Pursuing the Dream

He could not say how long he spent in darkness, but it seemed to be quite a while. Too long a while, really, considering the situation he knew himself to be in. Was one supposed to be surrounded by blackness for this long? Surely by now he would have seen a light or a vast expanse of sky or something else that would indicate that he'd reached his final resting place.

Consciousness returned slowly, and the first thing he noticed as his vision began clearing was a high, ornately carved ceiling. The next thing he noticed was his low, steady breathing.

I'm...alive? He gingerly sat up in the bed he was lying in, stifling a sound of surprise when he didn't feel the slightest twinge of pain as he moved. He touched his stomach where he vividly remembered being injured; when he glanced at his hand, however, he didn't find a single drop of blood.

How am I alive? he couldn't help wondering as he scanned the stone walls of the bedchamber as though they could give him the answer. He was supposed to be dead—he had been dying, the wound he'd gotten should have been fatal, there was no reason for him to be—

Saber's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the heavy wooden door opening, followed by a greatly familiar, elderly voice.

"Good day, Arthur."

He turned his head in the direction of the door to see that an old, white-haired man with a long white beard had entered the chamber and was now striding towards the bed. "Merlin...?" was all Saber could say, his voice laden with confusion.

"I must admit," Merlin went on as though the knight hadn't said anything, "I'm surprised to see you still alive."

Judging from the casual way he was speaking, Saber had a feeling that the old sorcerer wasn't as surprised as he claimed, and since Merlin was gifted with precognition, this conclusion was not a very farfetched one. Even so, Saber did not dwell on what his mentor might or might not know, choosing instead to ask, "What happened, Merlin? How is it that I have not—"

His voice abruptly died in his throat as he spotted the object resting at the foot of his bed. Blinking rapidly, he could not suppress an astounded gasp this time as he beheld the scabbard—the blue and gold scabbard that healed anything, the legendary protection of the sword Excalibur, Avalon. It was there—as impossibly plain as the fact that Arthur Pendragon still lived—but how could it have appeared right at the moment that Saber had been dying? It had been stolen, so it should still have been with—

Suddenly, a certain past conversation came rushing back to him.

"Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?"

"Avalon is your scabbard, so it's only right that I give it back to you."

That's right; Shira returned it to me, Saber recalled as he got up from the bed to take the scabbard in his hands, holding it at arm's length. Avalon had been with him during the final battle in the Holy Grail War, and it had remained even as he used Excalibur to destroy the Grail. And because Avalon was an actual physical object rather than an imitation magically created by the Holy Grail, why should it not have been brought back with Saber when he was transported to the moment of his would-be death?

"Bedivere found that trusty scabbard of yours lying under you, then took both it and you back to the castle," Merlin explained in answer to the blond's first question. "You've been unconscious since yesterday, so it was more than enough time for your wound to heal."

As Merlin spoke, Saber continued to gaze at Avalon, allowing a ghost of a bittersweet smile to cross his features. Against all odds, he was alive, but he was still very, very far away from the girl he loved, separated not only by space, but by time as well. He gently stroked the scabbard, wishing it was Shira's face.

"So, Your Majesty, care to announce to the kingdom your miraculous defiance of fate?"

Saber started upon hearing that question, the words wrenching him out of his wistful musings and back into the present. He looked up at Merlin as what little of a smile there was on his face gave way to a somber frown, then closed his eyes in contemplation.

After a long moment, he opened them again. "I believe we both know I cannot do that," he said, his voice sounding as cool and calm as he could muster. "I may have Avalon back in my possession, but Excalibur was thrown into the lake, something that was to be done once my reign concluded. Perhaps the residents of this castle would be convinced I am still alive, but I doubt an empty scabbard—and a previously stolen one, at that—would convince most. It is quite likely that many people would believe I am a fraud assuming King Arthur's identity.

"And even if I could stay on the throne without any issue, could I really rule Britain for hundreds of years?" Saber asked rhetorically, more to himself than to Merlin. He could easily imagine all the political complications and upheaval that would occur if he essentially declared himself the eternal monarch of the country. Besides, the whole reason he participated in not just one, but two Grail Wars was that he'd so badly—and, as he now knew, very erroneously—wanted to change the past. If trying to redo the selection of the king had been wrong, would it not be equally wrong to try to prolong his reign?

Presently, Merlin raised a bushy eyebrow, his mouth set in a thin line. "You mean to fake your death?"

"It is for the best." But it would mean— Saber forcibly silenced the mental voice before it could go any further; this was no time for his conscience to get in the way. "With Excalibur gone, my rule has ended and my duties as King can be passed on to...whoever is next in line." He had been about to say Gawain's name, but stopped himself once he remembered that the kinsman whom he'd named his heir was dead, along with Gawain's three brothers. Whoever took the throne after him would have to be some distant relative or another. "Merlin, do you know of anything that could assist me in this matter?"

"I have a potion that will make the one who drinks it appear dead," Merlin admitted. "With the correct dosage, you can be rendered unconscious long enough for a ship burial to be put together."

"Very well. If you will, embed Avalon in my body, and see to it that I at least have a sword with me in the boat. I would prefer to be armed if the need to defend myself ever arises."

The sorcerer nodded. "And after everyone thinks you're dead, what will you do?"

"Live among commoners and make certain no one has any suspicions about me. I will have to frequently travel—people would begin to wonder why I'm not aging if I stay in one place for too long. And hopefully I can..." Saber paused, then decided to continue with what he was about to say, to discern if Merlin knew about him gallivanting through time to fight in the Grail Wars if nothing else, "...eventually reunite with the woman I was forced to leave behind."

There was a moment of silence as the former Servant waited for Merlin to respond. At last, the old man smiled slightly, a certain gleam appearing in his eyes. "Somehow, I doubt this woman of yours is Guinevere."

It was all the answer Saber needed.

Word traveled fast throughout the land. From the nobility to the peasantry, one bit of news resounded among the British people, summed up in four words: "The King is dead."

His body, clad in his silver armor, was placed in a boat and set out to sail on the long river just outside Camelot. A sheathed sword, pointing downward, was held in his clasped hands. At his right hip was a white-hilted dagger, also sheathed, and at his left side was a spear. His face was drained of color, his skin was cold to the touch, and he was not breathing.

Yes, as far as anyone was concerned, King Arthur was indeed dead.

The ship burial was held with Merlin and a small band of loyal knights, including Bedivere, in attendance. When it was over, everyone left, all deep in mourning except the sorcerer himself, leaving the funeral boat to make its way down the river.

And for another while yet, the King of Knights was consumed by darkness and stillness.

Saber woke up to the feeling of a warm breeze on his face and hard wood beneath his back. With a grunt and a few blinks of his eyes, he set the sword he'd been holding aside and sat up in the boat to get a look at his surroundings. All he could see was the gently flowing river and the trees that stood from a distance on his right. If he was now near a forest, he must have been sailing along in that death-like coma for several hours, or even a couple of days.

So the ruse has been successful, Saber thought as he dismissed his armor in a twinkling of light. He glanced around the boat, noticing the dagger and spear that someone put in as burial goods. After a few seconds of wondering what to do with the extra weapons, he decided that the best thing was to dispose of them. In the event that someone came across his empty funeral boat, less suspicion would be drawn if everything was gone than if the sword and "body" were missing, yet the spear and dagger still remained.

After Saber had thrown the two weapons into the water, he grabbed the sword and jumped into the river himself, swimming to the western shore. Drenched, shivering, and slightly out of breath, the former king stood for a moment on the dirt ground, gazing pensively into the forest.

The ruse has been successful, he thought again, allowing himself to feel the guilt he'd refused to acknowledge after he decided to fake his death. It may have been for the best, but it also required him to deceive the entire world. And although there were plenty of people who were certainly overjoyed that King Arthur was dead—he'd done far too good a job of being an emotionally stand-offish, coldly pragmatic ruler during the last few years of his reign to be very popular with the public—there were others who were no doubt sincerely grieving over him, especially Bedivere, who must have thought everything would turn out fine once he'd discovered Avalon, and Lancelot, who had—or rather, would—carry his own guilt for his part in his King's downfall into the fourth Grail War as Berserker.

But did Saber's feelings about the emotional effects of what he'd done even matter now? What was done was done, and there was nothing left for him to do but move forward.

"I am sorry for lying to you," he whispered to the wind, "but I have made my choice, and there is nothing I can do to change it." No matter how much it hurts, I still think this is the right path to choose. The words Shira had spoken in that underground chapel as she rejected the Holy Grail echoed in his head, and they were enough to strengthen his resolve.

Holding his head high, Saber strode forward into the forest, preparing himself for a long pursuit of his newest goal.

He spent several days in the woods, not wanting to rejoin civilization too soon. By day, he passed the hours either walking or practicing swordplay to keep his skills sharp, and at night, he slept on the ground only to wake up with stiff muscles in the morning. When it came to nourishment, there was no shortage of fruit from trees and bushes to eat; it was meager fare, especially compared to the meals at Shira's house, but the apples and berries and such were at least edible, and he had to make do with what he could find.

Every now and then, he would come across a pool of water and stop to wash his face and hands, but he never bothered with trying to keep his clothes clean. By the time a week passed, his shirt and leggings were heavily stained by dirt and grass; with his currently shabby, unkempt appearance, no one would think he was anything more than a peasant boy.

Deciding that seven days was enough time spent in the wilderness, Saber left the forest in search of a village or town he could temporarily reside in. He came across a traveler's inn after two days on the road, and the old innkeeper was kind enough to treat him to some broth and allow him to sleep there for the night. When he protested that he had no money to pay for the service, the innkeeper merely waved his hand dismissively.

"You think you're the first customer here who don't have any money, boy? These war refugees that come in are lucky if they still have decent clothes on their backs. Now eat that soup before it gets cold—you look like you could use it."

Although Saber would not be too proud to be a street beggar—a possibility that was very likely in the event that he could not find any honest work—he was uncomfortable accepting such charity. Still, his growling stomach convinced him to take the innkeeper up on his offer, and he obediently ate his bowl of thin broth, unable to keep himself from imagining that he was in Shira's dining room, eating a soup prepared by either Sakura, Rin, or his former Master.

If I cannot even eat without thinking of Shira, he thought later as he tried to sleep in a corner of the inn, his sword close at hand, then I fear the centuries will be very long indeed.

To his surprise, he was able to find a job in the first small town he arrived in. He was put to work as the town's scribe, reading and writing correspondences and contracts for people who could do neither. Admittedly, it had not been the first job he'd considered—his initial thought was that he'd end up as a manual laborer—but it was something to do.

For the most part, the townsfolk were quite welcoming and friendly, the hustle and bustle of everyday life was a nostalgic reminder of the village Saber had spent his childhood in, and the town itself was peaceful, seemingly untouched by the civil war that had plagued the end of his reign. Even so, he kept everyone at arm's length; any conversations he had—whether it was with the family whose inn he was staying at, children around his (physical) age, or paying customers—amounted to little more than small talk. After half a year of living in this place, he could readily say that he had plenty of acquaintances, but no real friends, and it was only when he sneaked outside in the dead of night to continue with his sword training that he felt most like himself.

It was another six months or so before he left the town to travel somewhere else. It was an accomplishment, he decided, that he managed to make it through a year without Shira...but a voice in his head was quick to remind him that he had one thousand, four hundred, and ninety-nine years to go.

A little over two years later, he learned about Guinevere's death.

With some shame, Saber realized that it had been a long time since he'd given any real thought to his first wife. The last time he'd seen her, she was being rescued from her execution by Lancelot, and although he'd made an effort to find where she had fled to, such effort had been perfunctory at best. Even if he'd found her, he didn't know what he would have said to her.

And now, as he stared at Guinevere's grave in the cemetery where she was buried, he still didn't know what to say to her.

According to the nuns of this particular town, Guinevere sought sanctuary in their convent after fleeing from Camelot and remained there even after the news of her former husband's death reached her. Once, Saber would have said she had no regrets about her affair with Lancelot, but now he wondered if perhaps, in the end, she did feel guilty and stayed at the convent as a form of penance.

Was it ever possible for us? he found himself thinking. Could we have been...well, perhaps not happy, but at least content?

At that moment, a mental image of Shira appeared in his head. In his mind's eye, he saw her in the green meadow of Avalon, her eyes—warm brown, not Guinevere's bright blue—glittering happily, her hair—fiery red, as opposed to Guinevere's deep auburn—shining in the sun, and an elated smile lighting up her features. With that image of an old dream from before Saber was king came the reminder of the strange yet wondrous joy he had felt during it; it was as much of an answer to his question as he would get, he supposed, and he was uncertain if that should make him feel better or worse.

Nevertheless, he bade a silent farewell to Guinevere and left the cemetery without a backward glance.

Year after year, it was the same routine: he went to a place where no one knew him, had an alias and a cover story on hand, found a job and blended in as much as he could, left just before any awkward questions could be asked, and spent some time in the wilderness before repeating the cycle somewhere else.

The work and people might be different depending on where he was, but it was always the same basic routine, even with the occasional skirmish with ruffians, bandits, and even Dead Apostles serving to break some of the monotony. In all honesty, after several decades of this pattern, it could be so maddeningly dull that, in Saber's darkest moments, he thought perhaps it would have been better if he'd died after all.

At present, while he was trying to fall asleep in his room at a village inn, he dwelled on his memories of Shira. It was something he'd been prone to doing lately, trying to recall everything about her: what she looked like, how her voice sounded, all facets of her personality, what she said and did during a particular time in the Grail War. It was true that human memory could be a faulty thing, but thinking about the one he was steadfastly waiting out the years for helped him through the aforementioned dark moments.

He didn't know long it was until he drifted off, the memory of Shira's sad but loving smile after his confession lingering in his mind.

It took a few centuries before Saber felt he could fight in battles without too much notice. Granted, even the most obtuse warrior in an army was bound to realize eventually that he had the curious tendency of coming out of a fight without so much as a scratch, let alone a gaping wound, but he always ended up faking his death again before any suspicions became a real problem.

In any case, although Britain had not been "his" for a long time, he still felt duty-bound to participate in the wars the country found itself in. Moreover, whether a battle was won or lost, he could not help the pride and relief he felt that the kingdom he once ruled had not been destroyed beyond repair even with his reign's disastrous end.

Even so, as hundreds of years passed, with Britain dividing into the countries of England, Wales, and Scotland, the former King of Knights also found himself saddened that his country felt the need to invade other nations to acquire power. Yes, he had desired a strong, prosperous kingdom during his reign, but with the Britons—well, the English now, he supposed—attacking and oppressing people such as the Welsh and the French, how were they any different from the Saxons who once invaded them in the fifth and sixth centuries?

Clearly, the descendants of the people from Saber's day had not learned from history.

It was during the global conflict that would be known as the Second World War that it became far more difficult for Saber to find work, even more so than during the preceding Great Depression.

He was aware of such things as passports and identity documents, but people had generally lived without them in the past. Now, it was mandatory to have an identity card or some other document legally proving a person's existence; otherwise, they could not hope to find a job. Forgery was one option, but Saber did not know how well false documents could stand up to scrutiny, even in the 1940s. Besides, if he tried to get authentic documents, some if not most of the information he would have to provide would be false anyway, and they'd have to be gotten rid of and replaced sooner or later whether they were real or not.

Perhaps it should not have been such a big issue—after all, he had told countless lies over the centuries, what was a few more?—but he didn't want to lie any more than he had to.

He ended up being a beggar. Day after day, he spent several hours out on the streets and asking passing strangers for money. Some people only gave him a contemptuous look—an expression that clearly said, "Get a job, you layabout"—before walking away, and there were those who ignored him entirely, but others were willing to spare a small amount of cash.

Since staying in hotels was out of the question, his nights were spent in back alleys, sitting with his back against a brick wall and trying to get as comfortable as he could before falling asleep. Sometimes, though, sleep would not come easy to him, and he'd mumble to himself as he allowed his mind to wander to Shira, imagining all the conversations he'd have with her once they were together again. If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could even imagine that she was right there with him.

If anyone had been present to see him during those times, they might have been forgiven for thinking they were looking at an insane homeless boy.

Shortly after World War II concluded, Saber stowed away on a ship headed for Japan. Upon his arrival, it was not long before his ears were filled with Japanese, a language he had neither heard nor spoken since the end of the fifth Grail War. It was a great relief to discover that he could understand what was being said, and he thanked the Holy Trinity and every saint he could think of that the knowledge the Grail system had given him had remained intact.

His days as a beggar ended when he fell in with the Fujimura family. The Fujimuras as a whole were as loud and vigorous as he remembered Taiga being...and they also had a certain disregard for the law. It was an open secret that they were a yakuza crime family, and the head of the Fujimuras was willing to create (and edit whenever the time came) legal documents for Saber, who had grown weary of life on the streets, after he'd explained his situation.

That had been an interesting talk, to be sure. Saber had initially tried to come up with a plausible story as to why it wasn't feasible for him to have real identification papers, but he ended up telling the truth: that he was Arthur Pendragon, that he had ruled as King of Britain over fourteen hundred years ago, and that he'd been a Servant in two Holy Grail Wars and was waiting out the centuries in order to reunite with his second Master.

Although the Fujimura head was one of the very few members of the family who knew of the supernatural, he wanted proof that Saber was being honest, prompting the blond to temporarily remove Avalon from his body. It was enough to convince the man; however, in exchange for him taking care of Saber's legal identity, he wanted Saber to not only kill any Dead Apostles he saw attacking people (which he would have done anyway), but also turn a blind eye to the Fujimuras' criminal activities.

It was with a cool expression and a stiff nod that Saber agreed to the second half of the bargain.

Every decade that passed meant that he was getting closer to the end.

By the 1980s, Saber might as well have been keeping a calendar in his head, mentally counting off the years he had left before his wait was over. Twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four...it was still quite a bit of time, but compared to the centuries he'd started with, a couple of decades seemed no longer than a blink of an eye.

Just a couple of decades, and I will get to see Shira again. The thought filled him with no small amount of happiness, even giddiness, but it also made him a little apprehensive. The last time they'd seen each other, Shira had used her last Command Seal to enable Saber to destroy the Grail, knowing fully well that doing so would result in him going back to his era to die. Would she even believe it was him when they next came face to face?

He would have to cross that bridge when he came to it, he supposed.

Blood pounded in Saber's ears as he rang the doorbell of the Emiya estate, his left hand tightly gripping the suitcase he'd recently stored Avalon in. After a few seconds passed with nothing happening, he rang the doorbell again, more insistently this time.

So close—he was so close to finally reuniting with the woman he loved. After hundreds of years of waiting, all it would take now was for her to answer her front door. Just a few more seconds, and he would be able to see her, hear her voice, embrace her...but even the seconds that passed felt as long as any century he lived through.

He was just wondering if he should ring the doorbell a third time when the door was suddenly shoved open, revealing one Shira Emiya—a very aggravated Shira Emiya.

"Fuji-nee, if you've come to complain about Ilya, can't you—"

But she interrupted herself with a gasp, dumbfounded shock written all over her face as she realized it wasn't Taiga who'd come to visit her.

As for Saber, the suddenness of the door opening, accompanied by the sharp, annoyed tone of Shira's voice, was enough for him to flinch backward. The suitcase dropped with a faint thump as he instinctively held his hands up. Uneasiness crept into the excitement and anticipation he'd been feeling, and he wondered if perhaps coming here in the middle of the night was not the smartest thing he could have done.

Even so, he could not tear his eyes away from Shira, who was still looking at him as if he were a ghost. Her wide, bright brown eyes; her straight, waist-length red hair; the long white bathrobe hugging her small, slim frame...and the most important thing was that she really was standing before him, that he was not dreaming or even hallucinating.

I am with you, Saber thought, only vaguely aware of a burning sensation in his eyes. After so long, I am truly with you.

He lowered his hands, smiling slightly. And when he opened his mouth to speak, he could think of only two words to say:

"Hello, Shira."

Author's Note: Although it's likely that, historically speaking, ship burials were not introduced until the Vikings settled in/invaded Britain (so around two centuries after the time King Arthur is said to have lived), it's entirely possible that it was introduced earlier, either before or during the Arthurian era. Even so, I admit that I find it pretty unbelievable that Saber, who spent nearly his whole reign fighting against the Saxons, would adopt one of his enemies' customs, so I decided to go with artistic license as far as his "funeral" is concerned (namely, the accounts that say that Arthur sailed away to Avalon in a boat as he lay dying).

The dagger and spear in Saber's boat are references to Carnwennan (translated to "Little White-Hilt") and Rhongomiant respectively, two weapons from the early Welsh tales. In Culhwch and Olwen, Arthur uses Carnwennan to slice the Very Black Witch in half; as for Rhongomiant, I've read that Arthur uses it to kill Mordred in some account of the Battle of Camlann or another, but I haven't come across an Arthurian text that actually says that.

And I think you can disregard what I said in the author's notes of F/GR Good Epilogue about Saber having to eventually ditch his armor. I've had a forum discussion about whether or not prana (mana?) burst could be used for Arthur/Arturia to make his/her armor appear and disappear at will even as a human, and general consensus is that it is indeed possible.

One last thing: the idea for Saber to get all the help he'd need for his legal identification by befriending the Fujimuras belongs to formerlyarandomreviewer.