Chapter 2—Destined

January 3rd

Four years later

[Lancer]

He easily admits that this world suits him. The women aren't inclined to fall for him, at least, not all of them. And most are fiery and passionate, most simply ache to fulfill their goals rather than marry off into a rich family. The women are easily respected on his part but he would be lying if he did not readily admit how many he's already slept with. Not to brag, but perhaps to be a bit boastful. Here, it is hardly shameful to sleep with a man and never speak with him again, if the women so chooses. During his time period, there were many women he could do so with but most of the high class ones would never entertain the idea.

His relationships with the women of this world are hardly the reason for his success however. It is more so his ambition and of course, because this world does like a fair face—his appearance does help. In some ways.

So it is only natural that he delves into the world of business and modeling. It is only natural he put on airs for what he can't help but flirtatiously show off. He isn't famous, hardly, nor does he aim to be, but he likes living in a nice apartment—he enjoys his newfound freedom, regardless if the chains of money and society are his new masters. So be it, he decides, it is better than a mage handling his affairs and personal morals.

Four years have passed since his release into the world and he's sensed no other servants. Nor observed or noticed any suspicious movement. No random deaths, at least, nothing caused by the hands of a servant. No one else is as close to stardom as he (or as he can be) so it would be strange to suddenly see familiar faces appear. Besides, he left Tokyo three years ago, settling in America, in New York. He's acquired a bit of money but he assumes that only because his beauty mark influences most of his modeling jobs. It isn't something he's proud of but at least he hasn't gone hungry, or failed miserably. At least, he has a leg in on running a business and a few investments in a coffee shop he hopes will grow bigger soon.

He keeps in practice however. Twisting and swinging his lances with feline quickness whenever he can. He hardly wants to forget the movement or excitement of battle, he doesn't want to be a weak servant, capabilities lost over time. So he trains as much as he can, making sure his abilities are constantly improved upon. Often, he looks back to one of his last battles.

The one with her.

A name he refuses to say out loud. Her gaze in his last moments had been one of confusion and disturbance. She had stepped away from him, eyebrows furrowed, eyes widened with, what seemed like, startled fear.

As his red lance glimmered in the moonlight and his rage escaped him. Death without honor. That is what he suffered. Because of her.

No.

Not because of her, he knows that. He tells himself that, in hopes he will believe it and understand.

As he sat alone, in his own personal realm, a continuous loop of his sorrows and past deaths, he could not help but think of her. Wonder if she had known that her master had planned to kill him dishonorably. If she had, would she have stopped it?

Then again, it a servants responsibility to follow their master's orders, so perhaps his worries are misplaced. She is loyal. Even when she disagrees, she is loyal without a fault.

Seeing her again, four years ago, still as passionate and selfless as before, was a shock. He was still angry then, he still hated her for everything. It was hard not to glare, it was hard to bark angrily at every word she spoke. Now...he's simply confused.

Their fights, he will always think back on, however. Mirroring his movements, living out the exact motion of his body deflecting her blade, of his lance piercing forward.

She had been a magnificent partner, fighting him as if a dance; a deadly one but exciting nonetheless.

Sighing to himself, he casually walks down the street, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, hiding his lips beneath the fabric. He doesn't feel as cold as humans do but January winters are brutal and punishing; even he can't withstand such temperatures. Even if he could, it would be insane to walk outside amongst normal civilians without a jacket. He would look too strange and draw far too much suspicion.

Glancing upward at a string of glimmering billboards and screens, he pauses to grimace at the familiar face. He lied about not seeing too many familiar faces (and being the only once close to stardom). He sees Archer's face too many times. It seems he's conquered the business world, as well as acting, modeling and more. His arrogance is adored by his fans and Lancer can't help but wonder why this world loves such a selfish man.

Seeing Archer's smirk sliding across a glowing screen hardly makes Lancer's mornings. Especially when he knows the bastard is enjoying every moment of his fame.

Perhaps he's become even more big headed than he had been before. That wouldn't be much of a surprise however.

Taking a swift turn, Lancer follows a similar morning route, on way to his favorite (and locally known) coffee shop. He prefers smaller places, dimly lit and intimate rather than busy chain restaurants, where the employees hardly seem happy to be there.

Here, as he walks in, he's greeted with friendly smiles and familiar faces, innocent people who see past his charmed mark. Although they hardly know he's been bestowed with such a curse.

"Diarmuid," this world enjoys strange names and folklore it seems, because his name has become fairly popular amongst his few friends—if he could call them that, "Good morning."

It is a fair faced man with facial hair aligned neatly around his lips and chin, connecting into his hair line. Wrinkles around his lips and eyes speak volumes of his personality and his blue eyes are often transparently emotional. Lancer can't help but be drawn to the man's honesty, finding such a quality to be scarce amongst the humans he's known.

"Sorry to come so early today," Lancer offers a smile, "But I expected you'd be here."

"Well—" a voice calls from the back, and scooting her head back, ginger hair pulled into a high pony tail is petite woman, arms around two stacked boxes, "He can't help it. Refuses to sleep and just walks around the store all night!"

Her voice is layered with a thick accent, freckles dotting her cheeks as her innocent greenish-blue eyes flash with annoyance at her husband, "One day, I swear he'll drop dead."

He admires that despite their short lifespans, their lives are filled with bits of happiness. A sense of togetherness he can't help but truly wish for himself. They are humble, often one bickering mind, but strongly bonded.

"Relax Amelie," looking back to Lancer, he scoffs, "You'd think she has PhD or something but she didn't even finish high school."

Neither did Lancer. He never even attended. He's fortunate to be blessed with the knowledge of this world before being released, or else it would have been impossible to ever find a job.

"Might as well," Amelie hisses and drops the boxes on the counter. The shop is empty save for a few random faces, huddled into darker corners or sleeping with large textbooks open beneath them, "You agree with me right Diarmuid? Justin should take care of his health, right?"

He offers a polite smile, "Both of you should,"

Justin clicks his tongue, punching in Lancer's usual order and then swirling around, choosing to ignore his wife rather than instigate. But she continues, tongue like a fiery whip, speaking fast and her heavy accent becoming thicker, louder, "He can't sleep, he eats like a pig and then goes out drinkin' with his buddies, leaving me to clean the shop all alone."

Again, silence from Justin, who merely continues to brew Lancer's coffee. He watches, bemused as Amelie opens the stacked boxes, unloading small porcelain cups and plates. He wonders now if she's speaking to herself rather than her husband.

"And I love him, I do, but he's a stupid oaf."

"Alright, alright. Nough' already. He gets it."

"I haven't even started yet!" Amelie frowns and snatches the coffee cup from Justin's hand, swiveling around to hand it off to Lancer, who leaves the appropriate amount of cash on the counter. Sometimes he hardly speaks but he likes to watch their liveliness, often amused by how similar the two are. Often bickering about something and the next, speaking in serious hushed tones like inseparable partners.

The door behind him rings, two little bells bouncing together. He doesn't turn, but a soft scent wafts towards his nose. Like cinnamon or melting sugar. He inhales gently and then presses the cup in his hands to his lips.

Regardless of Amelie's booming voice, it is a peaceful morning. One he enjoys rather than constant battle and war, although he sometimes misses that excitement, the seriousness of a fight between a worthy opponent.

Brushing past him, a smaller figure steps up to the counter. She walks with a stiffness, as if still unaccustomed to the world, or rather, to people. Her fingers drum against the counter and she turns her emerald gaze towards Amelie with a seriousness he's all too familiar with. Stiffening, Lancer observes her, dumbfounded that he hadn't sense her presence earlier, that she's here at all.

"Oh, you came back." Justin holds a white mug in his hand, wiping it clean with a pale blue rag.

She nods, rigid, "I thought it would be rude not to pay back the window and table. And dishes. I am sorry to have caused such a racket. Please accept this as my formal apology."

Too polite. She's still polite and full of humble gratitude. Passing an envelope across the counter, Justin pauses and peers down at it. Then he shakes his head, "You didn't have to. You were just trying to help a poor woman and you fought off that big ogre like it was nothing."

She doesn't smile, "She needed help. But I also ruined parts of your shop. I insist you accept the money."

Justin gently places the mug down, "Well I—"

He flinches as Amelie snacks the back of his neck with an apron twisted around her fist. She eyes the blonde servant before her, scowling, "Stupid oaf, why wouldn't you take the money?! She ransacked our shop!"

She bows her head low, "I apologize. I was only trying to be of use. I hope the money can pay for all expenses."

Justin rubs his head and Lancer is still frozen in place. He hadn't expected to ever see her again, or get the change too. He always told himself that if he saw her, he would immediately apologize for his misplaced anger. Or that he would allow her to explain what happened but now...

"Saber."

Justin glances up, noticing Lancer's most likely torn expression, confused...hurt.

The blonde woman turns, eyebrows furrowed, lips pulled into a taut line. Even then, he notices her simple beauty, a muscle in her jaw tightening as she meets his gaze. Startled, Saber steps back and bumps against the counter, "Lancer?"

They stare at each other, searching each other's gazes. Silently, he wonders what she might be thinking, as they watch each other, mirrored expressions, probably seeing their past selves in the other's face. The moment is quiet, fit only for the two long lost friends, now separated by time and strangling emotions. He wants to say something, he can see she wants to as well but they continue to stare, unable to muster up the strength. It is all nearly too suffocating and too personal of a moment, something he feels he must hide away. Saber opens her mouth, exhaling, not yet speaking words but her lips forming them, breathlessly. He tilts forward slightly, chest tightening with anticipation.

Then the thud of a mug hitting the counter makes them both flinch. Lancer lifts his gaze to the ginger haired woman, eyebrows furrowed, cheeks flushed with color.

Amelie leans over the counter, "Who the hell is Lancer?"

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[Saber]

Sitting awkwardly in a booth, Saber wonders what she should say. He looks exactly the same, except that he wears civilian clothes and his lances are far from where they sit.

Swallowing what she can of the sugar cookie, spread out in small pieces on her napkin, she wonders what he is thinking.

Nothing good, most likely.

She's actually seen a bit about him recently. Fairly famous amongst small groups of girls, squawking at his picture in a magazine, nameless for all they know, but the teenage girls are often mesmerized by his expressions; dark and sultry, as if hiding secrets. Out of curiosity, she flipped through a magazine, only to find him in some obscure one, one she is sure is hardly well known, but regardless, she was fairly impressed with his photos. She hadn't expected she'd see him again, indirectly at least, from the pages of a glossy magazine.

Now, he sits just as nervously before her, hand clasped around his styrofoam coffee cup, eyes narrowed and eyebrows scrunched in concentration.

Maybe he doesn't want to speak with her. But then, he had been the one to direct them to a table.

It's been four years already...

But also longer since the last Holy Grail War. So much has happened and he hardly knows. He doesn't know what her previous master commanded her to do. He doesn't know that she knew not about his death beforehand. She could never have known what Kiritsugu had planned the night of Caster's defeat.

Watching him, his face is replaced with the sudden memory of his bloodied eyes and mouth, of his pained and angered glare. Saber flinches and nearly jumps from her seat but she wills her feet to still and her heart to calm when Lancer turns his head.

"I—" they both exclaim and pausing suddenly, his eyes capture hers. He wants to say something and she has no idea what to say. What could she ever possibly say to make up for the pain she caused him?

"You should speak first—" he starts and Saber quickly breaks off another piece of her cookie, chomping down aggressively into it. She's come here everyday at the same time and never has she seen him. Apparently, according to the shop owners boisterous wife, she and Lancer are often frequent customers, just missing each other. As one exits, the other trudges down the street, ready to enter. Usually they come at different times, Lancer, according to the wife, very early; while Saber comes towards the afternoon. It is strange to think they had been so close and yet never even seen or knew of the others presence. Saber believed she had been the only one to come to America but it seems Lancer had thought of the same idea.

The city is full of diversity, love and anger and so much emotion, it is no wonder both of them were drawn to such enormous passion.

Glancing away for a moment, she notices the owner of the shop cleaning the front counter, while his wife sits leaning over it, peering at them with wide and curious eyes. Saber flinches and quickly swivels her head back around towards Lancer. He seems to have noticed that they are being watched because he offers a gentle smile in the women's direction. Surprisingly, she doesn't completely swoon because she nods her head vigorously at him, as if it's encouragement.

"I'm sorry—" Saber blurts and, when he looks at her in surprise, she freezes, heart pounding and blood rushing up her cheeks, "Ah, about...I didn't mean to intrude on you. Here. If you don't want to see me—Well.." she's rambling now, crushing her cookie between her thumb and the table, "No, I am also sorry about—about..."

Say it! You sound like a fool!

She swallows the words and frowns, finding the very sentence to be impossibly hard to say, the words lodged in her throat.

"Saber.."

His voice is softer than she expected, more calm and less angry. In fact, she assumed he would have been yelling at her by now, or tossing dishes and flipping tables. Maybe decades of sitting and waiting to be summoned has sent her mind into a manic frenzy of delusions. Because seeing him now, she would never imagine lancer flipping a table. Not as he watches her with that all knowing expression, a slight smirk.

Women must really fall for that look but it only unnerves her.

He chuckles with a soft exhale, "I'm glad this spell doesn't work on you still. It's a relief."

Blinking, she slides her eyes towards the small beauty mark. Subject change...he changed...

"I'm also glad that you haven't changed. Or you have...but in a good way."

"A...good way?" She cocks her head at him, attempting to decipher his calm expression, or what his intentions are.

He presses his cup to his lips and takes in a harsh sip, lips curling at the edges, as he watches her back; as if he knows that she is searching him, trying to decipher his words. And failing.

Shaking her head, she adds, in a hushed tone so the curious woman at the counter can't hear, "Aren't you angry with me? About...what happened?"

He seemed so when he faded from existence, scowling and renouncing her very existence. Now, he seems...content.

"Let's not talk about that," he leans a bit forward and Saber leans away in turn, "How are you?"

What? What is he aiming for?

Glancing back at the woman and shop owner, she drums her fingers against the wooden table, "I don't—"

"Don't worry," Lancer laughs, "I just want to hear about the past four years."

Although a bit suspicious, it is easy to fall into the lull of his smile, daring and loud despite his soft and calm tone. His personality was always contagious however, fiery and having a tendency to be a bit childishly competitive. But far from stupid, no, Lancer would never be a person she regards as idiotic. So she falls into the complacency of the moment. It's much easier to do when she knows they will not have to go out and have an intense battle after. Unless, her heart pounds excitedly with the thought, he truly wanted to.

However, right now, she decides to focus on honesty.

"It's been...boring."

"Boring?"

"Well...I have...switched jobs a bit. I liked my previous one very much. The one I have now...is temporary."

"Let me guess," he smiles at her with amusement, slightly shaking his coffee cup to see if any more liquid sloshes against the sides, "You're a cop."

She nods, "How did you know?"

"I assumed your righteous and stubborn personality would find itself there. But...you said you are elsewhere now?"

She watches him carefully, searching his eyes.

"Something else...taking children away from troubled homes. Reprimanding the bad..?" She flushes as his eyes seem to soak in the information, nearly hungry for it.

Lancer flashes a bemused smile at her, "I'm impressed, I can imagine you working well with children. I'm sure you'd a be bit stiff in the beginning."

"It was exactly like that," she chuckles, "I was very unaccustomed to working with them, especially such troubled ones. They are far more mature than I expected though."

"I'm sure they are glad to have you."

She glances down at her hands, pulling at her shirt buttons, "And it doesn't require a sword—"

Lancer laughs. It is loud and a bit boisterous, unashamed and lacking much of the soft politeness he carried during the last Holy Grail War. His happiness makes her content although, that he no longer harbors the anger he died with. She trusted him during those days, even fighting Caster with him, despite them being enemies or supposedly. She trusts him now too, more than any other servant.

"I am...hunting someone..." her voice lowers again and Lancer's eyebrows furrow, lips pulling down into a deep grimace. She continues, "Caster. I followed him to America from England. Or he's followed me. Now, I am a social worker. For children...but it allows me to investigate families and make an easier schedule. As a police officer, It was easier to investigate but my schedule was far too hectic so—"

"Saber..." Lancer's grip tightens around his cup, "You are obsessed over him. When I am sure you have nothing to worry about."

"I-I do! You don't know, because you have lived your life, like everyone else. But Caster has killed. Missing children, missing families. It's the violence of this world that hides these murders."

He scoffs, "You need to live in the present, Saber. This is childish, already."

"No." She knows that she should be polite, especially given their past, but she refuses to be belittled, "You are all childish, attempting to live your lives like normal humans when we have a responsibility to—"

"I owe humans nothing," Lancer's glare makes her stiffen. His rage is palpable beneath his frown and Saber watches him, his snarl deep and heavy, "You push your ideals on us as if we care. But we do not. And look what happens to those who follow you. Death. Only that."

Hurt makes her chest sting and she clasps the edge of the table, "You have no right."

"No," he hisses back, "You have no right to come here and intrude upon my life, my peace and freedom to demand I search for a servant who does not exist in this world any more. You're delusional."

"I. Am. Not," standing, Saber tosses the rest of her crumbled cookie into the trash, wrenching her bag over her shoulder, "You are all too deluded and selfish. I thought you would be different."

He follows her stride with his gaze, yelling over his shoulder, "I owe you nothing! May I remind who it was you that betrayed me? Or does your half assed apology serve as your only redemption!?"

Saber pauses but doesn't turn. Staring at the front door, she contemplates whether she should turn back, whether she should take back what she said and reign in her anger. But then she's reminded that he merely wants to believe she is insane and let Caster run amok, and her anger boils.

"I have deep remorse for what happened that night, Lancer. If I could go back and save you, I would. But I cannot. Believe me if you so choose. But this is the last time you will see of me."

And she stomps out the door, never looking back at him and tightening her grip around the strap of her bag.

She'll do it all on her own. She's used to being alone anyways—so be it.