighter and he might snap me in twain.
I squirm in his arms.

"B-But I—"

"I'm serious! I'm really mad right now, Artoria! Don't you dare say that again! Promise me you won't!"

His voice breaks as he speaks.
Moisture lands on my forehead.
—His tears, I realize.
I have made Shirou cry.
My monumental guilt somehow increases to an unfathomable weight and size.
'Tis an armored suit I am trapped inside, and I am far too frail to move.

Why do I always hurt him? Why am I such a failure?
My words, my actions. My intentions never matter.
I aim my sword at the enemy. My blows land on Shirou instead.
No matter the life, or the sequence of events.

Perhaps Arthur was right.
Perhaps I am just a selfish, stupid girl.
My pathetic whimper reflects my constant idiocy.

"But I always make you suffer!"

"You're the reason I'm alive in the first place, idiot!"

I stiffen in his arms, but his hold is absolute.
In this moment, Shirou embodies desperation.
His raspy voice rings loudly in my ears.

"My Saber isn't King Arthur! My Saber is the girl who pretends to be King Arthur! Your intentions are what matter to me, and I know that if you had the choice, you'd never do any of that stuff!" he growls.
"You hate fighting! I won't let you blame yourself for something that isn't your fault, Saber! The fire happened! You can't change that! The end result is always the same, whether someone wins the Holy Grail War or not! The only winning move is not to play, so please stop obsessing over things that don't matter—"

"I want it to matter!"

His chest muffles my scream. Shirou's stunned, abrupt silence slackens his hold enough for me to fight my way from his arms.
I push myself free, but rather than separate, I ball my fists in his tunic and meet his desperate expression with my own.

I shan't allow this to continue! He must understand!
He is running! He has been running since the day I brought him here!
I am responsible for that! Rin and Sakura are gone!
He has not grieved once!
It cannot stand! Damn this man, I love him so much!
I want to help him!

The words spill from my lips like the prana from my magical core.

"I cannot sit here in good conscience and pretend that none of it matters, Shirou! I will not traipse around like a princess with her beloved knight! I will not ignore the fact that I have stolen the afterlife you deserve to share with the people you care for!"

And I take not a single breath.

"You lost the things that grounded you, Shirou! Do not tell it me does not matter! We are two fools who cannot live for ourselves! When you lose them, you lose yourself! When you lose yourself, you become Archer! You say I pretend to be the king? Well, you pretend to be Archer! My Saber is not Archer, and I shan't ever let you say otherwise! You are saying you do not matter! You matter to me, Shirou, because you are the best thing that has ever happened to me!"

My lungs demand my compliance.
I gasp and gulp the air necessary for my survival.
A passing, cruel thought suggests I let them burn. 'Tis one I slay immediately.
I cannot die. I must guide this fool into Avalon.
Moreover, why is he silent?

…

—Ah.
It appears I have confessed.
N-No matter! Focus, Artoria! Now is not the time for one of thy silly daydreams!
I must press onwards!

"You may say 'twas my… our ideals that betrayed you, Shirou, but 'tis I who allowed those ideals to take precedence. No matter the despicable life, time after time after time again, I… i-it - it is always about the Grail. Whether that be to chase it or destroy it, I fail to see the things in front of me. Sakura lost herself to her grief and pain over the idea that she may not be good enough for you. Rin made it her life's mission to save you from your daemons! And I walked into Avalon by myself and left you alone! How did you die in that life, Saber?!"

…

Time passes, and he does not respond.
His eyes linger everywhere but on my own.
I know what he is doing. I see it on his face.
Just as I do, he will—

"…It's alright. Seriously, Artoria. I hate seeing you worry like this, so—"

"You saying that makes me worry more! Please tell me, Shirou!"

—argue that he is fine.
That he can handle the burden.

I have not woken from a dream.
I am no sleeping beauty kissed awake by a handsome, perfect king-to-be.

"Firing squad," he answers at last.
"I was—soldiers caught me trying to… help refugees escape a government crackdown."

Nay.
This is not a dream.

This is a nightmare.

My realization comes like the crack of lightning.
Until this point, I was obsessed with obtaining some perfect figment of my imagination, in which everyone is happy and my country is at peace.
The thought of seeing them all smile still fills me with fiery passion. It calls to me.
I am capable. I can see it done. There is no one else. I was born to do this.

Shirou smiles.

It is not the smile I dreamed of. I never realized that there are different types of smiles.
His is a smile of despondency. Of resolute, weary duty.
His lips turn and his eyes close, and he tells me with all the hypocritical resolve of an empty, wounded man:

"They were so preoccupied with me, that the refugees escaped anyway."

I wanted Britain's slumber to be restful.
I wanted Shirou to be happy.
I received neither.

For the first time in my life… I am in control.
—Nay.
Control never left. I am…
I was a fool. I still am a fool. I am less a fool now than I was back then.
I barely remember that girl of fifteen years, so naive and precious.
That girl, who innocently wanted to do her best to save as many as she could—

She thought the scroll held a magical weapon.
I recoil now from the irony. 'Tis what he became, is it not?
I made him a weapon. This boy I realize I love, who I never bothered to understand…
I gave him away. I feared him becoming something more than my Master and friend.

Who am I to save a country, if I cannot save one silly man?
My throat is heinously dry.

"—I am proud of you for saving those people, Shirou, but should that situation arise again… promise me you shall not sacrifice yourself."

His face is pained. Fear flickers in those amber eyes.
He will try to reaffirm his position. He cannot bear thinking of the alternatives.
He has lived through those alternatives, and the outcome, this broken man before me, is solely my fault.
I was not there.
I did not do my duty.
I left him alone. I abandoned him. I forced his hand.
He lives in four. He lives in four. He lives in four!
Only four, Artoria!
In the others, he surely perishes or worse!
You must take responsibility!

"I can't let you do this alone anymore," he attempts.

I readjust my hold on his tunic. I shan't let him escape.
Salter was right.
'Twas wrong of me to give him away.
That girl was always a naive, idealistic coward.
She never ages. She never grows up. Her dreams leave behind a swath of destruction and broken bodies.
Saber. Lancer. I identify with neither.

But they identify with me.

"'Tis not about me, 'tis about you. I want you to come home to me."

—He stills.
Ruefully I realize that he cannot believe his ears.
I do not blame him. Artoria Pendragon? Verbalize what she is feeling?
Nevertheless, I press my advantage.

"And when you do," I continue, "I want it to be as the man I love. Not as a traumatized suit of armor, Guardian or otherwise. You run from yourself, Shirou. You keep it inside."

"—I'm fine."

His denial comes on a breathless whisper.
I take a step closer.

"I am not fine, and I remember four. You worry me so much. Please talk to me."

"I… I can't."

And it looses.
Like a rain of arrows.
Like the swords from that wretched hellscape I cursed him with.
He grabs my shoulders and swallows.

"I can't think about it. There's too much, Artoria. There's way too much. If I… look, I'll go insane. I can blink, and I'll be back there with Tohsaka, the day we get married. But at the same time, I—she's dead. I killed her days after she stabbed Sakura to death in the church! I can't—how am I supposed to reconcile that?! Sakura is alive! I married her, too! Illya is living in my house! Why is she wearing that white dress?! I team up with Rider after she kills me! But I'm already dead! I cut off my arm to save myself! I just—"

It spills and spills, like the muck from the poisoned Grail.
And I hate every single word, and I weather the storm.
Because that is the role I choose for myself.

My father always told me of two things one must do to become an adult.
One must accept the consequences of their actions.
One must accept personal responsibility for those consequences.

'Tis time for me to finally grow up. I am not a child anymore.
If I wish to spend my life with this man, I must support him.

I must heal him.

"The old man is alive because he stopped the war," he rants.
"I have a sister named Miyu. I've never met—I don't have any sister besides Illya! I die at thirty-three! I'm alive at eighty-one! I'm fighting to get people away from a sabotaged nuclear reactor! I have a law degree! You are always my Saber!"

…!

—I release the breath I never knew I held.
Shirou swallows thickly. Rivulets of sweat frame his cheeks.

"It's always you," he rasps.
"You're the constant, you and Archer. You two never change. I can stay sane if I focus on that and ignore everything else! So don't you dare blame yourself for any of this, Saber, because you're all I have left!"

"Do not ignore it," I plead.
"Talk to me about the things you see! You must let it out, Shirou! 'Tis not healthy!"

"It isn't safe. I can't risk it—"

"The risk is worth the reward!"

My rebuttal brings a long silence.
We both heave air through our sore, dry throats.
I lick at chapped lips.

"I want to remember the lives I spent with you. The good and the bad. We are the product of our experiences, and… and I… I do not want to become Lancer! Lancer is cold! Saber is naive! I want to be myself, and I want you to be Shirou! You say we cannot change the past, but 'tis fully possible to change the present! I want you to smile!"

…

The seconds tick by. Something in his face falters.

"…You're sure?"

His voice is so very small. Fragile.
'Tis thousands of chipped and broken swords barely held together by the wrought iron that is the Archer.
A long time ago, all those weeks prior, I urged him to silence. I haughtily proclaimed I would figure out the truth for myself.
What I would give to go back and give that girl a good throttling.

But here I am. I am not a king anymore.
And in my burning, anguished heart, I think that is for the better.
I was never the best at multitasking. My mind follows one track.
For the first time… I can finally be the person I wish to be.
I can try to save one miserable soul.

I failed my kingdom. I failed my people.
But I swear to myself, no matter what…

I give him my best smile.
'Tis awfully pathetic.

"I will always be here for you. You are all I have, too, Shirou."

I shall never let this man become a body on that hill.

—A muffled rumble echoes in the far distance.
Shirou squeezes his eyes shut. He sighs.
We both recognize the sound of trouble.

"I'm sick and tired of this," he hisses.

I caress his cheek with my palm.

"After we solve whatever this newest problem is… teach me archery."

He comes alert, back stiff as a stone wall.

"—What? You… archery? Why not ask Sir Tris—"

My palm covers his mouth.

"You are the better bowman."

He blinks, brow furrowed, and pulls away with a shake of his head.
Red tinges his cheeks. He seems almost offended.

"Like hell I am! It's not even close! W-Why do you want to learn, anyway?"

"To shore a known weakness, Saber. We were separated often… and you were out of my range. I could not protect you. If I had other means at my disposal, a similar situation might be avoided, should it befall us again in the future. I shan't allow past follies to go uncorrected."

"That's fine," he agrees.
"So ask—"

"Nay."

The poor boy is truly besides himself.
He cannot handle such recognition of his talents, from myself most of all.
I do not see the issue, personally. 'Tis only appropriate.
I trained him in swordplay, did I not? Surely, then, he can return the favor.

I step lean into him to make my intentions clear.
With a gentle touch, my hand directs him to meet my eyes.

"'Tis not a matter of objectivity, Shirou. I wish to learn your technique."

…

"—On one condition, then," he grits out.

"Aye?"

His hand covers my own.

"Promise me you won't say that stuff again."

So many things churn in my heart.
No matter what he says… to me, it will always be my lowest point.
My eyes turn downcast.

"I shan't take back what I said… but allow me to propose a compromise."

"A compromise?"

My jaw firms. Heat burns my cheeks.
—Is what I am about to say… selfish?
Y-Yes, it must be. I am crude! Crude and debased!

…

B-But…!

"'T-Tis… only… u-um…"

My words fail me. Me? The king?
Surely it must be a jest.
Converse with kings? Diplomats? Knights and the like?
How could I, when I cannot talk to this boy!
Out with it!

"I-I… I took your family from you, s-so…! S-S-So it - it would only be… a-appropriate… if… if… i-if I gave you a new one—!"

…

"Y-You…"

—Wait.
What is with that look on his face?!
Wait! He took it the wrong way!
That is not what I meant!
P-Please—

"What kind of idiot are you?! You stupid girl, why would you say something like that?! Have more respect for yoursel—"

"N-N-Not like that!"

"Then what do you—?!"

"I want that! It is not out of obligation or guilt, I, u-um—!"

…

My hand falls to my side.
My heart clenches.
My eyes roam his chest.
I cannot bear to look at him, but…
But even still, after all I have done…!

"I-I… I never…"

Say it.
Say it.
Say it.
I want to say it.

"I can… only swing a sword, Shirou. I want to… here, at least, I want to…"

I want to live.
I want to live with him.
He is all I have.

"—Artoria."

He lifts my chin.
This time, his smile is genuine.

"We'll… learn together, alright?"

I have never felt this emotion before.
'Tis such a strange warmth.
Am I dying? Or am I…

"Aye…"

The Command Seals on my hand form an arrow.
They are for him.
They are for me.

The Master is the Archer.
The Servant is the Saber.
That is how it works.

So in this life, I will be the Archer.
So he can be a Saber.
So he can finally be free.

---

Some time later, when we left the tent, we found Arthur sitting on a toppled log, whetting his sword, his expression regal steel. It was then that we all learned the truth behind that odd rumbling.

It was an explosion fueled by the Crystal's Grain. The smoke clouded the chilly winter skies, from across the sea and beyond the horizon.

King Claudas and his Roman cohort had razed Aquae Arnemetiae to the ground.

---

"What do I need to do?"

"—I thank you, Caster. Listen carefully."

Caster burst through the surface of the frigid swamp, gasping for air and shivering something fierce. A cough tore past her lips; she swam for the water's edge. All Fae were connected to the planet as part of its many senses, and despite her purpose in culling a Lostbelt, she was no exception. She knew where she was - but the environment didn't match what she knew to be proper and correct. Where trees should have grown, ash and dust instead blew. This swamp was meant to be one of the Lady's many lakes, an exit point that served many purposes. It connected into Avalon and provided a refuge for life both, but that life was nowhere to be found. The forest of Brocéliande… was gone.

Everything was dead.

She marked her position nevertheless: on the mainland, the continent the humans called 'Europe', to the north and west, just south of the isles of Britain. Caster grit her teeth, summoned her magical energy, and flung the water from her person and clothes with a single blast of air.

And then she broke into a sprint.

"Your objective is within the forest, due west of the lake. 'Tis not a long trek, but I bid you caution, Caster. In that timeline, it is one fraught with peril. They will be drawn to you like moths to a flame."

They. The things lurking in the moon's perpetual darkness.

"Groaaagh!"

Caster ducked into a roll; it sailed over her head, claws outstretched and tongue slobbering for blood. Red eyes flashed in the black, its necrotic skin sloughed and regenerated in tandem. Under normal circumstances, perhaps she and it would've ignored each other. After all, it… well, technically, it was like a… a cousin? A gross cousin, a slob. Someone who never cleaned their room! Ugh!

"Ngh! Chastiefol!"

She slammed the staff's end into the ground and directed a column of blue energy to sear the thing to oblivion. Fire erupted from its eyes. It collapsed to the ground with twitch and a snarl - and then rolled back onto its feet. Caster recoiled in disgust.

"Y-You can't eat me, idiot! I'm not a—"

It lunged. She swept her arm; out rushed three golden loops, spinning like saw blades, to slash the thing's limbs and neck. The head rolled to the dirt and the body collapsed at last. Caster scrambled to her feet; she'd made a ton of noise, which meant…

"Groaaaagh!"
"Groaaaagh!"
"Groaaaagh!"

…more were on the way.

"Be mindful: the ghouls in this world are frenzied. They outnumber the humans one thousand to one, and when you exit, most of the population will have already been converted. Theirs is a mad army slaved to the roaming Apostles. You must avoid their attention, Caster. Two locales are safe: the Isles, and Cameliard. You are bound for the second. The estate is under siege, and not long for the world. They need you. Make haste."

"Haa… haa… haa…!"

They needed her. They needed her! Not the Fairy of Paradise, but lowly, pathetic Caster! She'd sacrificed her life once already! She'd won once before, though she died before she saw the results! This time she didn't need to die! She didn't care if this mission was or wasn't sanctioned by Gaia, because the Fairy of Paradise finished its mission, and it had nothing to do with this timeline! She was an outsider! She was here because she wanted to be!

She was here for herself! Because she wanted to help Saber! Because she wanted to help Ritsuka and Mash! Yeah!

"Cameliard, Cameliard, Cameliard! Cameliard, Cameliard, Cameliard! T-Turn right here, onto the path, u-um…!"

"Groaaagh!"

"W-WHOA!"

Her reflexes saved her again; the head of her staff slammed into the ghoul center mass and sent it flying into a rock. Using the momentum, she shifted Chastiefol so the end leveled at the stunned creature's forehead, then loosed a blue beam that disintegrated it from the waist up. In the chaos, however, Caster failed to notice the second ghoul behind her. It lunged as she turned.

"…!"

—A javelin ran it through. A thrown projectile, a human weapon.

But the humans were—

Thud.
"Ghoooooul!"

Thud.
"Ghoooooul!"

Thunderous and loud, the stomps of men marching. Their war cries blasted through the dead forest, to which yet more undead responded. Caster realized with a start that the party responsible for the chanting was intentionally baiting them into open conflict. She stumbled away from the oncoming horde and instead turned to the source. Encroaching from the shadows came lines of men dressed in furs and full mail, shoulder to shoulder, under the shadow of a lone castle. A hazy forcefield cocooned its stone walls in a bubble, lent to its soldiers an ethereal glow that best described phantoms and not the living. Their swords slammed against oval shields - the source of the rhythmic noise.

Thud.
"Ghoooooul!"

Thud.
"Ghoooooul!"

Two warriors marched side by side ahead of the procession, both middle-aged and riddled with scars: the first hefted a war axe; the second carried a standard bearing an eagle. The ghouls charged, and Caster bolted for a large boulder straddling the human lines. The man with the axe barked an order in a tongue unknown. Being a Fae, she learned it with a breath: the human spoke accented Latin, and now she did, too.

"God is with ye!" the man bellowed. "Slay them all! For the glory of Rome!"

"For the glory of Rome!"

The javelins flew, the two sides collided. Caster soon realized that these men were trained killers - survivors, all of them, in an eternal fight against entropy. She didn't know who they were or how they'd lived through the apocalypse… but it probably had something to do with the castle in the forcefield. Her head poked out from the cover, right as the man with the standard skewered an undead.

"U-Um! E-Excuse me, sir?"

He offered her a quick glance, filled with no small amount of confusion. He could see that she wasn't an undead… at least, she hoped, so he'd totally take the time to answer her question, even if they were in the middle of a war zone! Yeah, see! He was already approaching—

Caster's reflexes and intuition saved her for the third time that night, right as a claw sliced her rock to ribbons. She jumped away with a yelp. That was not a ghoul, that looked like a person! What was…?!

The enemy clucked his tongue. His red eyes leered.

"Come here, girl. Here here, little Fae, come on…"

—An Apostle. Ice filled Caster's veins. She readied her staff.

"You're a perversion. You're not welcome here anymore. Leave."

A wicked grin split his lips. "The Ancestor thinks otherwise."

Then it ducked, weaved, flipped away. Every one of the standard's blows missed their mark, and in return, the unnamed warrior pulled from his hip's pouch a bladeless hilt. The Apostle snarled.

"An Executor?!"

No response was offered. The hilt became four, armed with blades of black; all flew for the Apostle's vitals. He avoided the first and dodged the second, but the third pierced his thigh. His broiling scream became louder when the fourth slammed through his shoulder up to the hilt - and then the warrior grabbed him by the throat. Something jingled on his wrist, glinting softly in the moonlight. The man snarled.

"Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum!"

The beads roared with a heavenly fire, one that spread to the struggling undead. White flames coalesced.

Simple. Efficient. Burned to ash.

With the Apostle's death, the rest of the ghouls fell quickly. Men took to cleaning their swords and shields. Caster huffed a sigh of relief. She slumped back down against the rock, if only to catch her breath. In the distance the two warriors conversed with a woman previously unseen. Had she arrived after? And why was she looking her way? Actually, hold on a—

The man with the axe moved to one side, and Caster froze, eyes wide.

"Upon reaching Cameliard, Caster, you are to seek out a young woman roughly your age. She will be of slim figure, with brown hair and piercing blue eyes."

Slim figure. Check.
Brown hair. Check.
Piercing blue eyes. Check.

"Thank you as always, Theodoric," said the girl to the axe-wielder. "The safety your men have given us has not gone unnoticed."

"An' we're thankful for the shelter yer father provides," he answered in turn. "We'll set up a watch while ye conduct yer business."

"Aye, we'll be quick." She turned to the standard bearer. "Ambrosius?"

"At your side, princess."

The girl shifted.
Her shield clanked.

A shield Caster recognized. A shield Caster knew.
A shield that once belonged…

"She is quite the cornerstone to our tale. I ask that you ensure her safety, Caster. Not because of her importance, but because she is dear to me. I wronged her in many ways, but… but I am sure - nay, I am positive that by knowing her, you will learn about yourself. She has that effect on people."

…to Mash Kyrielight.

"Hello there! We heard you fighting outside the boundary and decided to investigate. Who are you? Are you unharmed? Ah! Am I asking too many questions? I'm terribly sorry, you're the first survivor we've met in quite some time!"

This girl wasn't Mash. How could she have Mash's shield? What was going on?

"Um, I-I'm—I'm fine, yeah! Th-Thanks for your help! Who are you?"

The girl blinked, her face broke into a smile.

"She was the heart of our kingdom, truly she was. You will know when you meet her. In our darkest hours, she was our light. I want her to live, Caster. I cannot do it myself, but I want her to be happy. The woman you seek, her name is—"

"I am the daughter of King Leodegrance, the lord of Cameliard. Oh, but in this place, formalities are so very pointless!"

And what a beautiful smile it was.

"Please, call me Guinevere!"

---

Ȯ̸̥M̶̭̆Ạ̶̓K̴̏ͅȨ̴̎ ̸̭͛(̴̩̇?̴̪̑)̶̥͘

Ado would never admit it - he had an image to keep - but, secretly, the Thirteenth Seat scared the cuisses off of him. 'Pen' wasn't One of Thirteen's full title. He knew the second word, of course, they all did, but it wasn't spoken for the same reason most of his fellow knights refused to say 'Avalon': it was a word from the before. Ado was with them on this one. Wouldn't say it. Wouldn't think it.

Nah. Bad juju. Even he had his limits.

"We'd… like your advice on something, Pen."

Novem's restless leg syndrome wasn't helping in the slightest. He shot his seneschal a peeved visor-stare, but the man just crossed his arms and turned away, evidently more interested in the conversational chatter gripping the theater. It was something of a spectacle, Ado had to admit; Saber's life seemed quite confusing, in an oddly humorous sort of way. But, in spite of their separation across time and space, his ancestor still lent him his aid. The other Ether Liners' continued interest in their movie-related discussions let the three of them escape to these seats in the far corner, to discuss more… concerning… topics.

"There's no need. Your suspicions are correct," Pen stated.

…

Novem's leg stopped its twitching.

Yeah, the Thirteenth scared him for a myriad reasons, and topping that long list was the simple fact of who the Seat's original owner was. Twelve knights, one king. Ado was Sir Mordred's direct descendant; simply put, the guard had changed. The two owners switched positions. But that wasn't to say he and Pen were distant relatives, or that his counterpart was loyal to King Arthur. Far be it.

No, the Thirteenth's storied history was far stranger than that.

"You're saying this is what we think it is?" Novem almost demanded. "That the Exodus worked, that we're—"

"No one here can say where we are or are not," Pen interrupted. "But the ritual succeeded. Getlam Air and Ginus Lon have gone to fulfill their sworn duties - that I can assure you. At what point each exits? Whether they remain themselves, or become part of a larger whole? The nature of their new existences? Questions bereft of answers."

The elderly knight's response just incensed Novem further, and for the first time, Ado was relieved their Grain had been stripped. The heat would've been insufferable otherwise… and the seneschal's seat would also be on fire. He cringed a bit beneath his helmet; best to avoid any undue property destruction, lest they angered the one with whom they'd curried favor. Assuming this was their domain, of course.

…

Wait, Pen just cautioned them against assuming their location. Ngh. He mentally apologized to anyone listening.

"Is there a chance Getlam won't remember?" Novem hissed.

The old veteran had seen it all before, knew he'd respond in such a way. To sum it up succinctly: Novem and Getlam were battle-brothers. Nigh inseparable, to the death and whatever came afterwards.

"A soul is a soul, and we consigned ours," Pen replied. "Listen, lads: there's simplicity in logical fallacies. We hadn't a need to understand the Aristoteles, because we couldn't. They hit us, we hit them. Now? Now we contend with something intelligent, something that does understand us, yet cannot muster a damn. That's the risk we took with this plan. We're lucky, I tell you, to enter this place still ourselves, with everyone accounted for. Think of how their Seats must feel. They've been beheaded like old Ysbaddaden himself."

Ah, yes. His father-in-law. In law, but not in heart. His beloved's freedom came the day she chose a new name for herself. A final severing of ties. Good riddance. Goreu deserved those lands fair and square.

Novem huffed, but relented nonetheless. "So we do what we've always done, then."

"Everyone, everyone! The next viewing is about to start! Please take your seats!"

Spark's grace, that insufferable—

Pen barked out a laugh.

"That's right, lad. We keep the faith."

And so the curtain fell.

…

Memelord Alaya presents:
The Padoru Incident

…

Special notice:
This recording is highly classified, and can potentially trigger multiple Chaldea personnel. Any and all Chaldea personnel (staff, Servants, otherwise) will be summarily dismissed if the Padoru Incident is mentioned within earshot of:

Ritsuka Fujimaru
Mash Kyrielight
Leonardo da Vinci
Artoria Pendragon (Saber)
EMIYA (Archer)
Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus
Any and all observing staff members (which was most of them)
Any and all computerized systems tasked with recording the Incident
Alayashiki (or, humanity's collective subconscious)
Gaia (or, the planet's collective subconscious)
The Root

Updated special notice:
Please just do not mention the Padoru Incident.
Management is terribly sorry she escaped her cage again and we'll do our best to reinforce the false vacuum Higgs field barriers.
Thank you for your understanding. Again, our sincerest apologies.

…

…

…

"Christmas is over, Saber. Why are you wearing that?"

Saber's head tilts as they walk, and the oversized Santa hat slides to one side. She readjusts it again for perhaps the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Whatever do you mean, Archer? In Camelot, Christmas celebrations continue until the new year. The festivities are far from over."

"I understand that, but—"

"Oi, oi! Lookin' good, Saber! Wear that with pride, y'hear? Bahahaha!"

Lancer passes them in the hallway. Archer whirls on him, expression contorted in agony.

"This doesn't concern you, Lancer!"

"Ehhh?" the Gael jeers. "Why, it's a compliment, Archer! Dontcha know that in this day 'n age, it's more than appropriate for a woman to wear her man's clothing! Ha! Bahaha!"

Saber adjusts the hat, time number six.

"I did not know a hat could be worn with pride, Lancer. I shall attempt to do as you suggest."

Archer drags his hand down his face. Lancer rounds the corner with a mocking wave.

She's constantly readjusting the hat because the hat is Archer's, and it doesn't fit Saber's smaller head. Saber lost her own in a singing competition against Lily the night before, and as previously discussed, Lily always wins. Everyone knows that singing ability inversely scales with the number of years one's ruled a country. Saber really should've known better, but alas, here they are, walking down one of Chaldea's many hallways to fulfill the author's romantic comedy quotas.

"Archer."

"Hm?"

"What did Lancer mean when he said, ''tis more than appropriate for a woman to wear her man's clothing'? Is that not the height of impropriety?"

His poor eye twitches quite fiercely. "Ah, well - times change, Saber. I suppose some people just enjoy crossdressing."

"—Eh?"

Archer's sarcasm matrix exceeds recommended values; the joke sails clean over Saber's head. She doesn't have time to ask a follow-up question, however, because they turn a corner and arrive at their destination: the central hub, where CHALDEAS and SHEBA work in tandem to monitor the world for distortions to proper human history. Coincidentally, it's also where missions are assigned to teams of Servants. The two walk through the sliding doors to find Fujimaru with his head in his hands, Kyrielight in veritable hysterics, and Leonardo da Vinci staring dead-eyed at the mission deployment terminal.

Archer hates this already, and he wants to go back to the kitchen.

"Is… everything alright, Master?"

Ritsuka shudders.

"NO! It's like episode 35 of Seed Destiny all over again! Just when I thought I was done with the stupidity, it comes right back!"

He punches the floor, wailing.

"I hate you, Jesus Yamato!"

Saber isn't amused. She crosses her arms and snorts.

"Kamen Rider is the superior franchise."

The Master gasps. "It is not! Your majesty, how could you?!"

"I speak only the—"

"HASHIRE SORI YO~!"

All conversation stops; something crashes into Archer's face. Royal blue engulfs his vision. What he hears embodies chaos.

"Turn it off! Turn it off!" Mash screeches.

"KAZE NO YOU NI~!"

"Working on it! Just… cover your ears!" da Vinci chokes out through her sobbing.

"TSUKIMIHARA WO~!"

"Why is it so loud!" cries Ritsuka. "This is worse than Gawain's Galatine spam!"

"It's okay! I'm here, senpai! We can suffer together!"

"Wah! Hold me, Mashu!"

Archer moves fast. He's memorized every inch of Chaldea's layout because that's totally necessary and not because he's desperately trying to avoid psychoanalyzing his feelings with Small Blonde Therapy King. He shuffles around to the back of the CHALDEAS terminal, and rummages through the disorganized mess until he finds - or hopes he's found - the red and white AV cables. Archer doesn't know for sure, because Small Blonde Therapy King is a cat, and his face is the tree branch she glomps when she's startled.

Also, please do not ask why CHALDEAS and SHEBA use obsolete AV cables.

"PADORU PA-DO-RUUUU—"

He pulls.

…

Something warm trickles out of his ears. Hmph. Ruptured eardrums, but at least it's stopped. He tries to speak, but finds that he can't.

Oh, he can't breathe. Right. Saber's thighs have his trachea in a deathlock, which he honestly somewhat likes and okay moving on. He taps her shoulder.

No response. Plan B. Archer brushes his index finger up the exposed nape of her neck.

"EEP!"

Saber lands nearly a foot away, face beet red, both hands interlocked tightly around the weak point only he knows about. Her trembling causes the Santa hat to slide down her forehead, time number seven, until it falls over her eyes. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Wha… wha… wha… wha…"

He doesn't want to deal with that right now, so he instead turns to Fujimaru, who—

Ohoho, Archer has blackmail.

"—Am I interrupting something, Master?"

If the two idiots separated any faster they'd break causality.

"N-No sir Mister Emiya sir!" he stammers.

Archer thumbs in the holographic Earth's direction.

"Hmph. What was that about?"

The Master scrambled to his feet, dusted himself off, cleared his throat.

"Y-Yeah, right, uh—someone miiiiight've stolen one of the Grails down in storage and miiiiight've created a… Christmas-themed… singu… w-why are you looking at me like that, Mr. Emiya?"

Archer Operating System: loading executable, 'everyone but me is incompetent'.exe. Firing.

"Who was guarding the storage area, Master?"

Ritsuka scratched his cheek nervously. "G-Gilgamesh and Enkidu?"

"And where were they?"

Mash raises her hand like a chastised schoolgirl. She carefully avoids making eye contact and blurts out the truth in a single breath.

"They-may-have-received-a-one-to-one-scale-City-of-Uruk-lego-set-for-Christmas—"

…

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Archer turns away for his own mental well-being. "And who was on backup guard duty?"

Ritsuka's lips quiver. "O-Ozymandias and Moses…"

"And where were they?"

Hand still raised, Mash's shoulders slump.

"They-may-be-trying-to-sabotage-Gilgamesh's-one-to-one-scale-City-of-Uruk-lego-set—"

Bam, crash. The walls shake.

"WAHAHAHAHA! YOU THOUGHT YOU WOULD BUILD THIS LEGO WORLD, KING OF HEROES, BUT IT WILL BE I! OZYMANDIAS!"

"ONORE! ONORE ONORE ONORE!"

Archer can't believe what he's hearing.

"And who gave him such an… egocentric present?"

"My other self did," Saber answers. It seems she's finally rebooted. "Saber Alter, I mean. She is the Santa this year."

Beep boop, logic error. Archer cleans his ear with his pinky.

"—Could you repeat that, Saber?"

Her face is impressively impassive.

"She was bribed."

…

Archer pushes a bit. "Bribed with what, exactl—"

"With a craft essence," she interrupts.

Gilgamesh has everything humanity's invented, after all, so a craft essence isn't particularly… wait, why didn't he just give himself the lego—whatever.

"Which craft esse—"

"Projection Magic."

…

Archer changes the subject.

"We'll take care of the singularity. Send us in."

The Master and his definitely-not-girlfriend both bend ninety degrees at the waist.

"Thank you so much!"
"Thank you so much!"

"It isn't a singularity yet," da Vinci corrects from her place at the terminal. "But it will be if we don't hurry! The Grail is resonating with… I'm not sure what this is, actually. Just go! It's coming from storage, we'll keep you updated!"

That's all they need to hear. The two Servants bolt out of the room and head for the nearest stairwell; an elevator will just slow them down, after all. Once they find the correct door, they throw themselves over the railing and drop like bricks all the way to the bottom floor. The basement of Chaldea is a subterranean complex unto itself, a massive labyrinth dedicated to the safe containment of various archaic relics. All have a use. Most are explosive. Not many know that last part, actually, only Upper Management and the senior Servants, and even then it's on a case to case basis. It'd be bad for morale if the squishy human staff knew their base of operations was in fact a giant unlit bomb.

Saber and Archer have both been around long enough to know the exact route to the particular area housing the unused Grails. Thankfully, the one charging the strange pseudo-singularity is the last to be used; it's something of a taboo subject. Fujimaru doesn't like talking about it - something about 'Skadi won't come home' and 'the summoning system is rigged'. Well, no matter. Saber kicks down the door, Archer follows behind, and the two stop in their tracks.

There's something else in here. A small something, that barely reaches Archer's kneecaps.

"Moshi moshi, are you the janitors I requested, burunya~?"

[PAUSED]

And the Ether Liners regret watching this omake in particular.

"I think I'm gonna be sick."

"That is by far the ugliest A-Ray I have ever seen."

"Okay, the deformed eyes I can accept, but where are its fingers? You guys see that, right? Its hands are perfect spheres!"

The video is paused, but that doesn't exactly matter to an eldritch tenth-dimensional devourer of worlds. The cat-thing's head swivels to the audience occupying the pocket reality's theater.

"Mnyoho, talkin' shit, nya?"

"What in the fu—"

The Memelord bursts into the room and beelines for the remote.

"Sorry, excuse me! Pardon me, emergency procedures! Oh jeez, oh dear!"

[RESUMED]

Archer rubs his eyes.

"—Am I intoxicated?"

It is literally standing on the wall. It was on the floor a second ago, but no, gravity just doesn't matter anymore, that's fine too.

"Ghost Liners can't get drunk, nyahahooo!"

Its voice is one thousand nails on a chalkboard, if the chalkboard was also on fire. Saber squints suspiciously.

"What are you?"

Now it's reclining on Archer's head. Its tail swishes. "I am a Negatronic Entanglement Calamity Observer - Acute Reaction Class. Call me Neco-Arc!"

Archer tries to swat the thing off his head, but only finds empty air. An annoyed huff parts his lips.

"That acronym doesn't mean anything."

Neco-Arc's head pops out of his collar. "That kinda hurts, nya."

He attempts another grab, but can't seem to connect. She - is it a she? - is too fast, even for a Servant. Just like that, she's back in the middle of the room, bouncing in place.

"This creature must be a result of the singularity," Saber postulates. Neco-Arc claps her stubby little hands.

"Wahoo! Nyeah, oh nyeah! As expected of the face of the franchise, burunya! I'm here to make sure you guys have what it takes to deal with this problem, nya!"

Nothing the creature says makes an ounce of sense, but that's never stopped Archer in the past. He's used to copious amounts of illogical bullshit.

"And why should we play along with whatever it is you're asking?"

Neco-Arc throws a gang sign.

"Because otherwise yer gonna fuckin' die, ya punk-ass bi-nya-tch."

…

Archer drops his head into his palm. Saber shimmies closer to her companion.

"Archer, I must admit that this creature makes me quite uncomfortable."

"I… really couldn't agree more…"

It takes a bit for him to regain his bearings. When he does, he raises his head, and finds that Neco-Arc has quite literally remained frozen in her gang sign pose. She isn't even breathing. He grits his teeth.

"Why… would we die, Neco… Arc…"

And then she's riding his shoulder, whispering conspiratorially into his ear. Her fingerless hand points to the door at the far end.

"'Cause through there is a room of padorus, nya. A walkin' apocnyalipse! If ya ain't prepared, they'll chew ya up an' spit ya out like a bad furball, mfufu!"

Neither of the Servants know what a 'padoru' is, and at this point they're too frustrated to care. Saber summons Excalibur to her side and, with her hands on its pommel, pushes its tip into the floor.

"—Very well," she bites out. "Explain to us how we must prepare."

The creature is back in the center of the room, performing a one-handed handstand.

"By recognizin' two Hard Truths, nya! One for the both of ya! If you can do that, you'll be ready to face the apocnyalipse!"

And then she freezes. Her voice gets very quiet.

"If you fail, the Root blows up."

…

"What?"
"What?"

The cat-thing blinks. "What, nya? Okay! Are ya ready, kids? Nyahooo!"

They really just do not want to be in that room anymore.

"…Ready…"
"A-Aye…"

"Nyokay~! Hard Truth numba one is a question for Mista Broody-Moody over there!"

Freeze frame. Camera zoom. Neco eye squint.

"Was Ciel a good lay?"

…

…

"—Eh?"

Saber is all smiles. An innocent, happy smile. She turns to her companion. The Santa hat sides a bit to one side.

"Eh?" she repeats. "Archer? What is a 'Ciel', and why did you lie with it? I am not sure I understand what that creature means."

Archer's so damn pale he's almost reverted to his original skin tone. He gets a fair bit paler when Neco-Arc takes a seat on Saber's hands. The hands that are, uh, still wrapped around Excalibur's pommel.

"Ciel's a broad from the Holy Church, nya. One of its Execnyators. Who do ya think gave him that gaudy getup? Nyaha! She's got a honkin' pair, too, nya! Lot bigger than yours! Not as big as mine though, mfu."

Ruh roh, Scoobs. Saber's quite cheerful!

"—Archer? Archer?" She slides into his personal space, eyes closed, her smile radiant. "Whatever does it mean, Archer?"

"I s-s-settled!" he blurts. "She was not my first choice! Just a mission! A one night stand!"

Tap, tap, tap, goes Saber's finger on the magical weapon of mass destruction.

"Hmm? And thy Mystic Code?"

He flinches. "I-It's necessary for my duties!"

"I see," she hums. "Were I to provide thee with… hm, a suit of armor with the same properties? Which wouldst thou prefer?"

"T-The suit, naturally!"

"Truly? Thou art not lying?"

"I—!"

He cuts off and turns away, a lump in his throat.

"I… would never lie to you."

Archer's sudden vulnerability both gives her pause and an opportunity. She slides from his side to his front, and then presses her back up against his chest. Her eyes stay on the floor.

"—If you were to see her again?"

Her voice is a whisper; he hears her plain as day. He, too, stares straight over her.

"I would… thank her, and respectfully decline."

…

"The sexual tension is palpable, nya. Answer the question, Broody McMoody!"

They're both blushing. How cute.

"She was inexperienced," he bites out.

Neco-Arc is on his head again, leaning over into his face, tail wagging in presumed victory.

"So you're sayin' she's hot trash, nya. Bad rhythm, shakes her hips like Chaos beggin' for an alligator shnyadow dick?"

Uh.

"What? No, I—"

"WAHOO! I KYNEW IT! SHIKI'S AS GOOD AS MINE, NYA!"

Well, there goes their hearing. Again. Neco-Arc's somehow swimming through thin air now, though admittedly her backstroke has great form. She locks eyes with Saber.

"Hard Truth numba two, for the nyatural-born village bumpkin! What's yer name, sweet cheeks?"

What, that easy? Saber blinks.

"—My name? 'Tis Saber."

"Yer hopeless, nya. Try again!"

Her eyebrows furrow. "Arthur. Artorius."

Neco-Arc's eyes flash red.

"My nyeX-ray vision tells me you've got a va-gi-NYA! Nyahaha!"

Archer steps in front of Saber, arms crossed and eyebrows twitching, while the poor girl's hands drop Excalibur and rush to cover herself. She's beet red and humiliated.

"M-My n-n-name… is, um… A-Ar…t-tori…"

"Nyope."

…

Now they're just confused. Neco-Arc swims closer, leering.

"That's nyot what the Root says, mfu."

Archer's eyes narrow. He's not sure where this is going, but his warning bells are ringing nice and loud.

"Explain."

The cat-thing is right on top of them.

"The Root says her name is Altri—nrgk—!"

…

…

In the grand multiverse, Neco-Arc sits at the top. Nothing is stronger or more powerful - but scant few things can get close, under the right circumstances. And among those things, nothing grants a more potent temporary power spike—

"—Hoh?"

—than Archer's Tsundere Boyfriend Energy.

He offers the creature a calming smile, soft and relaxed, even as his hands clamp down on her throat. Neco-Arc's eyes bug out of her skull, but the Servant doesn't seem to care. He brings her right up to his face.

"I see, I see. That is a 'hard truth'. But, could I offer one of my own? Ha. Haha."

Tighter and tighter he squeezes.

"My question is: does the Root speak English?"

Neco-Arc pats at his hands, but when he doesn't release or let up the pressure, she squeaks out an answer.

"Nyooooo…"

"Ha. I see, I see. And, does the Root speak Latin?"

"Nyooooo…!"

"Ah! Interesting! Then, allow me to correct the Root's records, hm? Proper pronunciation is important, of course, and it seems there has been a mistake."

Archer's head tilts, ever so slightly.

"Her name is pronounced, Artoria."

And just like that, Neco-Arc vanishes from whence she came. The door on the other end of the room slides open; music blares through the entrance, along with flashing lights and some very loud, very obnoxious lyrics.

"PA! PADO - PADORUUUU! PADO - PADORUUUU!"

All at once, Archer slumps, but it lasts a scant second. He steels himself to his duties and takes a step forward - or he would have, had Saber not grabbed his sleeve.

"S-Shirou? Um…"

He heaves a sigh. "Hm?"

"I-If… i-if what that creature said is true, t-then… then why…? Should you n-not… u-um—"

"Artoria is a beautiful name."

"…!"

…

The hand falls away. Saber quickly maneuvers to the side, Excalibur firm in her grip, and marches for the door and the bootleg Christmas bash beyond. She's careful to not let him see her face, but in truth it doesn't matter: her beaming smile is downright impossible to hide. She walks right in.

"FRANCHISEE!"

[record scratch]

"U-Umu?"

"Return the Grail at once, and submit yourself to justice!"

"Umu! It's the fuzz! Get her, padorus!"

"Hashire sori yooo~! Kaze no you niii~!"
"Hashire sori yooo~! Kaze no you niii~!"
"Hashire sori yooo~! Kaze no you niii~!"
"Hashire sori yooo~! Kaze no you niii~!"

"Very well! Have it your way!"

"Tsukimihara woooo~!"
"Tsukimihara woooo~!"
"Tsukimihara woooo~!"
"Tsukimihara woooo~!"

"EXSUUUUUUUU—!"

Archer turns away and covers his eyes. He heaves an almighty groan.

"…Should've been a lawyer."

"PADORU PA-DO-RUUUU~!"
"PADORU PA-DO-RUUUU~!"
"PADORU PA-DO-RUUUU~!"
"PADORU PA-DO-RUUUU~!"

"—CARIBAAAAAAAAAA!"

[System update: the rest of this recording has been censored due to gratuitous and excessive violence.]

---

Confusion Corner

type motherfuckin' jupiter
The entire first flashback - err, flashforward? - sequence is essentially a 2.5k word expansion of this singular canon!Notes side entry:

Black Aristotle

[ type:jupiter ]

An Aristoteles that appeared in the western continent.
A black giant several dozen kilometers in size. Its form was pretty close to a human.
It was actually a group of black photon gas, and theoretically its size can expand infinitely. It carries a unknown core in its center that can only be described as an artificial sun, and the gases are emitted from this object.
Of the 8 Aristoteles, it eliminated the most living things. The western continent went on an all out battle, and it wiped them out without a scar. …Although there's probably no such thing as a scar to this Aristoteles.
After this incident, a team of Knights were sent to the western continent. After a fierce battle, it was sliced into half by the demonic sword of Knight Edem, the Slash Emperor. The chopped artificial sun went berserk and burned the whole western continent.

[ Angel Voice: Notes. ]

There's long been this lingering idea that Ado faced down Jupiter alone, but according to the entry, he only struck the final, killing blow. Hence the Fateless scene, where we see the last moments of the conflict through Bedwyr's - Getlam Air's - perspective, as he and his men of the Eighth Seat fight the Aristotele to the death.

Speaking of Ado...

They who began it all
As always, we start with the lore. This time, from Culhwch ac Olwen:

Arthur took a gold comb, and [a pair] of shears with silver loops upon it, and he combed his hair. He asked who he was.

Spoke Arthur: "My heart is growing fond towards you. I know you are sprung from my blood. Tell [me] who you are."

"I will tell [you]. Culhwch son of Cilydd son of Celiddon Wledig, from Goleuddydd daughter of Anlawd, my mother."

Spoke Arthur: "That [must be] true. You are a kinsman of mine. Name what you would name [for a boon], whatever might be named by your head and your tongue."

The following is a list of thematic similarities Culhwch and Ado Edem share:

- Their stories officially began their universes, and propelled things to the next level. Culhwch's started the Arthurian legends, Ado's started the Nasuverse, and everything before either was disjointed, unrelated and separate. These stories mark the change from "conceptual" to "this is a thing".
- Both act as the primordial heroes within their respective stories.
- Both do not feature prominently in their respective stories. Both have little dialogue.
- Their stories primarily focus on other characters. Culhwch's focuses on Arthur's knights, Ado's focuses on Gun God.
- Both serve within a company of knights. Both do not stand out from their peers until they are forced into exceptional, unusual circumstances.
- The weapons of both affect the atmosphere. Slash Emperor burns away Pluto's blood to reveal the blue sky. What does Culhwch's battle axe do? Well, to quote the passage verbatim: "Blood from the wind it could draw."
- The true enemies in both stories are giant and supernatural. Culhwch fights the giant Ysbaddaden, Ado fights the Aristoteles.
- Both stories are prototypical, and the concepts they originated are iterated, expanded upon, and reinterpreted in later stories within their respective universes.
- Both heroes have mostly been lost to the annals of history, and it's quite rare for modern fans of their respective universes to know who they are or what they've done.

To that end, if I am going to link all of this together, it's only appropriate and logical that I go one step further and combine both of these forgotten heroes into one person. On their own, both Culhwch and Ado Edem are more concepts than characters. It's my hope that, as Fateless' Ado Edem, those separate concepts and ideas can piggyback off each other and be elevated to the next level, while still maintaining the utmost respect for their individual legends. I thought long and hard about this idea when I was first outlining Fateless, and I found that their two stories mesh quite well together; it certainly helps that we know next to nothing about Ado, of course, but if I found any points of confliction, I would've never done this. I didn't make the decision lightly.

Deconstructing these two heroes, studying what makes them them, and then fusing those pieces together into a single individual produces an interesting result:

The last of the Pendragons; an Emiya who is not Kiritsugu's father, Kiritsugu, or Shirou; and Avalon's final user. Everything about the guy fits the bill from an aesthetic and thematic standpoint, from the armor he wears (that squiggle totally looks like up-armored Archer garb, I swear, look at the butt cape! it's the same butt cape!) to the weapon he uses (tell me Excalibur and Slash Emperor don't fill the same niche of "alien slayer") to the world he inhabits.

And honestly? I'm happy with how things turned out, I am. Despite his feats, canon!Ado doesn't have a single goddamn line of dialogue. He isn't even in Notes proper. Like the rest of his compatriots, he's a blank slate with no confirmed personality. All he has is a name and a weapon. He's fascinated me for years at this point, so eventually I went, "I wanna try my hand at it." And let's be real here, it's not like anyone else is writing Notes fanfiction, lmao.

I hope you guys like the result. I've tried real hard to make him... well, a person.