Author's note, June 30, 2022:

hello hello hello hello it's been six months lmao i am SO sorry

Chapter 30 updates alongside the single largest clarity pass in Fateless' history. Every chapter has received at least one thing from this list: timeline tags; internal consistency edits; dialogue tags; spellchecks; minor rewrites intended to smooth over rough patches; and other miscellaneous edits. The rougher first chapters - 1 through 17 - have received most of my focus, but the later chapters haven't gone untouched. Also I updated the summary. Again. nghhhhh

In addition to the clarity pass, I've replaced every chapter's author's note (Chapters 1 and 30 excluded) with optional end-of-chapter footnotes called Confusion Corners. As the name implies, Confusion Corners are intended to lessen the burden of knowledge placed on Fateless' readers, and they discuss everything from the source materials Fateless uses, to the various interpretations of said sources fueling this story, to analyses and discussions of characters involved and why they're behaving as they are. The mileage gained from the Confusion Corners depends on the individual reader's preexisting knowledge base - namely, how familiar they are with the Nasuverse and IRL Arthurian lore, the two big sources that Fateless uses. Someone who has read every single Arthurian story ever written (which is unlikely), for example, will probably get less out of them than someone who has only watched Fate/stay night's various anime adaptations.

I've grown to dislike Fateless' reputation as a story with an astronomically high barrier to entry, and this is my way of counteracting it. The dream is for someone with a doctorate in Nasuology and a total newcomer to both equally enjoy what this story has to offer. Whether it'll work remains to be seen, but I truly have given it my best shot.

Some of the Confusion Corner entries are fairly long (I think some of the ones covering Notes are over 2k words lmao), and I've made a serious effort at spreading things out to lessen the potential information overload. Much of that length comes from directly copy-pasting the various sources fueling Fateless' madness. I wish there was some other way to go about it, but ffnet doesn't allow links, ugh.

Regardless, it's been six months since the last update. If you're looking to reread to refresh your memory, now's the time. Starting with Chapter 30, I'm hoping to perhaps add a Q&A/FAQ section to these as well, so please leave comments or ask questions! My intent is to edit selected questions and their answers into the Confusion Corners after the fact, so everything stays focused and self-contained. They primarily focus on the biggest pain points - Notes and the IRL Arthurian mythos - and I'm certain something's fallen through the cracks somewhere, but if you've reread the story like three times and are still asking yourself what an Ether Liner is, or if you want to know more about the Excalibur/Caledfwlch relationship, or if you just want to see me ramble about my reasons for doing this or that, then these things'll be your best friends.

Thank you to all the people who continue to wait for these updates so patiently, and as always, I hope you enjoy!


In the wake of Uther Pendragon's siege and occupation of Castle Tintagel - in the wake of the late Lady Igraine's rape - Duke Gorlois built his realm into an impenetrable fortress of iron, stone and weaponry. He spared no expense. He hired the greatest craftsmen, enlisted the best smiths he could find. He gave them all a home in Isca Dumnoniorum and paid them well. He negotiated with his son-in-law, King Lot, using his daughter Morgause as a go-between. Lot agreed to send his children, his sons - because Gareth insisted she was a son - to Dumnonia, to Cornwall, so they might all gain much needed experience in the warlike arts. Upon victory over the Pendragons, they'd have kingdoms of their own. It was a win-win situation.

Agravain respected his grandfather greatly, and soon proved himself the most capable. Gawain, Gareth and Gaheris took well to the battlefield, but in politics they lacked and lagged. Not Agravain. He lived for the negotiations, for the trade, for winning the war before a blow was struck. And winning the war they were. They'd recouped the losses suffered at the hands of the spawn's eldritch Servant. They had the mercenary Arthur Emiya in pursuit. Gawain and Lancelot were overdue for their return and report, aye, but Agravain had confidence in his—

Agravain coughed.

He allowed himself the single cough.
He fought the incoming fit, the urge to gag and choke.
He braced his arm against the keep's stone wall.
He balled a hand into a fist and covered his mouth.
He took one deep, slow breath.

With the sleeve of his tunic, he wiped the silver muck from his lips.

Weakness was not permissible.

Plague had struck Isca. Plague had struck Tintagel. At the height of their power, disease brought the people low. Quite a few had succumbed to the lung-mud, as they had taken to calling it. Agravain wasn't religious; the sickly villagers decried it an act of God, of the Lord's imminent return. It started in the chest and soon impaired the breath, and as the infected grew weaker spread out across the body into festering, discolored tumors. It appeared from nowhere, the cause: unknown. Most blamed the Devil and Pendragon in equal measure. After all, they were one and the same.

But Agravain cared not about the cause; Agravain wanted the yet unknown remedy. Because his people were dying, and the longer they waited, the closer the Servant would get. Without Emiya they stood no chance - and that was assuming an army in perfect health, with high morale. It was pure luck that the Duke avoided the worst of it, and the news of his survival and fair condition kept the people going. Cloth-covered physicians attended him at every hour, their garbs slick with oils and herbs, but Agravain wasn't here to see the Duke.

No. Agravain was worried—

"Gaheris, how is she?"

—about their sister.

Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bang. Bang. Bang.

The dull noise filtered from the locked room into the corridor. Repetitive, constant, ceaseless.

Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bang. Bang. Bang.

On the noise's wake came the crazed chanting. It started as a whisper, and then grew louder.

"…my head…ut of…head…"

Gaheris swallowed, his face pale, muck dribbling from his lips. He didn't move from his curled up position to the left of the iron door.

To the left of the dungeon door.

"'Tis in her mind," he choked.

"—out of my head out of my head GET OUT OF MY HEAAAAAAD—"


"Artoria! 'Tis not healthy! Let us in! Artoria!"

Silence, silence, silence, silence!

"Open this door! We do not have time! Artor—"

I said be quiet!

—I barricade the sliding door.
Furniture, decorations and wall ornaments become the makeshift barrier keeping the Lancers locked away.
Urgently they pound against the entrance.
But…

"Breathe, child."

But I am in control. Aye, I am in control.
Not them. Not King Arthur.
Let us see how they like the mental suppression.
I swallow, I focus.
And over time their lamentations soften until they are barely heard over my own breathing.

The minute euphoria of the moment almost gives me the giggles.
'Tis just a minor success, aye, but one worthy of an equally minor celebration.
This mental representation is at last mine. Just mine!
I have won for myself my very own slice of Shirou's mansion.

"…I am still here."

—W-Well. Almost just mine.
It seems I am getting a little bit ahead of myself.
My lips quiver around my sheepish grin.

"Th-Thank you as always, Salter."

My paler self harrumphs.
"I much preferred it when you called me Saber."

I pointedly ignore that line of thought.
I would rather not think of that particular individual.
…At least, not right now.
I have yet to figure out how to deal with her.
So the topic is shifted.

"Are you certain the lance cannot find us here?"

She lifts a fine brow.
"Do you fear it so?"

"Fear it? Of course I fear it!" I snap.
"Why would I not fear becoming a slave?! Just touching it almost—"

"It is gone from this world," Salter interrupts.

I point a tense finger at the mental blockade.

"But they are still tainted! They held it for, what, twenty years? And in that time it turned them into… into overfilled harlots! To say nothing of whatever influence it might have over their minds! And now that poison is inside me!"

She sighs. She actually sighs!
Why does she sigh?! 'Tis a valid concern!
Those two are more… more fat than muscle! Aye!
I cannot fathom them attempting to squeeze into metal armor!
Imagine the prodding! The pinching!
Why, my back aches simply thinking about it!
Furthermore, Shirou—

"Perhaps you have indeed been corrupted, if your opinions of their physicality stem from Shirou's perceived attractions."

—I very much ignore the heat burning my ears.
Salter graces me with a leering smirk.
She spends a moment to bask in my indignity.

"Regardless, 'tis a pointless line of thinking," she continues at last.
"They are no more vessels of the Tower than our own knowledge is. Rarely do words scrawled on a tome bear the magical influence needed to corrupt one's body and mind."

Eh? I blink, flummoxed.
"What do you mean?"

Salter rests her cheek on a fist, humming.
She fiddles with a red fabric lock on her Shirou plushie's head.

"We are summoned as Saber, Artoria, due to us holding Excalibur when we made our contract with the World. Per King Arthur's legend we depart to Avalon in both body and soul; such prevents our presence in the Throne, and the recording of our weaponry. With no Heroic Spirit to call our own, then… how were the Lancers summoned? How do they hold Rhongomyniad, impaled as it was in Sir Mordred's chest?"

My gut twists at the mention of Medraut's demise.
How I wish for her to remain ignorant of our other lives.
The look upon her face were she to learn—
Nay. Nay, later. Now is not the time.

"What are you saying?" I ask.
"That they are fakes? Imposters?"

"That their presence here is unusual," Salter corrects.
"As is the other Saber's, were I to entertain the assumption that she was also a Servant of that place called Chaldea. That Altered Lancer in particular confounds me. We are summoned as Saber always, yet she smells of the Grail's taint."

I see where this line of thinking leads.
Must I? The last thing I currently desire is…
—Tch.
I glower at the offending door.

"She can stay in there, for all I care," I grouse.

Salter lifts a regal brow.
She obviously does not care for my hesitance.

"We all have our moments of weakness, Artoria."


I wince.
Some more than others.

"We at least learned from our mistakes…!"

"Aye," she confirms.
"Which means she can learn from hers, as well. There is only so much I can tell you of that knave Claudas. I know nothing of the Lancers. Our answers lie elsewhere. We wish to learn, do we not? She is the next step. Do not forget why we are here."

She ends the conversation there.
I steel myself. Ngh, that girl, that naive girl…
Why must I be the mature one?
—I said it myself, did I not?
'Tis time for me to grow up.
For Shirou's sake, if nothing else.

And I did come here to learn more about that man, Claudas.
The one assailing Aquae Arnemetiae.
I doubt I have the time to entertain my childish grudges.
—Nay! They are not childish! They are very much warranted grudges! Hmph!

Nevertheless, our return trip has gone much faster.
We move with the speed of Servants, now, and are making no efforts to hide ourselves from potentially watchful eyes.

'Tis all due to Merlin.
Before we left, she claimed there were people trapped within the town.
People we must rescue. That they are important.
From the little I remember of Claudas, I fail to see how anyone could survive.

Well, in truth, I surely remember much.
I - the other me. I think. Me over there? Me back then?
Oh, heavens, whatever!
Saber! I must ask Saber!
—Though I would much prefer otherwise.

Scowling, I cross the room, and rest my hand on the sliding door.
I take a breath. I gather my wits.
Was I too harsh on her?
Nay. I think not. She deserved this.

"…Saber? I am entering."

I open the door to a pitch black room.
The television is on, frozen with a singular image.
And there she sits in the far corner.
The screen's light paints her skin far paler than normal.
Her knees reach her chest, she clutches her plushie between frail arms.
A small child she is, frozen in time.
Quivering.

The image is of Shirou. Broken, determined Shirou.
Of him over her, over me, the Azoth held above his head.
Of his eyes, pained.
Of his lips pulled back in a broken grimace.

—This is her punishment.
As Salter learned of Saber's war…

"Saber…"

…so too must Saber learn of Salter's.
I give her shoulder a gentle shake.

"Saber, I am here."

She gives no response.
I cannot say I am surprised, truthfully.
They are different sides of my person, these other me's, loath though I am to admit it.
Salter is my foundational pragmatism, which makes Saber my lofty idealism.
Even now, some small part of me believes I can have it all.
I can win the Grail, save my kingdom, and have Shirou by my side.

That small part of me has tears in her eyes.
She crushes the plushie against her chest.
Her horrified stare stretches into the great beyond.

"'Tis unfair," I hear her murmur. "'Tis unfair, 'tis unfair…"

Aye, 'tis unfair.
We are by no means worthy of the happiness we seek.
Our responsibilities are too grand, our duties too severe.
The solution, then, is to choose. I cannot have everything.
I sink to my knees before her, to block the television's grief.

"Do you remember Merlin's question? That thing he asked us, when we were granted Excalibur?"

Saber refuses to meet my eye. So be it.
As long as she participates.

"He wished to know which we valued more," she bites out.

Her pain is my pain.
'Tis the tightness in my chest, the ache in my head.
I take a breath.

"And what did we answer?"

Her back straightens against the wall.
"That the sword has more import."

"And were we correct?"

"Nay. He told us to value the scabbard."

My hands trail from her shoulders down her arms.
They meet at the plushie she holds.

"And what are you valuing right now, Saber?"

—She stills.
Her mind is working. I know it is.
She is me. She reaches the same conclusions.
Salter has. I have. She will.
I am me. She is me. We are me.
…I am not quite sane, am I?
Well. 'Tis fine.

"The scabbard, I suppose," she mutters.

I press my advantage.
I shift my body so she might again see the television.

"What happens when we choose the sword?"

"We lose the scabbard."

"Why?"

Why? Why? Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why—

Her snarl is broken.
"Because it is stolen from us!"

The television cracks.

Morgan.
Rin.
Sakura.
Alaya.

"Why is it stolen?" I prod.
"How is it stolen?"

She sees it now. Her eyes grow frenzied.
She sees it in his face, in his clenched teeth.
Beneath the grief. Beneath the desperation.
Beneath the madness. Beneath the fragility.

"From under our noses!" Saber seethes.
"When our eyes gaze elsewhere! Because we do not watch it! We do not recognize its importance!"

There is only greed.

I grab her face. I lean in close.
I stare into my own eyes.
I see my hatred, and my grief, and my passion.
I see the same things reflected in his own as he freed me of that curse.

I was in his way.
They are in my way.

My voice is a whispering hiss.
"What is the sword?"

And hers is, as well.
"The sword is death!"

"What is the scabbard?"

"The scabbard is life!"

"What happens when we lose the scabbard?"

"We die! We fail! We are abandoned!"

"What happens when we keep it?"

"In another life, Artoria…"

Her pupils dilate. Her fangs bare.
"We win!"

Our foreheads touch.
Light streams through the television's cracks.
This is who I am. I want to be like him.
I want to be the one he seeks.
I want to be Saber.

"What do I want?" I ask myself.

"I want my Avalon!" myself replies.

I do not deserve him. I know that.
I leave his side. I betray him.
My actions birth a storm that rips his soul asunder.

But he is the light.

In these frigid wastes I travel, he is my guiding star.
He is my warmth.
He is the oasis in the desert.
I won him.
I won him.

If I have to live every waking moment knowing I am worthless, so be it.
We understand each other. He can choose one person.
I saw it with my own two eyes.
He threw it all away for her.

Which means I can do the same.
I will do the same.

"So if Claudas stands in the way…"


"…then I will kill him first."

His fingers pull my cheek.
"Whatever you say, little miss bloodthirsty."

I return from my meditation to find Shirou assailing me with concentrated sarcasm.
'Tis an unfortunate situation.
Therefore, I do what I must:

I pout.

"I am not bloodthirsty!"

"Hm? But you're threatening violence, Saber. Again."

I shift in his lap, cross my arms, and push my back further into his chest.
Ngh, my cuirass is bothersome.
It prevents me from feeling his warmth.
I suppose this dreadful heat from over the hill's horizon shall have to accommodate.

"Claudas deserves it, Shirou. The man is a brute."

My attempts to wring from him a smile are notably lackluster.
Perfectly understandable, I think.
Neither am I in a jovial mood.
Not when the sky burns orange and belches flame.

"We're in agreement there," Shirou grunts.
"Did you remember anything we can use?"

I scowl and blow a stray lock out of my eye.
Already my forehead is slick with sweat.
—Do I smell? I hope he does not mind.
Argh. Later. After I murder that Frankish cur.

"Aye. When Claudas attacks, he—"

"Saber! Sister!"

My loathsome masculine self barrels in through the treeline, the witch at his side.
He holds his sword in a death grip.
The lines of his forehead are drawn tight.
'Tis a look with which I am heinously familiar.
I wore it often myself.
'The village folk are dying again,' I believe I called it.

"We've little time," Arthur implores.
"Much of the town is destroyed. The enemy has taken to pillaging. Come!"

Well, I suppose I must give him some credit.
He at least came back to us.
I half expected him to face Claudas' men alone.

I look over my shoulder. Shirou stills at my expression.
Mfufu, I forgot I could do that!

"Protect thy lap," I drawl.

He sighs. Ha! Victory!

"Yes, your majesty."

And so, I mournfully relinquish the warmth.
He is quite the fire pit, I have learned.
Or perhaps… what was it called?
Fuyuki, Fuyuki—
Ah! A furnace! Aye, aye!
He is a furnace!

Regret stabs at me, then.
I realize I do not know if he is naturally warm.
That is, whether he has always been so…
…Or whether it is due to his status as a Grand.
And there is no way for me to know the truth, either.
Because I never endeavored to learn.
How much else did I ignore during my pursuit for the—

Cool metal touches my shoulder.
'Tis Shirou's ashen gauntlet.
I wish it was his hand.
My eyes lift to the black of his visor.

Ngh, must he?
We… we still have some time left, surely!

"What were you saying? About Claudas?"

The helmet muffles his familiar tenor.
Is this life the longest he has stayed at my side?
Mere weeks, and here it is months.

"A-Ah, aye," I murmur.
"When Claudas attacks, he shall do so with his century."

Shirou's suspicious scowl is easily pictured.
"…That's it? I was expecting a cohort, at least…"

Arthur lessens his pace until he is by my side.
"What is a century?"

His tone is almost demanding, but in this, I forgive him.
He is considering all variables, I know.
The landscape, tactical options, delegation of responsibilities.
Appropriate for an army, perhaps, but…

W-Well! My Saber is an army!
—Is that something to be proud of?

"'Tis a unit of the Imperial military," I explain.
"Between eighty and one hundred men, thereabouts… but knowing Claudas, his shall be double strength."

Arthur's scowl reveals his worry, but it is soon masked.
"'Imperial'? We face an empire…?"
And then, recognition.
"Ah! Are these the men of the city called Rome?"

"They are," Shirou answers.

Arthur nods.
"I was taught this empire recently collapsed. That I would return to my father's lands besieged by chaos and strife. That the people are tormented."

I cannot help myself.
"And you wish to save them."

I phrase it as the statement I know it to be.
And surely, as expected, the emotions Arthur wears make my skin crawl.
Why must I always look into mirrors?
That smile, that naive, beautiful crinkle in his eyes' corners.

"Aye. I do."
The idealism departs as quickly as it came.
He takes a breath, and turns to steel.
"Tell me of this man who assails my people, this Claudas."

King of the Berry, the Lands Laid Waste.
So called due to the destruction wrought by…

I wince.
"He is… a man of many grudges."

…by King Uther Pendragon.

"Our… father, King Uther, held alliances with kings of the mainland across the channel, the lands called Gaul. These kings, Ban and Bors the Elder, were brothers, and held the northern territories. Claudas hails from the Berry, a region of Gaul further south, and his father, Childeric, warred against Bors and Ban incessantly. As punishment, King Uther burned Childeric's lands to the ground and hounded him due east across Gaul, to their homelands of Tournai. Claudas watched King Uther end his father in open combat. He ascended Childeric's throne at age fifteen."

Arthur listens to our esteemed family's history in deathly silence.
We continue to ascend the hill overlooking Aquae Arnemetiae.
The heat licks at my face, but that is not what scares me.

I cannot hear the screams of the townsfolk.

Arthur turns to Shirou next.
"—Do you know of this man as well, Saber?"

Shirou turns to me in askance.
I scowl, but nod.

"Where I'm from, Claudas is known by his alternative name: Clovis I, the first king of what my people call France. It's said he's managed to unify all the different Frankish tribes under one king. At this rate, any dynasty he establishes could last centuries."

I see Arthur's mind absorbing the information.

"Then he makes for a dangerous enemy," he says.
"He comes to my lands out of passion, and delivers to my people the same trauma my father gave to his. Our differences may already be irreconcilable, and I have yet to meet him. 'Tis a shame."

—I have exquisite taste in men. Sharp of wit, quick of tongue.
My knights, I love them, truly. They are family.
But 'twas excruciatingly painful to rely solely on Agravain in matters concerning the nobility.
Shirou and his tact are a godsend.

"I am afraid to say, my king, that diplomacy was never an option."

We turn as one to Merlin, who awaits us near the top of the hill.
Her red eyes flick to Shirou.
The simple act makes my stomach cramp.

"Archer," she drones.
"Claudas and his men are Apostles."

Shirou freezes in his tracks.
His armored fingered clamp down tight on my and Arthur's shoulders.
I realize with a start that I do not know what an 'Apostle' is.
And that mere fact is very concerning.

My Saber is a suit of armor.
Again he is Archer.
A janitor cleaning a mess.

"What stages?" he demands.

Merlin seems to know he shan't like the answer.
"His men are Inferiors and Superiors."

And she is right.
Shirou's tense shoulders betray his disbelief.
"All of them?! Merlin, it seems unlikely that his subordinates would be the highest ranks of—"

"Claudas is greater still," she interrupts.
"You should know that he is of the eighth stage. He is a Successor."

"…What…?"

His voice is a terrified whisper.
It tells the truth: that we now face something the Archer never did.
'Tis the first fight against the Crystal once again.

My mind recalls at once the crystalline tendril piercing his arm and shoulder.
The blades of his reality marble erupting from his flesh—

—Nay.

I shall not entertain a similar result.
I force myself between him and the witch.

"Shirou, what is an Apostle?"

He seems almost lost.
As though his world has flipped.

"A Dead Apostle is a vampire," he clarifies.
"Ciel taught me the ropes a long time ago, but she made it clear that the seventh stage, a 'Superior Dead Apostle', was the strongest they could get. An eighth stage isn't—it's not the way this works. I've never seen a Superior. I saw a sixth stager once, a few years before I… yeah. Couldn't sleep for a week."

Wonderful. We fight against the undead.
Am I at risk of—

"Merlin, are we vulnerable to vampiric corruption?"

Arthur does not mince words.
I feel Shirou's fingers tighten minutely on my shoulder.

"Archer is safe," Merlin tells us.
"And between thine draconian natures and the scabbard's presence, I daresay the two of you are, as well."

—I release my held breath. Good. Aye, good.
But Arthur's scowl deepens.

"…Scabbar—?"

A shockwave rips at my footing.
My ears ring.
An explosion! From the town!
Something has happened!
We have run out of time!

Shirou moves quickly.
An oddly proportioned black blade blurs into his hand.
A moment later, its size and shape change to match the sword Arthur holds.
Shirou pushes it into his hands.

"Arthur, your sword won't work on Apostles. This will. Don't let it go!"
Then he turns to me.
"Are you comfortable using Excalibur, Saber?"

—Eh?
Without thinking, my fingers curl.
The hilt is familiar. I look to my hand.
And there the sword waits.
'Tis not Caliburnus, but the sword I have grown to loathe.

…But my opinions can surely wait.
My legs are already carrying me up the hill.

"Aye!" I grunt.

Four against perhaps two hundred.
Their strength and abilities are unknown.
I am used to these odds against normal men.
But I know little of the vampires and their ilk.
Our more magical conflicts faced us against the Phantasmals.
Against the Questing Beast, the Green Knight, the dragons and the giants.
They were not the undead.

We crest the hill to behold flaming ruins.
The town is utterly destroyed. Charred bodies line the streets.
The baths we enjoyed are rubble.
This stench…

—That young woman, I remember. The receptionist.
Ah, that poor girl…! I hope she escaped!

And then the guttural cry reaches me.
The Roman war shout, that thing they called the barritus.
Deafening, constant.
It radiates out from the fire and flame.

"—Is that him?"

The hiss comes from Arthur.
He stares at a half-collapsed roof, situated against a billowing column of black smoke.
'Tis a crater. The probable source of the explosions.
Atop that rooftop stands that Frankish madman.

"Aye," I spit. "Aye."

And Claudas stares back.

He has waited for us.
As I suspected, the attack was bait.

He wears the armor of a centurion, crystalline.
'Tis colored deepest emerald.
A Roman cavalry mask hides the face I remember.
Crimson light spills from its eye slits.

He is not the man I once knew.
In my other lives, he had no official alliance with Tiberius.
The two men could not stand each other.
Claudas was a devout Catholic, but Tiberius cared not for religion.
'Twas simply one of his many tools.

Yet here, Claudas has thrown his lot in with the Romans.
I cannot stomach the idea. 'Tis madness.
But his posture is the same.
Those conniving, pragmatic eyes - tinged red, yet still the same.
The way he holds his pilum - the same.
The way he aims with the fingers of his off hand, the way he braces for a throw—

"Into the town!" I roar.

Bursts of prana send us down the hill.
The Grain-filled projectile explodes our prior spot.
Claudas simply creates another.
His index and middle finger are tracking Arthur's forehead.

He knows…?!
He knows Arthur is the heir!

We are fools!
In our rush to help the town, we forgot to hide our identities!
Claudas knew Uther! He sees him in Arthur!
Agh, bollocks!
'Tis like I have learned nothing!

"Saber!" Shirou grunts lowly at my side.
"Take Arthur and go with Merlin! Find those survivors! And here, put this on!"

—Aye, smart!
We, at least, must still hide ourselves!
If Claudas focuses on Arthur, perhaps we might slip by as mere swordsmen for hire!

We duck under another incoming projectile.
Under the cover of dust, Shirou shoves into my hands the old Roman helmet that I—that my other self—
—that I used as my other self!
Gods, my mind!
Perhaps wearing it will stifle this headache!

"What about you, Saber?!" I demand.

I feel his unseen smirk, so I simply smirk back.
Different adventures, still on the same page.
Some things never change.

"Me?" he snarks. "Well, I'm the distraction."

Three of those black blades notch into his bow.
Shockwaves emanate with their release.
Claudas ducks them immediately—

"…It's that one," I hear him mutter.

—and his red gaze locks to Shirou.

And then they are clashing amidst sword and spear.
Ash to emerald, steel to crystal.
Shirou ducks a stab.
He swipes with two black blades modified to match Kanshou and Bakuya's designs.

Despite the situation, I cannot help my chuckle.
He really is quite fond of them!
If only I felt the same whenever I readied Excalibur!

"Arthur!" I call over my shoulder.
"Are you prepared? I warn thee: 'tis not a game!"

Arthur's wide eyes shift from the titanic conflict cratering the shattered rooftops.
I suppress my pride and smug satisfaction.
His first time seeing Shirou in action! Ha!
Nevertheless, he readies his loaned black sword.

"Aye!"

I guide us to the defunct wall that once protected Aquae Arnemetiae's outskirts.
Arthur takes up position at my shoulder.
Merlin ends our line.
I appreciate the way she keeps an eye on Shirou's duel.

We must move quickly, however.
Claudas' men have engaged already.
More of their crystalline javelins fly from the ruins, aimed in support of their centurion.
I make note of their locations.

"If Claudas is any indication, their armor has changed little since last I saw it! The gaps are the neck, the armpits, the groin and knees! Aim carefully!"

At Arthur's nod, the two of us enter through the gap.
Merlin vanishes in a flurry of petals.
It does not concern me; she knows best.
I catch vines shifting through the dirt, besides.
'Tis interesting. My Merlin favored swordplay.
Does Arthur's, then, favor witchcraft?
I file it away for later.

—'Tis good that I do so.
We are confronted immediately.
An Imperial legionnaire barrels through a blazing wall, his spear at the ready, red eyes aglow.
I know not his capabilities. We must be quick!

Prana to my legs. I step forward.
Like that, I am inside his guard.
Excalibur goes for his neck!

"…!"

He tracked my movement?!
Excalibur swipes empty air.
He pulls his pilum's shaft back, retracting the tip.
The legionnaire thrusts for my heart!

"Tch!"

I stomp. The ground implodes.
He is caught off balance! Now!
I twist. My other foot slams into his ribs.
He flies back, clips the burning house's corner.
But then his hand flicks out to grab the wall.
Just like that, he has halted his momentum.
But—

"Hrgh!"

—Arthur is at his side.
He sees the opening. The black sword swings in an upward slice into the man's exposed armpit. It cuts through undead flesh until it impacts the bottom of the crystalline pauldron.
His severed fingers lose their grip. He is off balance!
I step forward. Excalibur slices through his neck.
The legionnaire's necrotic blood sizzles and hisses.
His body turns to ash.

—He did well!
"Excellent work, Arthur! Come!"

"Aye!"

I dare not share with him my concerns.
—It should not have taken us that long to kill a mere soldier.
I have laid low hundreds in the same amount of time.
That creature was no fool.
The experience of a veteran, coupled with superhuman reflexes.
In a word: a Servant.
A faceless foot soldier matched a Servant's physical abilities.
If one did, so shall the rest.

We cannot handle this.
We are not sufficiently prepared.
A wrong movement here means death.

Two hundred of these soldiers lurk this town.
We cannot let them overwhelm us.
But neither can we retreat. If we let them roam…

"This is bad," I mutter.
"This is very bad."

—He needs Excalibur.
I assume the black blade is meant to kill undead.
But I cannot instruct him on its usage.
I know not its durability or reach.
He needs something I myself am familiar with.
Something I can work around.

I am unsure as to where my own Excalibur came from.
'Tis not the one I used in Chaldea.
'Tis not part of any Spirit Origin, 'tis not a Noble Phantasm.
This Excalibur is real.
If I give Arthur this one, I can use Calib—

"…Eh?"

I unconsciously voice my surprise.
Another Excalibur has appeared in my off hand.
—What?
Did… did Caliburnus… just…?

"A-Arthur, here. Give me that sword. You take this one."

He eyes the offered Excalibur, his brow furrowed.
"Is that wise? Saber instructed me to…"

I am at once quite peeved and quite honored at his insistence to follow Shirou's instructions.
But as I open my mouth in rebuttal, he draws his nondescript longsword and simply tosses it to the side.

Merlin catches it before it hits the ground.

—Am I seriously missing Merlin right now?
Nrgh! A pox upon this entire situation!

With a smirk, Arthur sheathes the black blade in the now-empty scabbard and takes my offered Excalibur.
But of course, I realize.
Shirou modeled the conjured sword to match Arthur's own.
Why would it not fit?

"This blade is… beautiful…" he mutters.
"These etchings - is this Fae? Ex…cali…"

And then he freezes.
Arthur's body shudders.
Of all the times…!

"Arthur?!" I urge. "Arthur!"

"F-Fine! I am… f-fine…! Agh, my head…!"

—Oh no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Shirou is going to kill me.

I grab at his shoulder urgently, my voice hushed.
"Whatever it is you just saw, it can wait, aye?! We have not the time! Arthur!"

But he grabs my arm in return.
Half to steady himself, half to keep me in place.
His face is terribly pale. Beads of sweat glisten on his cheeks.
Arthur stares at me in a new light.
Horror reflects in his eyes.
His voice is just as quiet as my own.

"—Do you know a girl named Ayaka?"

What? Who?
"Eh? N-Nay, what are y—"

"…toria…!"

Medraut…?

I am… flying…?
Something… splinters under my…
Tearing…?
My…
The world is… spinning…

"That mistake was amateurish, child. Is it your first day in combat? You know better."

My own cold voice drowns out the ringing.
Black pricks at my vision's corners.
I reach for my face, but…
But feel… metal…?

"That landing would have crushed your skull. Avalon cannot heal a destroyed brain. You almost lost everything - again. Words have no place in a war zone. Pay more attention."

…Lancer…?

Then, I jolt.

—Clear! My head is clear!
This golden glow—Arthur!
Where is Arthur?! What hit me?!
Curses, Avalon healed me!
But the Roman helmet Shirou conjured is missing!
What is this contraption covering my head?!

I wrench off the suffocating coffin.
'Tis not a coffin at all. The lion's visage stares back.
Its separated mane burns away nearby, caught by the embers and the fractured wood.
That explains the tearing I heard.
I must have flown right through this building's wall, and several more, besides.

…Lancer's helmet saved my life.

Though it has changed with me.
Its metal now matches the steel coloring of Salter's remade cuirass.
Halfway between Saber's silvery white and Altered black, it seems.
Unsure of what it is. Just like me.

Tch. Even my armor mocks me.

—My ribbon?

Still there…

Breathe…

I am alive.

Blast! Insufferable Roman filth! Where am I?!
This building is new! Where is the street!
Excalibur! Where is—my hand squeezes.
I did not drop it! Excellent! But this rubble on my waist…!
Ngh…!
Burst… burst…! Open the gate!
HA!

…!

"Haa…! Haa…!"

I manage to push the rubble off me.
I hear fighting outside. That must be Arthur.
That is why we do not engage in idle conversation during combat!
He was doing so well, too! Agh!

—But as I stand, sobbing reaches my ears.
Someone is in here with me?
And I somehow doubt the undead cry, which means—!

I put the helmet back on. To the pyre it goes, but later!
"H-Hello?! Hello! Is anyone there! I am friendly!"

A feminine hand lifts in the far corner.
A peasant girl cowers there like the Saber in my mind, covered in dust and grime.
Blood stains her clothing, but she is all alone.
Her other hand is clamped hard over her mouth.
Clearly, she fears making a sound.

I scramble to her.
Firstly: wounds!

"Are you injured?" I whisper.
"Has anyone else survived this?"

She shakes her head. My heart drops.
—But, wait a minute. This girl is…!

"Y-You…! The receptionist…?!"

That girl from the baths?! The one I worried for!
She truly did survive?! How?!
She is a flower of a woman!
Of my age, perhaps a year younger!
She could not possibly have…! Certainly not on her own!

And she… looks oddly familiar…?
Do I know her? Her face tickles my memory…
Tch, this headache! Think, Artoria!

"M-M-My b-brother…" the girl wheezes.
"H-He tried to f-f-fight them off…!"

O-Oh…
Ah, I hate this…
—Claudas.
I expected this, but the sting remains.

"I… my apologies. Is he…?"

In response, the girl lifts a shaking finger.
It points past the collapsed wall I was hit through.
—The smoking crater?
Or perhaps that flame-licked building over yonder?
I cannot tell.

"He is in the crater?" I ask.

She shakes her head and bites back a sob.
"H-He m-m-made the c-crater…!"

—My mind stops.
I fail to process the girl's words.
Her brother made the crater?
What?
Confounded, I stumble to my feet for a better angle.

The crater is deep. Bodies and ash litter its bottom.
All of them are legionnaires.
I guess them to number fifty, thereabouts.
A quarter of Claudas' fighting force lies dead, in various states of disintegration.
From a single man's battle?

I turn back to the girl.
"…Who are you? What is your name?"

"M-My n-n-name is D-Dindrane…!"

D-Dindr—?!

Her answer sends a jolt down my spine.
But before I can make sense of my shock…
The burning cottage next to our own explodes.

Wooden fragments rain from the sky.
A hazy figure lurches in its smoke.
And the witch's hand clamps down tight on my wrist.

Merlin is at my side, watching me.

"What is this?" I choke.

She leans in close to mutter to my helmet.

"Why, 'tis the reason for our presence, dear king. He is why we are here. The people are dead, hm? But he and his sister remain. Do you wonder why?"

My breath hitches.

—It is him.
I would recognize him anywhere.
But why is he here? Why now?
Why here, of all places?
What is going on?!

As my confusion reaches its peak, the man in the rubble looses a low, pained groan.
A hand grips flaming wood.
His hair is on fire.
His clothes burn.
But something on his body prevents his skin from catching.

Is that…
…mud…?

A sudden flare of mana directs my attention skyward.
Shirou and Claudas have separated.
My Servant skids to a halt on a nearby rooftop.
He readies his bow, engages.

I am not alone, however.
The figure in the rubble watches as well.
And Shirou's presence seems to stir something within.
All at once, torrential energy rushes from his person.
It crackles like—

My panic escalates.

—like Shirou's does when he traces.
Like it does this very moment, as Shirou traces more of his weapons.
And as my Saber leaps again from the roof, Dindrane's brother stands to follow.
He stumbles from the blaze.

His entire body is on fire.
His silver hair churns with the flames. Yet it does not burn away.
He takes no notice of his pain. The safety of his person is secondary.
—Rather, he focuses fully on the battle.
Just like—

I am worried, and confused, and horrified.
These emotions and many more whip at me in tandem with the energy that rolls from his person.
He was always strong. He was one of my best.
And his death affected me greatly. I never allowed myself to mourn.
I consider that yet another mistake.

—But.
But the power he wields now… 'tis foreign, 'tis not his own.
He never once behaved as he does now.
What is going on? What has become of him?
What has happened to you, my beloved knight?
This energy, at once both red and gold, black and white, cannot decide how it wishes to be represented.
It mixes and it swirls into the strange mud, which oozes from his body like a horrid wound.
It flows like blood. Its viscosity is sundered flesh.
Around his right bicep and down to his elbow, it coagulates against his forearm to form a weapon.
His elbow and below are obscured.

—A lance.
It… it looks like…

And then I realize, as the wind howls in my ears:
I recognize the way it is forming.

"Merlin," I wheeze. "Why does it look like…?"

She is not surprised whatsoever, as though she has seen it all before.
Perhaps she has. Perhaps this is part of…

"I shan't blame you for being afraid," she hums.
"Nothing more than a simple truth, my dear. The knight is loyal to the Saber. The power he wields is loyal to the Archer."

And the voices in my ear, my other selves…
They tell me that I am panicking.
Please, Lord Almighty, it is here that I beseech thee.
I know I do not pray often. I know this is unbecoming.
But for just this one time, give me the strength to protect him.
Allow me the courage to…

To…

T-To protect Shirou… from…

Merlin's expression darkens. An almost cruel look twists her features.
"What you see before you is simply the end result. This is what happens when Shirou Emiya becomes someone's hero."

…from his legend. From his abilities.
The things I cursed him with.
The abilities my former knight now pantomimes.

He shambles forward.
The muck snuffs the flames.
He means to aid my Saber.
He means to fight with him.
Those explosions we heard—

The knight does not wield a weapon.
The knight is a weapon.
The muck fully entraps him in an ashen suit of armor, a disfigured parody of the one he wore in my memories.
His left hand grips the weapon that his right arm has become, as the shaft extends from his elbow like a bowstring pulled taught.
He looks to the sky, at the two figures locked in eldritch combat.
He looks to the ground, where Arthur's clash echoes in the fiery streets.
He declares it aloud in two voices, over the roaring energy coursing from his body.

Over the weapon he is copying.

The first voice is his.
The second is not.

"I am the bone of my sword!"


"Ginus Lon!"

N̴o̵t̷e̸s̸
Fate/ess

T̸h̷e̷ ̵K̸n̷i̵g̸h̴t̴s̶ ̷o̴f̷ ̶t̶h̸e̷ ̸R̶o̴u̵n̷d̸ ̶T̴a̶b̷l̸e̵
Demi-Liner - 1

P̵E̸R̷E̸D̷U̵R̴ ̷A̶B̵ ̸E̶F̴R̵A̵W̸G̸
SIR PERCIVAL

"Longinus!"


Never in my memories did Percival move as fast as he does now.
To me, it looks like Mana Burst… but it is most definitely not.
He jumps. 'Tis all. He jumps forward with his legs and nothing more.
In a single movement he clears the crater and the burning street beyond.
And his weaponized arm, his malformed Holy Lance, finds its target.
It impales an undead legionnaire through the chest.
He has closed a distance I considered the domain of bows in less than a second.

Percival's speed carries him and his quarry into the burning marketplace.
He has the vampire pinned to rubble.
His free hand comes up, then, to grab the legionnaire's face.
And the spear shaft extending from his elbow descends.
Metal screeches against metal. My ears ache.
It slams down into his forearm, disappearing in an almighty forward thrust.

"…!"

The legionnaire's body, and the buildings behind him, disintegrate in a line.
Smoke billows from his elbow. His arm hisses.
Percival holds the evaporating head for but a moment, then tosses it aside.
He spares it not a single glance.
His helmet swivels. He is seeking new targets.
He finds Arthur fighting three vampires alone.
And with but a single step, closes the distance to aid.

Had I not seen his face, I would not recognize him.
The stranger before me is at odds with everything I remember.
Not Saber, not Salter, not Lancer, not Lalter.
He does not match Percival.
The Percival I knew was a gentle giant, merciful, with a brilliant, joyous smile.
He loved the world around us.
His conscience and his empathy were his greatest weapons.

This… other - 'tis like he is an Alter.
Or a strange defilement.
The way he moved, the focus with which he attacked…
It is almost like… it reminds me of…

'I am the bone of my sword'!
Like Shirou! Like Archer! Like a Counter Guardian…?
What in the world—?!

Merlin… Merlin gave me a hint!
She separated the knight and the power!
The knight she paired with the Saber, with… with me.
And the power he uses she paired with the Archer!

And I do recognize Dindrane!
I conversed with her scant few times, but Percival always insisted that I meet his sister!
And Aquae Arnemetiae borders King Pellinore's territories! I remember!
Then…!

—I have little time!
I must confirm, at least tentatively!
While Arthur and Percival distract them!
I rush to Dindrane's side. The poor girl is near hysterics.
She cannot stop her trembling.

I grab her arm as gently as I can.
"Dindrane. Dindrane!"

The coldness of my gauntlet's iron makes her jump.
I notice the vambrace has a new crack. Tch.
Shirou will repair it for me later.
But for now, I must make her relax, so I lift my helmet's rim to my forehead.
As I hoped, her tearful eyes widen in recognition.

"Y-You…!" she blubbers.
"W-Why…? W-Where is y-your s-s-sister…? A-And the m-man…?"

—I pointedly ignore the ease with which she marked my younger self as a woman.

"We sent my sister to find help," I lie.
"We heard the fireballs and returned as quickly as we were able. Your brother, Dindrane - is he… is he well…?"

Her breath hitches. Her throat traps her voice for dearly precious seconds.
Then she wheezes, and it spills.

"He… P-Percival is p-p-possessed! B-By the devil! I-It made h-him s-stay and f-f-fight…!"

As I suspected, something foul is afoot.
This smells of that business Lady Vivian spoke of.
My fear and panic become anger and annoyance.
Whatever Shirou's 'legend' might be, it would not make good men behave so recklessly.
And I shan't forgive myself if I have somehow involved one of my former knights.
Shirou is my responsibility alone! Not theirs!

So I do what I must, and I give Dindrane my most valiant smile.
"You worried for him, so you stayed behind, aye?"

Her fearful nod tells me all I need to know.
I lower my helmet and give Merlin a look.

"You are a wonderful sister, Dindrane, but this place is dangerous. Allow my friend here to escort you to safety. The man I travel with is very strong - when I tell him, he shall help your brother. Fret not!"

Her eyes begin to drop the instant I stop speaking.
Merlin has put her to sleep.
The witch hoists her like a sack of vegetables.

"My, but you have such a way with words!" she mocks.
"'Tis no wonder Archer is wrapped about thy tiny finger!"

I am not in the mood.
"Depart, witch! Now!"

She does so in a flurry of petals, her tinkling laugh riding the wind, and Dindrane goes as well.

—This situation stirs in me memories of Camlann.
Memories of the landing, to be precise, and the trap that was sprung.
'Twas the maw of a dragon closing about us.
Here, too, the maw closes. But the Crystals are not dragons.

We must leave. Dindrane and Percival…
They are the survivors Merlin told us of.
Those children I remember playing in the street long ago burned to ash.
We do not have the strength to challenge Claudas, loathe as I am to admit it.
We fight him on his terms, in his trap.
The disadvantage is ours.

Percival's strange power could be a boon. It could be a poison.
We lack knowledge, and knowledge wins wars.
Is this an advance force? Do more of Claudas' men march across the horizon?
We have much to do, and little time.
—Just like before, I… we…

My grip on Excalibur tightens.

We rushed ahead out of goodwill.
Now Claudas is interested in Shirou.

We must regroup at once.

My mind set, I march my way to the cottage's door.
'Tis a large slab of wood. It shall do nicely.
I flex my prana, push it off its hinges, then follow after it onto the shattered street.

—And then I hoist it aloft.

Now then, where is the Frankish charlatan assailing my man?

—There he is!

"CLAUDAS!"

'Tis stupid to attract the enemy's attention, but I have my reasons.
I am currently unengaged, and their numbers surely still surpass our own.
No one attacking me means more are attacking my allies.
So if I can divert some of them my way, it shall lessen the burden on the others.
Shirou shall likewise note my position.
A risky strategy, aye, but we are strapped for time.

As for Claudas, my silly holler manages to grab his focus for a scant second.
Shirou takes advantage immediately, as I knew he would.
He is the wiliest combatant I know.
A Hrunting arrow slips past Claudas' guard to impale the back of his knee.
'Tis just a distraction.

My Saber himself streaks in as fast as one of his arrows.
In his wake, the rooftops shatter. His speed is momentous.
He holds in his hands one of those black blades.
And it is aimed directly at the eye socket of Claudas' mask.

My pride swells. His aim is true!
Aye, 'tis one of the techniques I taught him!
A halfsworded stab, from the high guard!
—And yet…

"—Ngh! Close, Saber…!"

Claudas avoids it by a hair. Narrowly, he leans his head.
The blade scrapes a festering line against his mask's crystalline temple.
But Shirou allows no variables! He is no fool!
He lifted his opposite knee as he engaged, and Claudas' dodge allows it to connect!
His secondary plan bears fruit! No wasted movements!
That is my Saber!

Their explosive collision tears burning thatch off the nearby buildings.
More homes are blown to pieces.
Claudas streaks away - I have the advantage!
I need not calculate. I give my instincts control.
—He shall land there!

"…!"

I throw the door at him.

The wood cannot withstand the sudden acceleration.
The air tears it to pieces.
But no matter! I follow in its wake, the wood as my cover!
And as the fractured door rains upon him, I see an opening!
The back of his leg is unprotected! Exposed!
Now is my—nay! Nay, I mustn't get distracted!

The scabbard is more important than the sword!

"That helmet…"

I pay no mind to Claudas' mutter.
I am almost to Shirou!
A few more—dodge!

My head lowers mere moments before a swipe cleaves my neck.
I hear the impact of flesh and crystal against shattered wood.
—A legionnaire intercepted me! Ngh!
How fast are they?! They truly are Servant equals!
Daemons, the lot of them!

But, 'tis fine!
One to me, one less to Shirou and the rest!
I expected this!

"To what creature did you sell your soul?" I hiss.

His attack is his response.
He stabs, I sidestep.
He follows up. I roll his slash off Excalibur's blade.
Our engagement becomes a deadly dance.
I see his experience in his movements.
These warriors practice war as an art.
It is almost commendable…
…but they threaten my future of forged knickknacks and folded laundry!

"—Hah!"

My draconian heart flares. Mana Burst!
Up slashes Excalibur, its blade aglow.
The legionnaire nearly sidesteps it, but I have him!
I take his left arm!

But his right wields his spear. He did not flinch!
My blow shatters our surroundings.
He uses it to his advantage, and tries to step into my guard.
I easily avoid his next stab, but I have no advantage.
He did not overextend! But…!

"Ngh…!"

With this positioning - a pommel strike!
Into his ribs! Aye, good! Again!
To his neck, with more force!

Chrrrk…

—Excalibur's pommel mulches the man's neck.
His blood and guts paint my gauntlets blackened crimson.
Before I can reset, however, I see another emerald flash in my periphery.
React! His body!

I pivot, I brace, I use the dead enemy's body as a shield.
A thrown crystalline pilum bursts through the legionnaire's disintegrating shoulder.
I hear the sound of shattering wood and stone.
The next undead soldier has closed the distance!

The sweat is thick on my brow. I step back.
As I do so, an emerald spatha bisects the fallen Apostle.
A wicked scowl curls my lips.
They have no respect for their own dead!

This is truly an apocalyptic scenario.
The newest legionnaire's red eyes cut through the smoke and fire of our surroundings.
He retrieves his pilum whilst stepping over his dead ally's separated halves.
They, all of them, are inhuman.
Perhaps that is why they all wear those cavalry masks.
Their faces are meaningless. No emotion shall be found.

I prepare myself. I take my stance.
My draconian heart burns, my muscles ache.
In this life, I am still unused to fighting in this way, against the eldritch and the abominable.
Shirou and I must find a way to reunite.

—It strikes me, then.
The enemy's plan is the same as ours.
We are keeping each other separate.
'Tis why Claudas and Shirou have not attempted to disengage.
They see in the other the largest threat.
Meanwhile, the Roman vampires are using their greater numbers to whittle down the rest of us.

They attacked this place due to its positioning.
Aquae Arnemetiae is in the isle's center.
The townsfolk mattered not. We were always the target.

Unacceptable.
All the more reason to—

An ashen figure slams onto the charging legionnaire with the weight of a meteor.
Its vertical descent shatters our surroundings.
Not 'its', I realize - he!
The one neither side expected!
That is how he made that crater I saw!
He ambushed them from above!

"Percival…!"

His distorted spear-arm has the legionnaire impaled through the spine.
In one movement, his free hand burrows into the vampire's obliterated chest.
He rips the enemy in half, just as said enemy did to its own ally.
And Percival tosses it into the air.

The inflamed line of stalls behind him—!
A golden wave of light tears them asunder.
It rips over our heads to obliterate the legionnaire's thrown half.
That… I would recognize it anywhere!
'Twas Mana Burst…!

And then I see him.
He is alive. He survived.

Arthur walks through the flaming rubble like an angel through Hell's inferno.
The Excalibur I gave him radiates light at his side, its blade slick with the blood of the damned.
His hair is matted red. His cheek is bruised, his eye swollen, his forehead and chin cut.
And a fierce scowl mars his lips.

"The Imperial dogs I remember were not so hardy! Were it not for this sword reminding me how to fight, and this stranger's abilities… I would rather not consider the outcome. Did you find the mentioned survivors?"

The relief I feel surprises me, as does Arthur's perception.
I do not miss the way he keeps clear of saying our names or relations.
My many questions must wait until later.
My questionable tactics paid off - my allies found me.
'Tis time to retrieve Shirou and escape.
I nod to Arthur, then turn my gaze to Percival.

"Aye," I confirm with a nod.
"She is away and safe."

Thankfully, his sagging pauldrons confirm he understood me.
His fingers are trembling, his breath almost pained.
Are his powers affecting him adversely?

He shambles closer to ask a tentative question.
"D-Do… S-Saber, do you know a… Saber…?"

My mind turns to ice.
Merlin was right. He knows of Saber!
But does he know Saber is Shirou?
N-Nay, not now! The enemy closes upon us!
Firstly: our escape!

"I do," I answer.
"'Tis as you suspect."

His gauntlets tremble still.
I cannot ascertain their make, but 'tis not iron or steel.
Percival pokes and prods at his own helmet.
Does he know his own eyes glow cobalt within his visor's slits?

"I'm not mad," he breathes, as if to convince himself.
"I'm… the dreams were… real…?"

For Shirou's safety, I must know.
I shan't allow his already precarious mental state to devolve further.
So I step right into Percival's space, intentionally ignorant of our sheer height disparity.
Even in this life, the man is a mountain.
I meet his visor with my own.

"Art thou thyself?"

"A-Aye!" he stammers immediately.
"I am! I-I—I am not possessed! Not haunted! Whatever she—she's wrong, it—i-it's complicated! I swear it!"

—He still talks like Percival. I am satisfied.
Despite his unusual circumstances, my knight appears to have his faculties in order.
We may proceed. I turn to Arthur.

"How many did you kill?"

He has kept guard whilst Percival and I talked. Impressive.

"Not enough to prevent their pursuit," Arthur answers grimly.

His response punctuates the truth: more legionnaires have arrived.
They are undead wraiths, stalking through fire and flame.
And we are cornered.
Claudas shan't let Shirou aid us.
Which means—

Percival and Arthur step closer to my sides.
My alternate self grimaces.

"I admit I am open to suggestions."

—that I must retrieve him myself.

"Arthur, take my sword. At my command, toss them to our front."

He turns to me, outraged.
"What? You wish to surrender?!"

"On the contrary. I am securing our escape."

His brow twitches beneath sweat and blood.
But with the fire at our backs and the enemy to our front, it does not take him long to acquiesce.
He knows we cannot outrun them without a distraction.
So he extends his hand, and I give him my Excalibur.

And then I grip my right wrist.

"—Now!"

Arthur throws the two Excaliburs.
As the legionnaires approach, their spears leveled, I shout my order.
Beneath my gauntlet, the back of my hand glows red.
I have never done this before…

"By the power of my Command Seal!"

…because I was always on the receiving end!

"Clear our path! SABER!"

The sky darkens! My hand sparks red lightning!
A house nearby crumbles!
A rumble and a crash, and then—!
Right there before us!

At my side, Percival sucks in a breath.
"Ah, Ginus… your stories…!"

His red cloth billows.
His armor shines orange against the flames.
His bow is in hand.
And the two Excaliburs are notched as arrows.

—Arrows! As I suspected, as I hoped!
Aye, they can be used as arrows…!

He draws back the bowstring.
And then the very mana in the air sparks.
Calamitous and titanic.
The power my order has gifted him…
It leaves me breathless.

An emerald figure leaps from that newly shattered building.
He sails weightlessly through the air.
Claudas' voice carries far.

"—Stop them."

The legionnaires charge.
Saber is still preparing!
But then—

"Y-You…!"

In front of Shirou, stance taken, stands Percival.
His helmet's breaths belch steam.
His fake Longinus clicks and hisses.
And with a raspy whisper to steel his fiery nerves—

"So as he prayed!"

—he steps forward, and engages all of them.

One by one, a man against the damned, Percival…

Shling. Shlck. Fwrrk.

…enacts the greatest bout of martial prowess I have ever witnessed.

Three legionnaires die in seconds.
There is no magic involved. None whatsoever.
No reinforcement. No flares of his prana.
He wastes no movements. His body is a weapon.
It is honed and forged for victory over his enemies.
Every step he takes brings him exactly within range.
The very tip of his bladed lance steals from them their lives.
One attack for each. Every action kills.

Two dozen engage him fruitlessly.
More enter from the town's fire.
He dodges as he moves.
His movements are his dodges.
One and the same, an offense and a defense.
He is perfectly synchronized. He fights in a trance.
'Tis some sort of battle fury, as though he has given himself to whatever power lurks inside.

Ching. Fwip. Sllk.

It is beyond Servant and mortal alike.
Not Lancelot, not Gawain, not Palamedes…
Not Kay, Bedivere, or Gareth…
Not Gaheris, Mordred, or Tristan.
None of them.
The Percival I knew was not capable of this.
Shirou as he is now might not be capable of this!

I am not capable of this!
What Percival does - 'tis not human!
There is no thought! No hesitation!
He is a… a…

"I am the bone of my sword!"

Crunch. Swish. Ting.

…a living blade…

"He is an army of one," I hear Arthur whisper.

Horror and awe swirl equally within my heart.
'This is what happens,' Merlin said.
The power is loyal to the Archer.
Whatever power that is… is a weapon.

My wide eyes stare at Shirou's fluttering crimson tabard.

A living weapon…
…that chose to follow…

He wrenches the bowstring to its fully taught state.
The twin Excaliburs have become sharpened glowing arrows.

…another living weapon…

And my Saber takes aim.
He sees no need to alert Percival.
He has already determined the moment he should release.
—I hate this, I bitterly realize.
The power tainting Percival thinks the same as Shirou.
Weapons can understand each other.

But I do not want that. Not at all.
I want him to be freed of his duties.
So after this…

"Get ready, Arthur," I snarl.

…I will fire the arrows in his stead!
For as long as needed! Until we reach our paradise!
Until I get my answers from the me who won!
Until I take her happiness for myself!
Until Shirou can lower his weapons forever!

Shirou releases. Percival jumps.
The arrows carve a blinding line beneath the backflipping knight.
The world flashes yellow.
The buildings, the trees beyond—

They, and the legionnaires caught betwixt, all disappear.
My ears ring. I feel his gauntlets around me.
Shirou's helmet is right by mine.
Momentous energy burns the dirt and stone around his sabatons.

"Hang on," he grunts.
And then to Percival, who lands near Arthur:
"Can you keep up with me?"

The knight is clearly winded.
He hoists Arthur anyway.
Because his duty comes first.

"I cannot," he wheezes.
"But Peredur can and shall!"

'Tis clear that Shirou does not recognize the name.
Neither do I, for that matter.
Perhaps it is the name of Percival's power? Or its owner?
Nevertheless, Shirou nods.

"Then tell them I said thanks."

And with flexes of their legs, our newly formed party charges through the golden path and out of the destroyed town.

Faster than men.
Faster than the horses they ride.
Faster than the Roman undead.
And all the birds in the sky.

As fast as speeding arrows with their fletching cut loose.
Just like my two remaining command seals.


Confusion Corner

The chess match begins
This chapter represents the interweaving of many, many previously separate plot lines. It's taken a while to get to this point, but we're finally moving those pieces, not setting up the board. Yorokobe!

The Sajyou girl
Arthur's sudden epiphany confirms the truth of Fateless' timeline - it isn't Prototype, either. As Notes is the one thing linking the Nasuverse together, it makes sense that the Notes timeline would indeed contain aspects of all the various others, both Tsukihime and Fate. Arthur and Artoria are here because everything is here, whether that be Servants or Dead Apostles, Gaia or Alaya; the two Pendragons are "representing" Prototype and Stay Night in a world not their own.

The first Frenchman
Another attempt at blending Arthurian lore and IRL history, mythological Claudas has long been linked to historical Clovis I, in no small part due to the similarities of their respective conquests. Claudas is oftentimes marked as Clovis' ancestor, but in Fateless the dates of their reigns match exactly (muahaha!) and so I've just gone and made them the same person. The death of Clovis' father, Childeric, is recorded as AD 481 - remember that date? Clovis' birth, meanwhile, is recorded as 466, which makes him 40 years old in Fateless… if he, uh, wasn't a vampire. Y'know.

That means he became king at 15! Oh boy, who else became king at 15! Wow!

Claudas is perhaps one of King Arthur's scariest opponents, if often overlooked, because in the legends, Arthur never manages to kill him. Claudas escapes - with his kingdom and armies shattered, sure, but the man himself lives. If we apply those legends to the world of Fate, it paints a disconcerting picture: namely, that Claudas somehow survived Excalibur and all of Arthur's knights.

He isn't a villain of the week, and this definitely ain't over. Expect more of him.

Peredur, son of Efrawg - Ginus Lon, One of Two
In IRL mythology: Peredur ab Efrawg hails from, well, Peredur ab Efrawg, which, like Culhwch ac Olwen, is an Arthurian tale within the Mabinogion. But unlike Culhwch, Peredur's origins are more dubious. While scholars do agree the hero Peredur probably predates his own legend, Peredur ab Efrawg itself holds many similarities with Chrétien de Troyes' Perceval, the Story of the Grail; frankly, no one really knows which one came first. We know Bedwyr predates Bedivere and Gwalchmei predates Gawain, but Percival and Peredur appear on the Arthurian scene at roughly the same time, and reference each other constantly.

And for that reason specifically, Percival and Peredur enter Fateless with their identities seemingly fused and the lines painfully blurred. Where does one end and the other begin? It's something to explore.

In Fateless: like the other Welsh variants, Peredur and Percival are linked across time and space, with Ether Liner Peredur taking the title of Ginus Lon, so named after Percival's weapon, Longinus. The Ether Liners take inspiration from their ancestors - they pretend to be their ancestors - and so, due to spoiler-ific machinations, it's to Percival that Peredur's power goes. But remember: Ether Liners are described as walking nukes. Can ol' Percy handle it? We'll see, I guess.

The armaments of the end
In canon: the only Knight Arm with an established design is obviously Slash Emperor. With a confirmed total of 78 Ether Liners, that gives us 77 blank outlines we can color in ourselves.

In Fateless: Slash Emperor's design seemed biomechanical - the concept art used a growing potted plant as inspiration, yet the end result was like silvered steel, or liquid mercury frozen solid. To that end, I designed the unknown Knight Arms to be the thematic opposites of the Noble Phantasms. Noble Phantasms are magical, glowing, representative of a hero's soul, their legend. Knight Arms, then, should be the other side of the coin: brutal, tough, representative of the body and all things physical. Ginus Lon's Knight Arm takes its primary inspiration from Monster Hunter's gunlance, with moving parts and whirling components and hissing steam. You'll see that "magical steampunk" (magicpunk?) style applied to Fateless' Ether Liners writ large. After all, Shirou's their hero; "wrought iron knights" is the theme here. If the Heroic Spirits fight heroically, then Ether Liner combat should mirror the Counter Guardians: grisly, efficient, and machine-like.

i summon SUPER PERCY
here's a question for ya, brain: how do we prevent that awful camelot fanfic trope where shirou overshadows and obsoletes the entire kotr?

why, it's simple pinky: we take the unused welsh percival, disguise him as an "original character" in a woefully forgotten setting of the nasuverse, use the real life link between welsh percival and fate percival to connect that aforementioned forgotten setting back to fate, and then send welsh percival's power to fate percival! we buff percival… with percival!

it's GENIUS

until it isn't lol lmao
But no plan is without its flaws, and the problem with this particular plan is F̴U̷C̶K̸I̵N̵G̴ ̷F̵R̵E̴N̸C̵H̸ ̴P̷E̸O̵P̸L̶E̵ ̷A̸N̸D̸ ̷T̸H̴E̵I̸R̸ ̸B̴U̸L̷L̷S̵H̸I̸T̷ ̴O̶C̴s̶ the fact that not every modern Knight of the Round Table has a confirmed Welsh counterpart. Bedivere and Kay can trace their knightliness all the way back to Culhwch and the original oral traditions, but Lancelot, for example, was probably created from scratch in a 12th century French meth lab built out of baguettes. FUCK you Chrétien, your OC SUCKS

Anyway, Gareth is currently in suffer mode because Gwalchmei (Welsh!Gawain) only has one confirmed brother, a Mr. Gwalahauet (which sounds suspiciously like Galahad), and you can't really shove one dude into three other siblings and also perhaps sometimes Mordred. So it's totally not my fault if I have to get creative and pair her up with an unrelated, uh, "Ether Liner". Build a time machine and go tell whoever wrote Culhwch to give Gwalchmei more siblings so the Gareth suffering can stop k thx.