Beta: Ando Owen, QAI521, NephyrisX

As she entered the sunlit dining hall to finally partake in a meal, her presence was met with silence. However, that stillness was fleeting.

Soon, hushed whispers began to ripple through the crowd of PRT troopers and staff. They glanced away from their precious lunches to gaze at her with eyes she was all too familiar with.

She didn't know who it was, but the first clap, sharp and crisp, broke the quiet. It was followed by another, and then another, like the gentle patter of raindrops before a downpour. Within moments, the sporadic claps had become a storm, loud and thunderous like the charge of Iskandar's bulls as a wave of applause ripped through the masses cheering her name.

….

"Arthur!" "Arthur!" "Arthur!"

They chanted, with whistles and cries in between.

The men hollered. The children cheered. And the women-folk tossed freshly plucked flowers at the precession of knights and soldiers marching in line, bloodied but proud from victory.

Garlands and laurel wreathe welcomed their return, her flag waving from every hostel and manse alike.

He, King Arthur Pendragon led from the front as he always did in both battle and victory. Yet, while the visages of his Knights were lit alight with joy, no smile graced his lips. Despite the adulation, regardless of praise, his eyes showed not a hint of happiness.

Only apathy.

…..

After giving a polite nod of acknowledgment, Artoria quietly departed without even a single grain of rice or appetite. She had heard the whispers, some more direct in their praises than others. She appreciated their gratitude, but basking in it reminded her too much of a life she wished to steer away from.

A turn and several steps later, the sounds of celebration faded, leaving an eerie quiet in the halls. Normally, they bustled with activity, men and women moving from duty to duty. Now they stood barren, with every agent either resting or out in the field.

By the time she returned to the Medbay, Armsmaster had already risen, a palpable frown etched on his face as he examined his clothing suspiciously.

"You're awake," Artoria greeted with a slight smile. "I hope there is no lasting injury."

While she hadn't used her full strength, she hadn't been soft either. Every strike he received would have bifurcated any other human, cleaving through flesh and bone like water, even if she wielded nothing but a blunt rod. Armor or not, the blows he had received were bound to hurt.

"I thought all the medical staff were in the field," Armsmaster said instead, ignoring her inquiry.

"They are."

"These aren't what I was wearing," he pointed out, gesturing towards his clothes.

"They're not," she agreed.

Armsmaster stared at her, a strange look crossing his face that seemed to border on horror. A stunned and uncomfortable silence followed as he gaped at her.

"You have no need to worry about your armor," Artoria reassured, realizing he was worried. "I had to remove it as it seemed uncomfortable to rest in. But rest assured, every piece of metal is accounted for on the container next to your right."

Despite her comforting words, she received nothing but a blank stare, his eyes perplexed and uneasy. The man didn't even bother to check the authenticity of her words.

"Armsmaster?"

"You… You… dressed me?"

Artoria paused before nodding slowly. "You were covered in sweat and cuts. I had to clean you before I could put on a fresh attire."

Another silence followed as the man buried his face in his hands. He sighed, mumbling something that faintly resembled a curse. "I see…" he gritted out.

"Is… something wrong?"

"… no. But please, don't tell anyone."

It was an odd request. The dedication he put into his training should have been an example for all to follow. To have any shame was, by itself, shameful. Nevertheless, Artoria agreed. If he wished to keep his training a secret, she would respect his wishes.

"Good," Armsmaster said as he rose. "Thanks for the spar, but I'll need to be in the field again."

Artoria winced, a flash of guilt washing over her. "I'm sorry, but your armor…"

She had wanted to say that it had been an accident. But the truth was, she had gotten carried away.

"It was a spare," he simply said without giving her a glance.

"Nevertheless, should you not rest?" She said with concern. "You've exhausted yourself."

"I'm fine," he insisted.

"You'll be liable to make mistakes. The city isn't completely safe," Artoria tried to reason, reminding him of the bombs that were still being removed.

Armsmaster paused, and for a moment, she believed she had reached him. But once again, he refused. "I said I'll be fine," he gritted out.

While she could admit that he had recovered well, testament to his physical condition. But his movements lacked their usual finesse. They were clumsy. Slow. And rigid.

"The enemy has been defeated," she pointed out. "Even the gangs shouldn't be foolish to challenge us at this time. All that remains is to maintain the peace. Your dedication is admirable. But there is no reason for you to push yourself any further at this point."

Armsmaster's eyes narrowed as he leveled a glare at her. "Maybe for you," he said, almost snarling.

Her eyes sharpened, and her brows scrunched together into a frown in response to the palpable hostility. He was angry, deeply upset. Perhaps he was offended by her attempts to reason with him. Or perhaps he nursed a grudge from their spar.

However, his ire didn't seem to be directed solely at her, or at least not directly. Tristan had once said that she could never truly understand the hearts of men. At moments like this, she found herself believing in his wisdom more than ever.

But above all else… She wasn't sure why. But something about him… How he talked… How he acted…

It enraged her.

"What are you insinuating?" She asked warningly, her voice steady as she passively met his glare.

"I'm saying that not all of us are fortunate enough to have time to rest," he responded without flinching. "I wake up at five. Serve as a hero till night. Tinker and train for five. And sleep at two. This has been my life for over a decade. It's never enough. But that's not the same for you, is it?"

His words ignited a spark of anger that almost burst into a wildfire. He wasn't entirely wrong. She had been blessed with gifts that many magi would kill to possess and a talent for the sword that left many knights green with envy. But to consider herself fortunate was a gross lie.

"Armsmaster," she started, her voice tinged with anger. "You do not know me. You do not know how I lived nor what I endured. Do not dare presume otherwise. Lament your shortcomings if you wish, but do not belittle the efforts that others have put forth."

His scowl deepened as his eyes smoldered in indignation. "Then don't presume my limits. Unlike you, I can't afford not to push myself. So, keep whatever advice you have."

"Fine," she spat out the word. "Push yourself to the brink and break if you must. But do not forget, mistakes will cost lives. And that, I will not allow."

Armsmaster's anger flared like wildfire, hotter and more furious than ever. "There won't be any," he coldly retorted.

Insufferable.

She almost lashed out in equal anger. But before the words could leave her lips, she bit her tongue, silencing them. Fire could not be fought with fire. Heated words would only lead to a hotter response, creating a conflagration that would burn them both. Tempers needed to be cooled, and words cooler.

Artoria shook her head, her voice softening. "You claim you wish to become stronger. Why?"

Perhaps if she knew his motivation- the reason for his drive, she could understand him.

"Isn't it obvious?" He snapped.

"It isn't," she growled, straining to keep her temper in check. "Some become heroes out of duty and honor. Others because it brings them joy. But you? I see neither. I have yet to witness you visit the charges that you lead. Never once have you advised or trained them as your duty as head of the Wards demands. And when you save others, I see no satisfaction. No joy. The people you save may thank you, but there is only apathy in your visage."

"I could say the same," he growled, frustration boiling over. "You beat Lung. But you don't care. You killed the Nine. But there's no pride. In a single month, you've accomplished everything and more than what I could only dream. But you act like your victories are nothing."

"Is that what this is? All the effort for something as fleeting as glory?" She scoffed in disdain.

Throughout her life, she had crossed paths with the greatest of knights, many of whom sought fame and glory. Their ambitions were not without merit, for these tales of valor and triumph kindled the flames of a dream that inspired countless others.

But the path to glory was a consequence, a byproduct of a life dedicated to honorable actions. It was the result of a relentless devotion to a higher purpose, a testament to the unyielding resolve to make the world better than it was before.

Glory was earned, not sought. It was not uncommon for knights who failed to understand this principle to become monsters of the story they wished to create.

"Hardly," he countered. "It's not just about ego or pride but about recognizing the significance of our actions. It is the validation that confirms that our lives and efforts were worthwhile."

"Vanity," Artoria angrily spat, although her visage morphed into one of pity. "That is no way to live. That is not how a human lives."

And now, she understood. She finally grasped why this man was so upsetting to watch – why his very presence was unsettling.

The two of them were distinct, driven by disparate goals, yet standing before him was like standing before a mirror. He had forsaken his humanity for a singular purpose, much as she had ceased to live as a human and embraced the role of a King.

Though their motivations and goals diverged, they spurned pleasure and meaningful connections with others. She was consumed by her ideals, him by his ambitions. Both turned a blind eye to all that could have brought them happiness.

Yet, while she couldn't help but pity him for the choices he had made, she could not help but despise him. It was a loathing that ran deep, perhaps even bordering on hatred.

The allure of a human life had always tugged at her. Even during her reign as King, she had always wondered what her life would have been if she had never drawn the sword. That desire had been the very reason she had endured the humiliation of being perceived as a child.

Had he, too, forsaken the life that set humans apart from mere constructs for a grander purpose, she would have acknowledged the nobility in his choices and held a semblance of respect for him even if she would have attempted to guide him away from such a self-destructive path.

However, the fact that he had discarded everything that she had yearned for so casually, as if it were inconsequential, all in the name of satisfying his vanity, ignited a raging fire of anger within her heart. It was a betrayal not just of her ideals, but of the very essence that made her human dreams so precious.

"That is my life, and I have no complaints with it," he insisted.

For a moment, she felt an urge to strike sense into the man, but she resisted the temptation. Although barely. "That is a lie. You may not realize it, but it is a lie nonetheless.

Armsmaster scoffed. "What is?"

"You accuse me of lacking pride in my victories, but aren't you the same?" Her gaze bore into his eyes. "I've seen your record, your history—flawless. They brim with victories and accomplishments fit for a dozen. Yet, you remain unsatisfied. No matter what you do, the sense of fulfillment is fleeting at best. That is why you can't help but envy."

"I didn't beat Lung. I didn't end the Nine," he snarled. "Our victories don't compare."

"Even if they did, nothing would change. You've forsaken everything that truly matters—friends, family, companionship—all for something that doesn't. Gold, no matter how wonderous, cannot satiate hunger. The lie that you tell yourself is that something so trite as glory could fill the gap of what you have abandoned."

Through the myriad experiences life had offered her, she had come to understand one truth. No matter what a person achieves, it could never replace the emotional bonds that connected people to each other. The mere two weeks she had spent in the company of Shirou and Rin had constituted the happiest moments of her existence. That fragment of her life held a significance that transcended two decades of Kingship, despite all the power and accolades she had amassed.

As much as she felt an intense aversion towards the man, she didn't harbor a wish for him to tread the same path of errors she had once transversed. Just as she had been granted a second chance, it would be hypocritical for her to do anything less than offer him the same.

The room fell into a heavy silence as the weight of the words fell on stiff shoulders. Armsmaster clenched his teeth and tightened his fist, and for a moment, she feared he would strike. But at the last moment, he relaxed ever so slightly, though his anger remained burning as hotly as ever.

"Whatever else you think you know, save it for yourself," he spat, his voice laced with bitterness.

"…Very well," she agreed, though her heart remained heavy. To convince the man of his folly would be a journey of its own. To acknowledge that all his struggles and sacrifices would never bring him the satisfaction he craved would be a bitter realization. One that he would resist with all his might.

With her agreement, he turned and stormed off, carrying away the remnants of his armor. Artoria's eyes followed him until he disappeared around a corner, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Her words had failed to truly reach him, but she hoped that she had planted a seed that could sprout that would steer him away from the precipice of his all-consuming pursuit.

Armsmaster was a skilled warrior, dedicated and driven. But his path was a cliff. His obsession was what had taken him far above others, but it would eventually bring him down into the abyss.

When a person became so singularly focused on a goal, it became all too easy to lose sight of the original reasons that had driven them. Her thoughts drifted to her own sister, Morgan. The woman whose obsession for the throne had turned her from the lady loved by all to one reviled as a witch.

In the end, Morgan had defeated her. But the victory was hollow. While she had gained the throne she desired so much, she had destroyed everything she had sought to rule in the process.

As Artoria descended into contemplation, her stomach rudely interrupted her musings with a resounding growl. The hunger she had long suppressed now surged back with a vengeance, causing her cheeks to flush with embarrassment. She glanced around nervously, hoping that no one had witnessed her indignity.

Reluctantly and eagerly, Artoria accepted that she had no choice but to surrender to her stomach's insistent demands. Crushing away her worries, she made her way to the dining hall, quickening her pace as she went. She hoped that by now, most had finished their meals, and those who hadn't would be too engrossed to pay her any heed.

With an eager smile, she reached for the handle of the door to the dining hall and pulled—only to find it firmly closed. Frowning, Artoria tried again, putting more strength into her efforts, but the door remained unyielding. Her heart sank as she noticed a sign to her left.

-CLOSED-

Artoria collapsed to her knees, but her heart fell even faster to the abyss.

But… My food…

As usual, all comments and reviews are appreciated.