Chapter 2

His Master's face, marred with the scars of many years, was set into an almost perpetual grimace. Decades of hardship etched into the crevices around his mouth, the lines underneath his eyes, and wrinkles on his forehead, his head was hidden by his hands, and Bedivere could hear him muttering behind them, seemingly lost in deep thought. A collection of angry creases weighed down his brows and shadowed his eyes while on his forehead an old wound ran diagonal.

It was the kind of face Bedivere knew all too well; seen time and again on the men and women he'd once rode beside early on in the campaign to unite Britain.

It was a face molded by war.

His Master couldn't be much older than his late forties, but, lifetimes passed where the battlefield was concerned and, judging by his current composition, he would've feared him to be under a spell if he hadn't already checked, as the man never brought his gaze to rest upon him. When he finally did, his Master wasn't looking at him so much as trying to make sense of what he was actually seeing.

He moved his hands away and began to open his mouth. "H…" he paused, rolling his tongue, cheek bulged, biting a finger. He looked away and then back. "How did you lose it? The arm?" his Master finally asked, staring him in the eyes now. He indicated at the missing appendage. "Well?"

"To an axe, Master."

"... How much is he paying you to get it replaced?"

The question caught him off guard, and, upon realizing what he meant, Bedivere immediately knelt as before and removed his helm. Afraid it might already be too late, he had to rectify his position. His hair fell like a curtain around his ears as he hastened to do so. "Master. I am ill to know that you have been deceived. If you mean the Master of Lancer, I have no affiliation. I assure you."

"Master… of Lancer…? You mean... Yggdmillennia?" His Master spat the name.

"Yes. And nor have I any to Lancer. I am Rider, your Servant. Bedivere is my name, loyal Knight of the Round Table and right-hand to the Once and Future King, Rightful Ruler of Camelot, Arthur Pendragon. My sword and life are yours, and yours alone."

"If it isn't one thing after another…" His Master slumped back in his seat with a sigh, a hand going to his temple as if he were in pain.

"Master?"

He raised the hand. "Don't call me that."

Bedivere bowed his head, unsure of how to respond. "As you say," he managed after a pause. "How would you have me address you, then..?"

His Master waved a hand about.

He understood.

"Then, I…"—his eyes moved from his Master's face to his body, the grey uniform he wore, decorated with the markings of an officer of high ranking—"Shall call you Sire," he said, raising them back up.

His Master cringed, though he made no attempt to correct him for a second time. Clearly he was still trying to come to terms with the situation.

As his Servant, it was only appropriate to help him in the endeavor.

"If you would allow me to explain—"

"Yes, I want a full explanation," his Master interrupted. Motioning to a chair in the corner of the room, he asked him to take a seat, and as soon as Bedivere did—albeit awkwardly in his armor—took a deep breath. "What is this Holy Grail, really? The one in Japan? Is it the real thing?"

Bedivere's mind went back to the time of the tourney and feast Arturia held in Camelot the night before the quest to seek the Grail. Of the exemplary courage and companionship shown by every knight who vowed himself to finding it. The night before their departures and the morrow after would be the last all of them would be together, the Grail ultimately being what broke them apart; fractured them. But, most of all, he remembered the angst of his King, and the sorrow and the regret of what disbandment the decision had wrought upon the court. Camelot was never the same, forever afterward. Foretold to grant wonders that only God himself was able to gift, he'd dismissed it as an old wives' tale at first, but, right after his King suffered that most grievous wound he desperately wanted it to be true; that its power could be used to heal her and save her from her fate. This new Grail was said to be the very same. Unlike the Grail he knew of, this one was genuine. Attainable.

"It is."

Nimuë had told him so.

And he wasn't going to let the quest this time around end the same.

Though, his Master didn't appear to be convinced, and, before Bedivere could explain further there was a rapping on the door. He concealed himself, transferring his material form to a spiritual one, disappearing in a shimmer of green. The action happened almost instantaneously and he soon found himself watching his Master frowning at the chair he'd just been seated at in bewilderment. His Master's eyes moved around the room as he rose from his own chair, touching himself forehead to heart.

There was another rapping on the door.

"C…" His Master stopped and peered closely at the chair, then shook his head and straightened up. "Come in," he said with clear authority, the corner of his eye still on the chair as a young man entered quietly. His Master gave a nod in the young man's direction. "Leutnant Meier."

A small clipboard was tucked under his left arm and, handing it over, he saluted, "Sir, sorry for the disturbance, but the Obersturmbannführer has need of you."

His Master chewed over what was written on the papers clipped to it. As he flipped through them Bedivere felt a gloom pass over him, hanging there like a storm cloud. His face darkened when there was no more to read.

"Thank you, Leutnant," he said.

The young man saluted again, then left the room and soon as the door shut and they were alone Bedivere watched him walk through the rain that accompanied the storm outside, before disappearing into the mist. His Master fall back into his chair, running a hand through his hair with another accompanying sigh.

It reminded Bedivere much of Arturia and how she would cope with the courtly affairs too maddening for her ears and often left her drained and exhausted by the time the day was done. Whatever message or report his Master had just received was most likely of the same sort, and, like Arturia, one that he wanted to hear, see, nor read any more of.

Though, again, as with his King, he was naught to ignore it.

Later on, his Master found and ordered the young man with the clipboard to come with him and gave a glance back, then continued on. Bedivere took it as the sign that he should now resume physical form, and did so, following behind the young man as his Master strode through the halls of the building they were in, then the streets of what he could only assume to be the staging area for a grand campaign, passing marching armed soldiers and their beasts of war as they went by.

Taking note that a few saluted in their direction, or acknowledged them with a nod, he quickly confirmed his Master was indeed in a high place of power, especially when citizens greeted him and made way as he went, and though his Master did not return their greetings nor even smile as a kindness he was truly like a king.

Once again, memories of Arturia doing the same came to occupy Bedivere's thoughts and after some time they stopped within what he assumed as the town square, a large area that broke off in four directions, surrounded by trees and flowers. Yesterday's gloomy weather had been fruitful here, for they were tall, healthy trees of a deep, rich green and lovely, vibrant flowers of red, white, and gold, where atop a fountain in the square's center was the Roman god Neptune, seated with his trident and the fountain's waters, his lifeblood, flowing underneath the throne of barnacles he lounged upon. A mass group of people were gathered around the fountain, and in their midst Bedivere spotted the Master of Lancer. He was fair haired and handsome, with pointed features reminiscent of a snake. He imagined the man to be just as venomous. At his side was his Servant. In stark contrast to his Master, Lancer was beautiful in appearance, more heavenly than man. A saint, descended from the heavens to mingle among the living. As he and his Master approached them along with a woman Bedivere didn't recognize, there was something about Lancer that made him seem sincere; unlike whom he served. Of the woman, she was young, fit, pretty. Like one of the fillies used to breed Camelot's stock of warhorses. In her hand was a box-like device and hen they came within speaking distance, his Master wasted no time with launching straight into what he must've read in that report.

"What's the meaning of this, Yggdmillennia?" he demanded.

"Emelyn Brestrich, official war correspondent," the woman said, hurriedly introducing herself before Lancer's Master could respond, hand outstretched.

His Master jabbed a finger at Lancer's Master, ignoring her and her greeting. "Now you're dragging civilians into this?!"

The woman pressed forward despite the blatant rejection. She was smiling genuinely from ear to ear. "You may call me Emely, Hauptmann." It was like a ray of sunshine had settled on her face, and Bedivere knew right away that she was one of those individuals sorrow could never truly take ahold of. Like Gawain. He imagined the woman's laugh being just as bright and heartfelt. "Well wishes to both you and your Leutnants."

"Leutnants...?" His Master spun, expression changing from anger to confusion to panic as he went from the woman, to the young man with the clipboard, then over to him, trailing not far behind.

Bedivere had taken it upon himself to match what the young man with the clipboard was wearing, dressed in the same gray uniform and with all the same adornments. He felt it only appropriate, so as not to generate suspicion. Rather, by the way his Master's face went red and twisted into a grimace as his body trembled he wondered that, perhaps his decision was the wrong one.

His Master clenched shaking fists. "You…!"

"Ah, Leutnant Bedrydant. I was wondering when you would arrive," Lancer's Master smartly said, flashing a crooked, knowing smile. He came forward and offered his hand. "Your train being delayed might have set us back if you had taken another week or more! Glad of you to finally join us."

The man knew his identity already?

Bedivere accepted only to help solidify the man's fabrication and let go as soon as he was able, loathing the brief moment of contact between them. Liken his appearance, the man's skin was a snake's—smooth, without callouses of any kind whatsoever—as if he'd just finished molting. The unnatural touch of a fork-tongued viper, poised to strike. He felt only once the man was coiled around his prey would he then shed his skin again and reveal his true nature, biding his time until that day came.

And feared that to not be far away.

The rest of the morning went by with the woman—Emely, as she preferred to be addressed—organizing that group of people, whom Bedivere later found out were those top leaders involved with what was being called "Operation Nightfall", into proper rows for a photograph. The device in her hand was a camera, she had explained, somewhat surprised someone hadn't heard of one before. The latest vogue.

Bedivere had listened intently to her prattle on about the various other devices, ranging from different variations of the box-like camera she had to larger ones that required the use of many hands to operate. All of this was new and fascinating, as even though the Grail gave him some information about the current era it hadn't bothered with the more miscellaneous, mundane details. One thing it had was the existence of motor vehicles. From bicycles, cars, trucks, and motorcycles to tanks, ships, and aircraft. These were the new horses of the age. Tanks, especially, could be considered the warhorses that would replace the ones of his time. They were the beasts of war seen earlier. All of these he was qualified to ride and if commanded he would, but, honestly, he preferred his mounts to be of flesh than metal, and if given the option to choose the choice would obvious. After all, you couldn't feed apples to a tank, and seeing a mare pulling a farmer and his cart down the street, it fondly reminded him of the one he had as a boy before Dun Stallion.

"You like horses?" Emely said, holding her camera right up against to her face. Having gone through five rolls of film already, she didn't appear to be slowing down anytime soon.

"Yes."

She now had it pointed at him. "Care to share?"

And, so, he did.

"Wow," she said when he finished. "I was wrong. You love them."

"More than most would admit, yes."

Two more rolls later, she asked about how he had lost his arm.

"In a battle."

"It must be hard for you."

The memory of it came to him through the pain in his stump. It ached as he reimagined the sight of his arm flying away from his body; screaming, blood spurting, painting his world a crimson shade, still grasping his sword as it was lost amidst the carnage of the battlefield. Then, only blackness.

And that was all he remembered.

Not even details of the battle could he recall. The majority of what happened was been told to him later by Tristan.

It was after many countless battles had already been fought and won decisively. By that time, everyone had grown a bit too confident, a bit too comfortable, a bit too sure of the stupidity of the enemy they fought to think that they couldn't change. That they couldn't adapt. This battle, later regarded as one of the twelve most significant, put an abrupt end to that.

Many times over the course of this battle, Arturia had led charges into the enemy ranks from their flanks without much causality until reinforcements from the coast arrived. Led by a prince known as Hengist, the enemy hastily rallied themselves under his leadership and the battle continued long into the day. When the majority of their forces had been wiped out, and as it appeared Hengist and his army would break and flee the field, they surprised everyone by offering themselves for wholesale slaughter. Willingly throwing themselves into their charges, Hengist utilized the innumerous bodies of the slain to tangle the cavalry and surround them in what was for all intents and purpose a suicidal bid to take out the King in an all out bloodbath. As for his part, he was sent crashing down, along with a few others, including Arturia, to fight on foot. For a short while, he fended off the press of bodies that sought to tear him and the others to shreds till their numbers dwindled to just himself and Arturia, but, it wasn't long before they became overwhelmed. He lost his arm to Hengist himself, saving his King in the process just as reinforcements arrived. Tristan told him the look in his eyes afterward was "so vicious that even Arturia herself was frightened of what he was capable of".

Not that she would have let shown such fear.

What he did remember, were the weeks after, or, rather, fragments of those weeks, of his time spent in recovery. Bedridden for most of that time, slipping in and out of consciousness, he could see the face of Guinevere clearer than all the rest of those who had came to visit him during it. Some of Gawain, Tristan, Kay, and the other knights he knew and ones he hadn't at the time. Few of Vivian, the Lady of the Lake before Nimuë and sole reason he hadn't died from infection. Fewer of Arturia, whom he recalled visiting him only once, to tell him that she was grateful for his service. That his sacrifice would not be in vain.

Later, when he was deemed ready to serve, the loss of his dominant hand often left him in fits of frustration and with thoughts of his own worthlessness, for he had great difficulty doing much of anything. What good was a Marshal of the King if they couldn't even saddle their own horse, let alone ride it? Or fight? But, from the loss of his hand sprouted the companionship and support of fellow knights and castle residents that fixed what he couldn't alone.

He had learned to fight left-handed thanks to the consistent—and, early on, oftentimes brutal—sparring matches with any who was willing, be it page, squire, knight, and, on occasion, king. The smiths had fashioned for him a metal hand and leather arm brace to help hold it in place, for use in riding and other menial tasks. Bakers had given him whatever he asked, for he had lost much of his original muscle mass and had to rebuild it from the ground up.

As a result, his left side was now slightly larger than the right, though he had done all he was able to make them even. Guinevere's girlish affection for him, also, during those many days of his recovery—or perhaps even before then—had turned into a sincere love. Their relationship had shifted drastically in such a short amount of time, and, so too, had his friendship with Morgana.

His mood darkened.

It was also to be the start of when he and Arturia would grow ever farther apart.

And, it was a long stretch of time, the sun dipping below the clouds on the horizon, before either he or Emely spoke again.

"Your commander is really against this operation, isn't he? 'Holy Grail nonsense', he calls it," Emely said, popping out a roll of film from her camera and holding it up to what little daylight was left. The woman must have caught wind of his mood, for her easygoing tone had taken on an air of reassurance. She threw the roll aside and slapped a new one in. "I, for one, find it exciting. 'The Quest to seek the Holy Grail, Renewed'! It would make great film material," she said with a chuckle. Cranking the camera until it was ready for use again, she pointed it in his direction. "What do you think?"

Bedivere simply gave a nod.

Once again, he listened to her talk about whatever came to mind, offering responses to the questions he was willing to answer and meeting with silence or a nod or shake of the head the ones he'd rather not or was reluctant to.

By then night had fallen and the moon and the stars were out.

His Master and the others—his actual Leutnant, Meier, Lancer's Master, Lancer, and a few of those officials from earlier—were still inside the Palace, discussing plans for the operation. From the shouting that drifted down from the uppermost floor, it didn't appear to be going very well.

"They'll be at it until tomorrow morning, I don't doubt." At this point Emely had ran out of rolls and was arranging all her captured film on the ground for later storage. A well-used box was beside her.

"It's necessary for the success of the operation," Bedivere replied. Gazing up at the night sky he couldn't help but think of those cold nights at Camelot.

The nights he and Arturia, and sometimes Guinevere, too, would just watch the stars as they twinkled. Trying to spot the ones that fell, the worries of the Kingdom far from their minds. He hadn't believed Merlin then, what the magician had said about them being able to grant wishes, but, looking for them now, he prayed that he might see one. A shooting star.

Even though the chance was slim. Even though it wouldn't really matter.

And, that was when he felt it.

The presence of something vile.

At once, he sprang to his feet.

Emely jumped with a cry of surprise and knocked over her box, tangling herself in her countless rolls of film. "Gah! A little help here!" she cried, struggling to free herself while trying desperately not to damage any of the rolls.

He could sense it nearby, but not from where or which direction, and knew better than to go off in search. If it was an enemy Servant, then that was exactly what they would want him to do.

"Hey!"

To leave his Master vulnerable and open for attack.

"Leutnant!"

And he wasn't about to let that happen, either. Not again.

Readying himself as whatever it was came closer, he was going to get Emely to safety when a shrill voice called out from the gloom.

"There is no need for violence, Servant," the voice said, as a man peeled himself from the shadows.

Without drawing attention, Bedivere took a cautious step toward him and in a low voice, replied, "State your intent, and your name, or I will have you leave. By force, if need be."

"Very well," the man countered. His skin was dry and leathery, speckled with dark blotches. It stretched over his bones as he grinned. He had no hair, save for thin receding lines of white at the sides. His eyes were a sickly yellow and gleamed in the moonlight. His body was a bit more lively than a corpse, as he continued to approach, shuffling, hunched in his walk and assisted by a cane that looked like a gnawed root. He stopped just outside of striking distance. "I am Zouken Matou… and I have business with your Master."