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Chapter Text

      "How go the preparations?" the king inquired, stepping into the dimly-lit chamber that had been set aside for the pending ritual.
      "All preparations are complete," the ever-reliable wizard replied with a bow. "We can begin whenever you are ready."
      Six knights accompanied their king into the chamber to play their parts in this crucial procedure. Seven circles of mystical runes had been drawn in a larger circle around the space. Not one of the king's retinue understood any of the symbols that composed these circles, but they did recognise that each was a unique construct with a specific meaning and purpose. They each trusted the man that had drawn them up to know what he was doing. After all, the very future of Britain may well depend upon this ritual's success.
      "Let us not waste any time, then," the king decided, stepping forward. "No doubt, Morgan is preparing her own ritual at this very moment, and I would not put it past her to put together two teams for herself."
      "Assuming the Grail would allow such an occurrence, the summoned Ruler-class Servant would likely intervene," the wizard reassured the king as best he could.
      The king only nodded a small reassurance in his confidence as she loosed the cloak from around her shoulders, revealing the full set of armour and legendary sword with which she would be conducting this ritual. "Where would you like me?" Artoria Pendragon asked.
      "Yours is the one at the far side here," Merlin explained, pointing to the circle he had drawn up specifically for the king to make use of. He guided each of the six knights to their own pre-determined circles, each man ready to fulfil his role for the future of their nation. Each had been hand-chosen by the king to take part in this conflict, knowing full-well that their lives would be in greater danger than ever before by becoming the prime targets for the rival faction. Even had Sirs Mordred, Gareth, and Gaheris not been away completing their own duties, the men chosen would not have changed. Only Sir Kay's absence had any impact upon Artoria's chosen roster.
      Artoria had known of the 'Holy Grail Wars' since long before now. But having been born after the Fifth Grail War had already concluded, their history and rules had been completely irrelevant to her, until Merlin received a premonition of the impending commencement of the sixth such conflict. This century's Grail War was a team-focused battle with two teams of seven 'Masters' and 'Servants' vying for the Grail and its powerful wish-granting magic. Having little doubt that the wicked Morgan le Fay had been gifted with the same premonition (as was standard for higher-level magi as a Grail War dawned) Artoria had put Merlin to work preparing to arm her and the Knights of the Round Table with summoned Servants of their own to combat Morgan's nefarious schemes.
      The exact nature of the Grail Wars was still being slowly uncovered with each successive iteration. The rules and structures changed routinely - some saw seven Master/Servant duos vying for the Grail, while others saw teams of such duos uniting in common cause for the same. The Wars had begun back during the first century, supposedly a short time following the resurrection and ascension of Christ. Each century since had seen a new Grail War be waged; each in a different place, at a different time within that century. The Grail itself would grant those especially knowledgeable in the mystic arts a vision to mark the commencement of the War's preparational phase, signalling for them to set about gathering the necessary materials to summon their Servants from the Throne of Heroes.
      How the competitors were chosen from among the innumerable hopefuls that attempted to compete remained unknown. As did the hows and whys of the time and place in which each War was fought. They were not even held at a consistent point within each century; there simple was one within each century of the Julian calendar. Merlin could sense that this War was to take place here in Britain at around this time, but much beyond that remained a mystery. Many across the Christian world believed the Wars to be a divine test established by God himself to test humanity's virtues by presenting them with access to a genuine miracle that they would either use for the greater good or abuse for their own ends.
      Artoria had put little thought, thus far, into what specifically she would wish for should her Blue Faction emerge the victor. But she knew that it would be in service of Britain and its people that she would fight and win and make her wish upon the Grail. That was all she could ever need the Grail's miracle for.
      Everything was now in place, according to Merlin, to begin the ritual to gather the force that would wage and win this War. No doubt, they would be opposed by Morgan, being such a powerful witch with designs for the throne, and whatever allies she could gather up to accompany her as Masters of the Red Faction. Discussion of Merlin's potential as a Master of Blue had begun early and ended promptly, the wizard choosing to leave the fighting to those more suited to the task. Thus, the seven Servants would be contracted to Artoria and six of her most trusted knights, as dictated by the dully-glowing circles by which they each now stood.
      "Each of you now stand by a circle that has been carefully chosen to best mesh with one of the seven classes into which Heroic Spirits are summoned," Merlin explained as a dull humming sound rose among the circles, each now growing ever so slightly brighter with each passing second. "For Sir Gawain, the mystical Caster. For Sir Percival, the agile Lancer. For Sir Galahad, the precise Archer. For Sir Bedivere, the swift Rider. For Sir Tristan, the stealthy Assassin. For Sir Lancelot, the indomitable Berserker. And for King Arthur, the mightiest of all the classes: the sword-wielding Saber."
      Artoria was about to speak up, to question the need for her to be given the mightiest class, given her access to both Excalibur, Rhongomyniad, and several other divine artefacts; but Merlin either recognised or assumed her intent and cut her off with a smile.
      "All of our hopes rest upon your shoulders, Sire. Besides, I am doubtful any of our comrades here would accept the strongest Servant being paired with any but you." He looked around the room, as if encouraging the other six to express their agreement. And they did. There was a comfort in her comrades' trust in her, and their desire to keep her safe, as she did for them. But there was also a great weight there, of expectations and responsibility. But then, that weight had been her burden to bear since that day twenty years ago, when she first drew Caliburn from the stone and set her destiny into motion. Nothing had changed.
      "Very well," she relented, her tone as neutral as she could manage. "I will accept this responsibility, as I always have."
      "Then let us begin," Merlin declared, his smile giving way as he began seriously performing the ritual. Until the ritual succeeded, the most responsibility lay not on the king's shoulders, but upon his. He had the seven repeat an incantation, their hands held out over the catalyst that lay at the centre of their respective circle.
      A catalyst, according to Merlin, was one of the more recent discoveries regarding the rules of the Grail Wars. A standard summoning would grant a randomly-selected Servant that may or may not gel with the capabilities and personality of the Master. But with the addition of an item with significance to a specific Heroic Spirit, one could lean the otherwise random selection process in favour of the figure in question.
      It was fortuitous, then (or perhaps a stroke of masterful planning on Merlin's part) that such artefacts had been collected over the years by himself and the knights. There was no guarantee that any individual artefact's original owner would have ascended to the Throne of Heroes, but tipping the odds in their favour, even by only a little, was certainly not an option worth dismissing.
      And in some cases here, an artefact unrelated to a legendary figure was utilised. For Artoria, it was Excalibur's scabbard, Avalon. She suspected that Merlin had chosen this specific item in hopes of increasing her chances of being paired with a Servant with greater protective capabilities, given the scabbard's immense healing power. Of course, he would never say as much aloud, lest he give the impression he felt her incapable of defending herself; rather than the more likely reality that he simply wanted to give the king a greater chance of survival in this deadly conflict.
      The ritual, as far as Artoria could tell, proceeded swiftly and smoothly, culminating in the light of the circles growing bright enough to engulf the entire chamber, forcing all gathered to shut their eyes tight as their senses were overwhelmed, feeling as if they had been cast into the centre of the sun. A sudden burst of energy struck Artoria when she wasn't expecting it, winding her and knocking her off her feet. From the sounds of clattering armour around her, it seemed as if more than one of her knights was having much the same experience. At the very least, that would spare her some embarrassment, especially as her attempt to rise back to her feet before anyone could notice proved futile, thanks to the shock her body was still struggling to recover from.
      Despite her closed eyes, she found that her vision was spotty and blurred when she attempted to open them. An involuntary groan of discomfort escaped her lips before she could catch it, leaving her feeling that shame would not give up its attempts until she let it have its way. But her eyes managed to adjust to the dim light of the chamber, which was now lit only by the once more faint glow of the summoning circles, a smattering of embers in the now extinguished sconces, and a pair of high windows that let in only a sliver of moonlight. But that sliver was more than enough for her to take in the sight of the man now standing before her.
      He was a young man, roughly in his late twenties or early thirties. His complexion was a few shades darker than her own, and he bore a shock of spiked, vibrantly orange hair. There was a brief glint of what could be recognition, and perhaps hesitation, in his brown eyes as they met her green ones, feeling as though they remained locked with hers for untold hours. The explanation for this glint came as he opened his mouth to speak. His accent was not one she recognised, slightly stilted and with some words stressed at the wrong syllables. Through Merlin's intuition, Artoria would later learn that this marked him as a denizen of an oriental nation that would come to be known across Britain as 'Japan'. But for now, she had only her Servant's first words through which to appraise him.
      "Tell me, King of Knights," he said in a tone that was at once serious and playful. "Are you worthy to be my Master?"
      Something in these words struck a strange chord with Artoria. They bore an impact she could neither explain nor understand. But they compelled her, nonetheless, to rise to her feet, stand tall as the King of Britain, and answer his question with the conviction fitting one who drew the sword from the stone.
      "I am," she responded, removing her left gauntlet and holding the back of her hand for him to see three blood-red shapes - Command Seals with which she could compel his obedience, had she cause to. She showed them for only a brief moment before placing that hand upon the pommel of her sword and covering her signs of Masterhood with her right hand - a symbol of her confidence in her ability to corral her Servant without such magic. "I am Arthur Pendragon, the King of Britain and your Master in this, the Sixth Holy Grail War. I would know your name, Saber of Blue, that I might understand the abilities of my Servant."
      A slight smirk spread across the man's lips. "I'm not sure how much good that will do, but all the same... My name is Shirou Emiya. I've come in response to your summons... Master."

Chapter Text

      Mordred drew her blade the second her eyes fell upon the warrior summoned to act as her Servant. Given her affinity for the sword, inherited from her father, it was no surprised that Morgan had chosen to assign Mordred the Saber-class Servant of the Red Faction. Mordred's mother had suspected that Arthur would also be assigned the Saber-class for protection, and intended to have Mordred and her Servant serve as her primary frontline fighters.
      Mordred had been, though she would never admit it, excited at the prospect of a sword-wielding Servant to join her in her quest to take down her father. She enjoyed a good fight, and having someone she could really go all-out against in sparring was a dream-come-true. She had dutifully played her part in the summoning ritual, following her mother's instructions to the letter, doing her best to restrain the sense of anticipation growing stronger in the pit of her stomach.
      But then she laid eyes on the Saber of Red, and all such thoughts immediately dissolved. The warrior before her seemed almost specifically chosen to get a rise out of Mordred. So much so that she might have suspected her mother of intentionally summoning this woman solely to mess with her head.
      Her attire was a fittingly crimson battle dress, fit with gold trimming and transparent white lace on the wrists and the front, revealing the white stockings and knee-high golden sabatons that covered her long, slender legs. The shoulders, puffy and adorned with regal epaulettes, seemed designed to help accentuate the chest area, where an almost taunting amount of flesh was on full display, covered only by a modest amount of white fabric. While flashy and revealing, the style was undoubtedly reminiscent of Arthur's battle dress, albeit recoloured to match the faction into which she was summoned.
      But it was more than just a similar attire. Vibrant, lime green eyes and generally softer features aside, the woman was a dead ringer for Arthur, right down to the specific way in which her golden hair was tied, and the type of ribbon used to do so.
      The biggest difference, though, became apparent when the enraged Mordred swung her sword for her Servant's head. Saber's own blade was in her hand and positioned to perfectly block Mordred's strike in the time it took for her to make her attempted blow. The weapon, rather than the blue and gold straight sword that was the famous Excalibur, took on a wavier, flame-like form in night-black and reddish-orange. Mordred felt hot just being in proximity to it, but that could simply have been her own rage burning intensely within her chest.
      But it was not the sword that distinguished the woman from the target of Mordred's rage, however; it was her smile. A cocky, intrigued grin spread cross the woman's lips - entirely unlike the stoic, steely gaze expected of Arthur. Mordred got the sense that this intrigue had led the swordswoman to allow the incoming attack to result in a blade lock, rather than simply deflecting and sending Mordred reeling.
      "My, my, what an interesting Master I have been summoned by," Saber remarked in a playful tone unexpected of one who had just been abruptly assaulted.
      "Mordred!" Morgan snapped from behind her child. But Saber held up a hand, maintaining her end of the struggle with just the other.
      "Now, now. There is no need for chastisement. If this is how my Master chooses to introduce themselves, then I am more than prepared to respond in kind." With a sudden, fierce shove, Mordred was sent stumbling back, almost tripping over her own feet.
      Without her armour, the subsequent thrust of her Servant's blade would surely have pierced her flesh were she not able to bring Clarent up to guard what turned out to be a surprisingly weak strike. Something quickly became apparent: Saber's thrust was so weak that the resulting wound would have been incredibly shallow. It would have hurt, yes, but any scar left would have been barely perceptible. And this indicated that Saber was holding back. And that, in turn, highlighted just how skilled a swordswoman Mordred had been partnered with: she was able to lunge forward to close the gap and still deliver a perfectly-controlled thrust with very precise force.
      Saber was far beyond what Mordred was capable of. Her delicate free hand gripped Mordred's wrist with enough force to keep her from moving her sword in defence, as Saber's sword was drawn upwards, running along Mordred's face and delivering a shallow cut along her cheekbone. As expected, the wound stung, but it was nothing that would not heal over perfectly well on its own. That Saber could have gone deeper was readily apparent. But with the wound delivered, Saber released Mordred's arm and pulled back her blade.
      "Umu! First blood is mine! I look forward to our next match, O Master of Red." She produced a handkerchief from somewhere and held it to her Master's cheek. "I also look forward to fighting alongside you, Master Mordred."
      Mordred's heart felt like it was battering the inside of her chest from the wide array of conflicting emotions battling for control. She was furious and disappointed with herself for her uncontrolled fury. But she felt calmed by Saber's hand pressing against her cheek. But she was ashamed for losing so completely in front of all of her allies, including her mother. But she felt strangely content with the kind words of this woman who so greatly resembled the object of her wrath. But she didn't deserve such words after her outburst. But the woman didn't seem to care about what was deserved.
      Once the cut was no longer bleeding, Saber used the handkerchief to wipe her blade clean and then dematerialised both objects. None of the other Servant introductions were nearly as eventful; save for Morgan summoning a recently-felled enemy of Britain as a Berserker. Once the summoning was over, each duo departed to get acquainted with the other's abilities.
      Mordred stood outside the ruins in which the entrance to the hidden enclave could be found. From where she stood, she could see her sister already in perfect sync with her Rider-class centaur Servant, riding across the fields on his back. She idly wondered if Arthur and the others had summoned their Servants yet. There was little doubt that this War would serve as the final battle for Britain - the final conflict between Arthur and Morgan. Between Arthur and Mordred.
      She supposed, then, that it was ironic for a figure looking almost exactly like Arthur to be summoned to fight alongside Arthur's own child in a bid to overthrow the king. For a moment, Mordred pondered the possibility of having Saber simply take over Arthur's life, at least long enough to legitimise Mordred. She imagined the thought must have at least crossed her mother's mind by now.
      "Roman," Saber muttered from somewhere behind Mordred. She turned to see her Servant observing the architecture of the ruins. Mordred hadn't paid much attention to it before now, but she supposed it did appear to be the remnants of some long-abandoned Roman garrison.
      "The Romans ruled this island until a hundred or so years ago," Mordred replied disinterestedly.
      "Is that so?" Saber asked, her level of interest in the topic evidentially diametrically opposed to her Master's. "How long was this rule?"
      "Aren't you eager?" Mordred mused. "About... three and a half centuries?"
      Mordred watched closely as Saber - fists on her hips, eyes closed and a prideful smile on her face - nodded smugly with another utterance of "Umu".
      "You must be Roman then," Mordred noted. "I doubt you'd be so proud of the Roman occupation, otherwise."
      "An astute observation. It seems my Master has intellect to compensate for her short temper." Said temper flared up briefly, but Mordred took a deep breath to keep it under control, lest she lose to her own Servant twice on the first day.
      This failed, of course, and she sniped, "Your people got kicked out a century ago. And your empire has all but collapsed on the continent. Know your place, Roman!" Mordred immediately found herself cringing internally at her outburst. She supposed it was inevitable for one serving the throne to develop some sense of patriotism, even while plotting to overthrow that same nation's ruler. To some small extent, that was exactly what drove her to do so. But she was doing a poor job of keeping that national pride from influencing her words and actions.
      Saber, for her part, did not retort. Instead, she studied her Master with her large, green eyes. Despite her youthful face, there was a clear wisdom shining in the depths of those brilliant emeralds. Saber seemed satisfied with herself after a moment of observation, and chose to share her findings.
      "I see now. That anger is not the same as the wrath with which you swung for my neck earlier. I have been observing you since then, and the look in your eyes just now was entirely different from back then. Thus, I have concluded that it was personal vendetta that drove you then, not this shallow jingoism."
      Mordred said nothing, not wanting to admit that her Servant had read her like an open book. But her silence spoke volumes.
      "I take it, then, that I bear a resemblance to someone against whom you bear an intense vendetta?"
      Mordred hesitated to answer for a moment, but she knew her Servant deserved an explanation for why the Master she had been summoned to serve had attempted to behead her on the spot. "My father," she mumbled.
      "Your father? Hmm... He must be a very beautiful man if you were able to mistake my noble visage for his."
      Mordred had no response to this. Though she would never say as much aloud, she supposed there was truth to this assertion.
      "And, may I ask, who is this father of yours that you detest so?"
      "King Arthur," Mordred responded with more conviction. "King of the Britons and our enemy in this Grail War."
      Saber nodded. "I am able to see the big picture now. You believed, for a moment, that he had been summoned from some future time from the Throne of Heroes, and the surprise caused you to lash out. Umu! Then to put your mind at ease and assure you that I am not this Arthur you seek to destroy, I will reveal to you my true name. Behold! I am the Emperor of Roses! Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus! The great conqueror of Britain!"
      Mordred could only gape at the audacious proclamation of her Servant. Despite what felt like a bold declarative taunt coming from the woman's mouth, her tone made it feel like Mordred should instead be reassured by her words. As if this woman who had once conquered this entire nation was here to do so again, at Mordred's command.
      It was now an indisputable fact that Mordred had, indeed, lost to her own Servant twice on the first day.

Chapter Text

      Sir Bedivere was out on his morning patrol of the castle grounds, currently passing along one of the buttresses. He came to a halt as he spotted his Servant, Rider, standing in his path. It was unusual for one of the Servants (save for Saber) to be out and about without just cause.
      She was staring out over the land before her, her form a noble silhouette in the dim early morning light. Her long red hair swayed gently in the breeze, like the last embers of a dying flame. There was a sense of regal duty about her that took Bedivere's breath away. He silently observed her for a time, recalling the numerous times he had come across King Arthur doing much the same. For the king, he had once confided, the view served as a reminder of what the Knights of the Round Table were fighting for.
      Bedivere, too, often found himself stopping as he spotted the first light of the morning sun creeping up over the horizon, recalling his king's words and pondering the depths of their meaning. He wondered what it was that Rider saw as she looked out over the horizon. What was it that drew her gaze so? For a moment, he began to wonder if there might be more similarities between his Servant and his liege than he had realised. Then the red-haired woman became alerted to his presence by some noise or other that he hadn't realised he was making.
      "Oh. Good morning, Master," she greeted warmly, smiling in a way that a mother would smile at her child. "Did you sleep well?"
      "As well as can be expected in these dark times, I suppose," he replied with a smile that he found was more genuine than he had expected. In the face of such a radiant greeting, how could his response be anything but?
      "That is good to hear. Be sure to keep to a healthy schedule when you can. In times like these, you never know when you might not have a chance to rest or eat."
      "Spoken from experience?" he queried.
      Her smile faltered slightly, turned wistful for only a moment, before she managed to replace it with a sense of pride in his deduction. "Your king is fortunate to have one so observant for companionship."
      He blushed slightly at the compliment, but managed to maintain his composure. Yet, he noted a slight sourness in her tone. To a stranger, or one of his fellows, he was sure it would go unnoticed. But for one who had spent as much time with this Servant as he had lately, it stood out.
      "You did not have such companionship during your reign?" he asked.
      Her body tensed for a moment, then relaxed with that proud smile of hers making itself known once again. "Very astute, Master. What gave me away?"
      "Your tone. There is just a hint of something dark in your time. And the way you carry yourself, and how you look out over the kingdom... it is not unlike mine king. So, my conclusion is that you were a queen in life, whose kingdom has since fallen. Perhaps... within your lifetime?"
      The wistfulness returned to Rider's face, her eyes looking away from her Master. She looked back out over the kingdom and took a deep breath. Bedivere stepped up beside her, staring out over the same sight, working up the courage to present his final deduction:
      "A Queen of Britain, perhaps?"
      The pained expression she presented sent a chill down his spine. Rider was the type to put on a brave face and try to keep everyone else's spirits up, he felt. And she was very good at that, as it had taken him quite some time to realise it. But... she had no one to do the same for her. She tended to put others before herself; in that sense, she was a lot like Arthur. Only, her mask was not of stony stoicism, but of bright optimism.
      Her hand reached up and gently pinched his cheek. He felt that this was something she believed was for him, but was actually what she needed right now. He allowed it. When she showed no signs of stopping, he reached his own hand up and held hers tightly, warmly, in his.
      "May I know the name of the queen I will be fighting alongside?" he asked softly.
      She nodded, but took a moment to give him the answer. "Boudica. My name is Boudica."
      The name made Bedivere's eyes grow wide as saucers. "Boudica? The Queen Boudica who rose up in defiance of Nero Claudius?"
      "My reputation precedes me, it seems," she said, her smile slightly more genuine.
      "Your reputation is an inspiration for all knights of the realm," he assured her with utmost sincerity. "Standing tall in the face of overwhelming odds to defend your nation? Any knight worth his salt must aspire to do the same. Yours is a legacy mine king has taken up in earnest."
      "A legacy of failure, perhaps... My uprising failed. My daughters... I failed them. I failed everyone."
      Bedivere shook his head adamantly. "You sacrificed everything in the name of freedom for this nation. You may not have succeeded in your own lifetime, but you stand as an aspirational figure for all Britons who came after you. Your battle for freedom certainly inspired me."
      "S-Surely, you are exaggerating..."
      With her hand in his, Bedivere lowered himself to one knee before the former queen. "My loyalty is pledged to mine king and to this nation. A pledge to the kingdom is a pledge to all kings and queens - past, present and future. I will uphold the freedoms you fought and died to defend. To resist oppression. And to ensure a bright future for this nation. This is my solemn vow."
      Rider stared in awe at the lengths this man, her Master, was willing to go to just to reassure and support her, his Servant. "Britain now has itself some wonderful heroes to protect it, Master."
      Bedivere shook his head. "It always has. Please, take pride in your own accomplishments - those that earned your status as a Heroic Spirit - and let your radiant smile shine down upon Camelot once more."
      The corners of Rider's mouth curved up the slightest amount. "Is this an order from my Master?"
      Bedivere shook his head. "A sincere wish from a fellow defender of the realm - from one who will stand by your side as you make the most of this second chance you have been granted."
      Rider, despite everything else going through her mind, was unable to resist the tug at her lips as they curved into a genuine smile, as sincere as Bedivere's words. She wiped her eyes to keep any tears from forming, and gave a nod of conviction. "Then, who am I to deny the request of my adorable little brother?" she asked as she pulled him to his feet. She pinched his cheek once more, and Bedivere could feel how natural it was this time. Soon, her fingers weren't the only force tugging his lips into a matching smile.
      "Also, if I may, Rider," Bedivere said, blushing and fidgeting slightly. "Now that I know your True Name... I admit, I feel somewhat uncomfortable having you call me 'Master'."
      She shook her head with a smile, akin to a woman observing a younger relative's adorable antics. "I am no longer a queen of this nation, Master. I am but your Servant. You, a loyal defender of Britain, deserve the utmost respect."
      "Which is why you do too," he insisted. "We are, at least, equals in our battle to defeat Morgan and her fellow malefactors."
      Taken aback slightly, Rider nodded. "Very well. If it makes you more comfortable, I will refrain from calling you my Master. Will 'Sir Bedivere' do? Or may I drop the honorific?"
      He nodded, slightly uneasy. "Whichever you prefer."
      "'Bedivere', then. Or 'Beddy'. And you, in turn, must call me 'Boudica'. 'Rider' is fine as well. Or 'Sister'. I am fine with that, as well." Her excited giggle was infectious.
      But Rider's typical doting, refreshingly returned, was interrupted when an alert was raised that an enemy force was advancing on Camelot. Having a Rider for a Servant made traversal across the grounds a short process, but a bumpy one. Still, Bedivere couldn't complain, being in position to defend against the enemy assault so quickly.
      Atop the battlements, where Sir Percival and Lancer already stood at the ready, the defenders of the realm could see the enemy force descending upon them. Alongside Morgan's unholy familiars, stood numerous human enemies of Camelot. Romans, Picts and druids stood shoulder-to-shoulder with homunculi and other assorted beasts.
      Percival pointed his spear in the direction of a hooded man with a staff further towards the back. "Klingsor," he stated simply. The mage from whom Percival had obtained the lance now wielded by both himself and his Servant. "To have survived the power of Longinus..."
      "The woman next to him," Lancer indicated, in much the same way his Master had, towards the staff-wielding, pink-haired woman by Klingsor's side. "She is their Caster."
      "It was smart of Morgan to pair them together. We should prioritise removing those two from-" Percival stopped dead as Bedivere drew his attention towards the front lines, where two familiar faces emerged from the crowd.
      One was dressed head-to-toe in immediately recognisable white and red armour. Even with the horned helm coving their face, their identity was clear to the two: Sir Mordred. Beside the turncoat knight stood another such individual. Her own helm left her face exposed for equally immediate recognition: Sir Gareth. The loyal knights pondered briefly if this indicated what they dreaded it did, but they received their answer before either could vocalise the question. Quickly materialising beside them were their respective Servants. For Gareth, it was a tall centaur, wielding a massive lance - the Rider of Red. The one beside Mordred made the blood of the knights run cold.
      It seemed to be a woman, based on their build, sense of dress and sizeable bust. What called this into question, though, was the uncanny resemblance she bore to King Arthur in the face. Right down to the way this foe's hair was tied up. Her stance was different, as was her crimson sword, but there was an undeniably regal air about her, even from this distance, that reminded the two of their king.
      This was going to complicate matters. Was this really one of the Red Faction's Servants? Or was this a new form Morgan had taken on? Another of her children? A homunculus? Arthur from some other world?
      "Rider, go and retrieve our king and Saber," Bedivere commanded. When he received no affirmation, he turned to face his Servant.
      The twisted expression of hatred the Queen of Victory bore on her face as her body shook, as if caught in an earthquake, sent a severe chill down her Master's spine. Seeing one so warm and caring in her despondent and guilt-ridden state had been concerning enough. But this? It was downright haunting. He followed her gaze in the direction of Mordred and his red-clad Servant - the Saber of Red, no doubt. She knew not Mordred, and so the target of her vitriol was clear. Bedivere had but one conclusion to draw, and Boudica's single growled word confirmed his suspicion:
      "Nero."

Chapter Text

      In the back of her mind, she understood. But that place was far away from her conscious awareness, such as it was. She was asleep; but also aware of what she was seeing, as if she were awake. The place was completely foreign to her - buildings in a style she had never seen before. Was this one of those Reality Marbles she had been told about?
      No. Saber stood before her, fighting warriors she did not recognise. His attire was simple, casual - oddly unfitting in her eyes, having grown accustomed to his crimson attire. But his skill with his blades, unchanged between then and now, was impeccable, deftly parrying and countering each strike that a lesser warrior would surely have fallen to. It was only once those foes fell that she realised she was not observing through some omnipotent bystander's perspective, but that of a participant - one that stood in wait until Saber turned his attention towards them.
      She felt the observer's hands lift up a blade that had been held in preparation for this moment. The arms moved swiftly, striking effectively with blows so fast that she could just about make out the length of the blade, but nothing else. The weight of the weapon reminded her of her own blade as it sliced through the air, narrowly missing Saber's flesh numerous times.
      The battle wore on for an age before a victor was decided. She felt a slight sense of hesitance in the opponent's defence, as if desiring the outcome that finally came as Saber plunged his blade into their chest. As their perspective shifted to look down at the blade that had pierced their cuirass, she could finally see the shape of this warrior's equipment. But she struggled to understand what exactly she was seeing. Both the armour and the weapon were onyx-black, and sporting several ominous red lines that glowed with some vile energy.
      She could feel the energy drain from the warrior's body as Saber slowly, gently, lowered them to the ground. She observed, as the fallen foe did, Saber's face twist from an expression of vicious concentration, to shocked disbelief, then to utter anguish. She couldn't hear the words he frantically cried as he looked into the eyes of his fallen foe, but she could feel the tears falling from his eyes as they touched her cheek. And she could feel the tears forming in her own eyes, knowing instinctively that these were not tears of agony, but of crushing sorrow.
      She could feel her mouth - no, the foes mouth - move. Could almost feel the shape of the words; could damn near taste them. But the throbbing, clenching sensation in her chest made it impossible to focus on deciphering them. Eventually, the world began to turn black as Saber continued to sob over his fallen foe, even after they were no longer capable of appreciating that fact.

      Artoria's eyes slowly opened. She was back in her bedchambers, tucked under her bedsheets as the first light of dawn slowly crept in through the nearby window. Merlin had told her and her fellow Masters of Blue about this particular oddity before the summoning had taken place. It was common for Masters to witness visions of the past life of their Servant in their sleep. She had anticipated such an occurrence, but had never expected it to be anywhere near this... vivid.
      Feeling the need to clear her head, Artoria decided to head outside. She masterfully removed herself from the bed she shared with her wife without disturbing Guinevere's rest. She wondered for a moment what the other woman would make of her dream, were Artoria to share its contents with her. While Guinevere was one of the scant few that knew (by necessity) of Artoria's true nature, there was something about this dream that made her unwilling to divulge it with any but the other involved party. It was Saber's history, after all. Were she summoned as a Servant, she would not wish to have her own secrets divulged by her Master, no matter how long after anyone they would matter to had departed this world.
      Artoria let out a sigh, stopping cold as Guinevere mumbled in her sleep and rolled over. Quietly, Artoria dressed herself, grabbed a sword and headed outside. She passed by the room that had been set aside for Saber near her own. Unlike the other Servants, for reasons that even Merlin could not provide, Saber was uniquely unable to revert to spirit form to preserve mana. As such, he, uniquely, required food and sleep like a regular human. He had said something to the effect of the room being fitting when he was first shown it, but Artoria knew too little of his life to reason how it was so.
      She continued on, making her way towards a nearby courtyard to practice her sword swings. She found that the rigid repetition helped to reset her mind when it was overburdened. And she'd needed to partake in this routine daily in the days following the summoning.
      Although the seven Servants of Blue had, indeed, been successfully summoned, only two of the catalysts had borne fruit in the way Merlin had hoped. The lance, Longinus, currently wielded by Sir Percival, managed to successfully summon Lucius Longinus, the Roman soldier for whom the lance was named, as Percival's Servant. And the Shield of Achilles had successfully summoned the hero of the Trojan War as the Berserker to accompany Sir Lancelot.
      And once the Grail War began in earnest, Artoria became deeply troubled by the revelations surrounding those that had joined Morgan as the Masters of Red. King Lot's masterhood was no surprise, nor were those of Lucius Tiberius, nor Klingsor - an old foe of Sir Percival who, in another life, may well have become the Master of Longinus in Percival's place. But the presence of three of the Knights of the Round Table among Morgan's ranks held an icy grip over Artoria's heart. Sirs Mordred, Gareth and Gaheris had joined the witch in her plot to overthrow Artoria. During the initial skirmish, Merlin had deduced that Gareth and Gaheris were under some sort of mystical enchantment from either Morgan herself or the Caster of Red. He could not determine the same for Mordred, however, and Artoria doubted Mordred was under Morgan's influence in quite the same way as his siblings.
      Most nights, Artoria's dreams were filled with images of her turncoat knights being joined by those that supposedly remained loyal to her, beginning with Sir Gawain. Gawain, it had come to light, was the brother of Agravain, Gaheris, Gareth and Mordred, and another son of Morgan; thus making the five also Artoria's nephews and nieces. She felt there was more to the story than that, but she supposed she would need to wait for their next clash to learn more.
      Since the first battle with Morgan's forces, both sides had taken a break from the fighting. In Morgan's case, it was due to the Blue Faction claiming first blood when Sir Percival and Lancer slew both the Red Faction's Caster, Circe of Greek myth, and her Master, Klingsor. Without such powerful magic-users by her side, Merlin proposed, Morgan would be forced to maintain her mystical hold over Gareth and Gaheris by herself, which would limit her ability to fight against the Blue Faction and force her to reconsider her strategy. This gave Artoria's faction time to recover and prepare for their own next move.
      Part of this preparation involved planning around one who could be now considered a wildcard of sorts. Rider of Blue, the late Queen Boudica, had forced her allies to scramble to join her in battle as she made a berserker charge at the Saber of Red, now revealed to be the former Roman Emperor, Nero Claudius.
      Much confusion followed the revelation of both the enemy Saber's identity and her striking resemblance to Artoria. Artoria herself had been too busy engaging her treacherous nephew to encounter Nero, but each of her compatriots that had witnessed the Red Saber's visage had attested to the physical similitude. Nero's gender was also cause for concern. Given the similarities between the two, and Nero's supposedly unrestrained flaunting of her sexually provocative figure, Artoria grew worried that her own secret gender might become compromised. Granted, Artoria resembled her sister Morgan as well, and that had never caused an issue regarding the subject. Hopefully, Nero's identity and the effect that had upon Rider would draw attention away from the gender issue.
      On that subject, Artoria was astounded to have Queen Boudica in her service. She supposed she should feel fortunate that Rider hadn't mistaken Artoria for Nero upon her summoning, thanks to not getting a good look at her foe's doppelgänger until she knew who was leading the Blue Faction.
      As these thoughts continued their unignorable maelstrom inside her mind, Artoria opened the door to the courtyard and quickly found that she was not alone. "Saber?"
      "Oh. Good morning, Master," Shirou Emiya replied with a smile and a Japanese-style bow.
      "I didn't expect to see you here so early in the morning."
      According to Merlin, the summoning had not been entirely perfect in Artoria and Saber's case. A Servant was supposed to be able to dematerialise to conserve mana. Saber was not capable of this feat, and thus needed food and rest to do what the other knights' Servants could by simply dematerialising. Saber assured her that he had seen the same in a Grail War in which he himself had once participated, chalking it up to Artoria having so much on her plate that her attention was too divided to perform the ritual perfectly her first time. Despite Merlin and the knights seeming to agree with this assessment, she did not.
      "I like to come outside first thing and practice my sword swings. My original instructor liked to do the same and... well, it sort of became a habit."
      "I see. I quite like to do the same. You're welcome to stay and join me, if you would like."
      "That... sounds nice," he responded with what Artoria could swear was a hint of wistfulness.
      Despite typically fighting with twin blades, Saber took a two-handed single blade stance, much like her own. Artoria was keen to witness the oriental style of swordsmanship that had qualified Saber to become a Heroic Spirit. She was, admittedly, a little disappointed when she saw how standard it seemed to be - much like her own in that way.
      She let her body move on autopilot, performing her own strikes alongside his and observing the few minute differences between the two's techniques. His downward strike, she noticed, was performed with a slightly higher raising of his arms, taking an almost imperceptible amount of additional time to prepare the strike to make it hit ever so slightly harder than her own minutely faster strike. Their time spent between strikes was the same, however, leading to a more noticeable gap in their styles after a dozen or so swings.
      After a while, her gaze fell upon his left hand as it gripped the hilt toward the bottom. She hadn't noticed it the first night, but the following day's light had made its darker complexion than the rest of his body quite noticeable. She wondered what had caused this oddity in his form. Her initial assumption had been severe burns, but the browned skin was evidently as smooth as the rest of his body. Was it a birth defect of some sort?
      At some point, Saber seemed to have noticed her observation and he smiled, causing her cheeks to redden in embarrassment.
      "Did you sleep well?" he asked, as if offering her a way out of this awkward situation into which she had stumbled.
      "I did," she lied, opting to keep her minor struggle to herself. "And yourself?"
      "Well enough, I'd say," he responded casually. Since his arrival, his tone when speaking with Artoria had been more casual than her knights were willing to accept. But she felt it too: this strange pull she experienced whenever she was around him. It wasn't love; she knew that. But there was something there, akin to... destiny, perhaps? As if she was meant to summon him in this conflict - as if it were a sign that there were great things in store for the two of them in the coming days. As such, she pardoned his casual manner of speech, despite the protests of her compatriots. She wondered if they, too, felt this sensation with their own Servants.
      "Is that all?" she asked. "'Well enough'?"
      Saber paused his swings and stared at her a moment. She did the same after he said, "You sound like you have something to discuss."
      Artoria sighed. She wasn't sure what it was about Saber that made her trust him so readily. She suspected that it was a part of the contract, possibly a mutual sensation to help keep more volatile Servants in line. But even so, she was more than a little concerned over how readily she felt herself preparing to open up to him.
      "Truth be told, I had... a strange dream last night. You were in it."
      "I... see." He was avoiding eye contact now.
      "You know to what I'm referring, then? You either had the same dream, or were at least aware that I was having it, correct?"
      His lips curved upwards slightly. "Yes. I had it too. I'm surprised you figured that out."
      Despite herself, Artoria found her own lips curving slightly. "It hardly takes a genius to realise why you haven't met my gaze since I brought up the dream in the first place."
      His eyes shot up to meet hers, as if them meeting now would make her forget how long they had been looking anywhere but.
      "What I saw there... That was your past, correct? From your life before you became a Heroic Spirit."
      Saber shifted his body weight uncomfortably. Artoria felt rather guilty for prying, but she knew very little about Saber's life, save for his nationality and the fact that he had a rudimentary understanding of magecraft. Even Merlin, as worldly and learned as he was, had never heard of a 'Shirou Emiya'.
      "Yes," he said finally. "That was... the past. Well, technically it's still to come, but..."
      Seeing that his explanation had ceased halfway, Artoria posed the most pertinent question: "'Still to come'? What does that mean?"
      "Well..." Saber mumbled awkwardly, his eyes once again avoiding hers. "I don't know the best way to explain this... "
      "Saber," she said firmly, forcing his eyes to meet hers again. "Just explain it with the words that come naturally to you. Trust your Master to be able to understand." A smile naturally found its way onto her lips, and it inspired one on his as well.
      "Okay," he nodded. "Let's see... You know that I was a Master in a Grail War while I was alive, right?"
      "I'm aware," she nodded.
      "Well, that War was the twenty-first, in the year 2004."
      Artoria was at a loss for words. She could barely contemplate the year one thousand, let alone two. Shirou Emiya was a man living fourteen hundred years after the inevitable end of her own life. And yet, he stood before her now, summoned to serve her during a War that had ended a full millennium before he was even born? Was such a thing even possible? She understood that the Throne of Heroes existed beyond the bounds of space and time, but summoning a spirit from a time yet to come...
      And yet, she found herself believing him. She knew he spoke the truth as plainly as she would know the truth in her own words. He seemed to be waiting for her response, ultimately choosing to continue when he received none.
      "I imagine it's a lot to take in. I didn't think it was possible either, but I saw proof of it during my own Grail War. Although, that Servant was only from a few decades into my future, so it wasn't quite as much of a shock."
      "I... see..." Artoria struggled to think of anything to say to advance the conversation. Despite her earlier urging, she now felt like she really was lacking in understanding of what she felt should be simple concepts. Then, a thought occurred to her: "And this other Servant - the one summoned from farther into the future - that inspired you to attempt the same?"
      Saber seemed to consider his words before answering. "In a way, yes. I... I had a lot of regrets after my War. I guess I thought that I could change that if I became a Heroic Spirit."
      "You... were hoping to be summoned back into the same Grail War to change the outcome?"
      Saber said nothing in response. Whether this was silent admittance or hesitance to contradict her conclusion, she couldn't say.
      "I see. Then, I feel I must apologise for dragging you into a different War than the one in which you intended to fight." She bowed deeply, but she could still feel the fluster in Saber's voice as he responded.
      "Y-You don't need to apologise, Master! I'm actually... I don't have a problem being summoned to fight in this War. After all, it's not like I can only be a Servant in one War. In fact, my own Servant from back then actually fought in the Twentieth Grail War as well."
      "Is that so?" Artoria asked, rising to meet his evasive gaze. "I would like to know more about your War, should you feel inclined to share. At the very least, I believe it would benefit us in this War for me to know the story of how my Servant will become legendary enough to be eligible to fight at my side."
      "Uh... sure. But maybe some other time. We should probably get back to practicing."
      "Very well then. Would you like to spar, Saber? I could use some practice fighting against enemy Servants. I don't doubt that Morgan will dispatch the Red Saber against me, specifically."
      Saber nodded. "From what I know about Morgan le Fey, that seems likely. Alright then. It would be my pleasure to duel with you." He bowed as deeply as she had, and she could feel an aura or respect radiating off of him. She wondered for a moment if this was simply how the Japanese were raised, or if he, as a man from an era long past her own time, might have knowledge of the extent to which her own present exploits would one day be remembered.
      But she cast those thoughts aside for now, both to stave off the headache she could feel building from this complicated timeline discussion, and to keep herself from contemplating how she would be remembered - as the hero who saved her country from a vile witch, or the fool who was felled while playing at being king.
      Both combatants took their places, a few paces from one another, and took their very similar fighting stances. Saber's use of a single sword, unlike his typical dual blade style was a curious choice. Was he doing so to better represent the enemy Saber, whose own style was reported to bear some similarities to her own? Was he skilled in multiple styles, such that he could actually represent how various potential enemy Sabers might fight? Just how amazing a Servant had she been gifted with?
      She took a deep breath to clear her mind, letting her excitement over learning more about this intriguing man leave her thoughts for the time being. Right now, he was merely Saber, her opponent in this duel. As skilled as he may be, it was important for a Master to not lag behind their Servant, lest they become a burden in the conflict. More so if that Master was also a king.
      Whatever Saber's history or level of skill, the King of Britain must be able to face him, blow-for-blow.

Chapter Text

      Lucius Tiberius barged into the room where his Servant awaited. One battle - One! - and the Red Faction had already lost a Master and a Servant. And not just any Servant. Lancer? Justifiable loss. Rider? Speed would no longer be a tool in their arsenal, but not the biggest loss. Archer? Well, Lucius would be out of the War if it was Archer that had fallen, but at least the force opposing Arthur would still have its spellcaster.
      Tiberius looked over his Servant, lounging disinterestedly on a couch and drinking wine by himself, not a care in the world. "Caster is dead," the Master informed his Servant. "Her Master as well."
      "My condolences," Archer responded, quite clearly not at all invested in sounding sincere.
      "They died in the fight while you were down here drinking wine!" He took the mostly-full bottle and shattered it on the stone floor, leaving the blond man with only what remained in his goblet. "What good is a Servant who will not obey orders?"
      "What good is a Master who cannot inspire obedience?" Tiberius held up his hand, displaying three unused Command Seals. "Without the Grail's power."
      Tiberius paused and lowered his hand, clenching it into a fist. "If you had deigned to grace us with your presence, we might still have our Caster!"
      Archer's expression soured. "Mongrel. A King such as I acts only as he pleases. You may be my Master in title, but not in spirit. That you said we might still have our Caster, not would, is proof enough of your unworthiness to wield my awesome power against your enemies. I will make my move against this Arthur you so despise; but it be at my own discretion and you will be grateful for my charity. Now, leave me. Your presence is spoiling my drink."
      With no further words to waste on his useless Servant, Tiberius stormed out of the chamber. Archer sat in contemplative silence for a time, enjoying the aroma of the remaining wine, until he determined that his silent observer would not speak until directly acknowledged.
      "Spying is unbecoming for one of your station. Did this land not once belong to you? And yet, you now stalk through it like a common rodent. How far you have fallen, Emperor of Rome."
      Her presence acknowledged, Saber shifted out of spirit form, her hands on her hips and her annoyance at her compatriot's words clear on her face. "Hmph. Rather ironic, given my empire persists in the East in the very same territory you once called your own. Pray, do think before you speak, lest you fall yet further, King of Heroes."
      Gilgamesh let out an uproarious laugh at the audacity of this woman. "I see the fire that scorched your capital burns brightly within you." The targeted strike did as he intended; perhaps Nero Claudius' greatest point of contention was her involvement in that legendary disaster, and true to his class, Archer hit the bullseye with his jab. But the emperor quickly recovered, her expression shifting to one of bold self-satisfaction.
      "My, how childish, to strike at my weakness so swiftly. One must take matters slowly when attempting to court a lady. Impatiently going straight for the jugular is both uncouth and unbecoming. But then, what else should one expect from a man who is envious that the coveted position of Rider of Blue went to a rival of mine, and not the great man who conquered those who crushed your long-dead empire? What a shame that chance eludes you yet again..."
      Loathe as he was to admit it, Gilgamesh's own frustration was being expertly exploited by his fellow. But it was a smirk that crossed his lips. "You certainly know your history. Well, colour me intrigued, Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus."
      Nero stood frozen, stunned that the arrogant, self-absorbed, disinterested Gilgamesh even knew her first name, let alone all five. And that he could list them all from memory. Had she mischaracterised him in her mind, or was he simply the sort to secretly store information for tactical deployment at a later time?
      "Shall I expect an invitation to your next banquet of kings, then?" she asked in jest.
      "If you can maintain my interest, then perhaps." The casual manner in which he said this surprised Nero.
      She had no response, taken aback as she was that Gilgamesh was at all capable of such civility. With nothing further to say, she puffed out her chest and put on her most confident face. "Umu! A trivial matter for one such as I. Prepare to be amazed, my noble predecessor!" With that, she departed in spirit form.
      A slight smile remained on Gilgamesh's lips for a short time, amused by the audacity of this woman to declare herself his successor. Archer took two sips from his cup and pondered, "I wonder if our Saber noticed your presence as easily as I did hers... Assassin."
      The black-clad Assassin, with hair like a bundle of serpents, materialised before her gold-clad comrade. Unlike with Saber, however, Assassin emerged from her class' Presence Concealment ability. "I should expect nothing less from the King of Heroes," she said in a respectful tone.
      "I take it, then, that your Master is as wary of my intentions as Saber's." Not a query; a statement. He was confident in his assertion - and he had good reason to be.
      "Are you sure it is not your Master who is viewed under such a suspicious gaze?"
      "They knew what they were getting into when they offered that man a place at their table. In the grand scheme concocted by the leader of this little alliance, only Saber's, Rider's and your Masters are not expendable. She is aware that I know this, no doubt; hence this surveillance she insists on placing me under. But placing the King of Heroes under anything is a fool's gambit."
      "Shall I report your suspicious words to my Master then?"
      "Hmph. Do as you like. That woman is well aware of the value my very presence provides to this alliance of hers. I will be in this War longer than most; only a fool unworthy of my allegiance would think otherwise."
      "I will inform my Master of your assessment then."
      "By all means. But do try not to let your love for Rome's past emperors make you too biased. That would be unbecoming for one of your station, Queen of Egypt."
      "I will keep your words in mind," Cleopatra responded, keeping her tone neutral and her intent hidden. "But for whatever it is worth, had the great Iskandar been summoned in place of the British queen, I am sure he would have sought you out and given you a duel worthy of you both."
      Gilgamesh said nothing in response to this, but Cleopatra got the impression that he appreciated the notion. Regardless of the validity of her assessment, she departed, leaving the King of Heroes alone with his thoughts and his empty cup.

Chapter Text

      She was observing Saber once again.
      He stood in a truly bizarre desert wasteland full of swords and... some kind of enormous metal shapes suspended in the air above the battlefield. Given how unnatural the place was, she could only assume it was a Reality Marble this time, in which the events took place.
      Saber stood before her, adorned once more in far more casual clothing than the scarlet coat he had been summoned in. It was an unusual, but oddly welcome sight. He was engaged in a duel with a warrior she didn't recognise, yet still seemed oddly familiar to her. Both warriors fought with the same dual-blade style, right down to their blades appearing identical. She wondered if this other man, dressed in a similar style to Saber's own crimson attire as a Servant, might be Saber's mentor in swordsmanship. Both men's skills with their blades were impeccable, deftly parrying and countering each strike that a lesser warrior would surely have fallen to.
      It was only once their battle brought them closer to her perspective and Saber spared a glance her way that she realised she was, once again, not observing through some omnipotent bystander's perspective, but that of a participant - one that stood in wait as the two men battled in this unearthly place. She could feel on her cheeks the wind whipped up by the intense blade swings of the two men's clash.
      Saber worked to keep the battle away from the observer, struggling to match the white-haired man's strikes, but performing well enough to keep himself alive. In a desperate move, Saber flung one blade at his foe, who deflected it, but was left open as Saber lunged forward and thrust his other blade forward. The wound wasn't deep enough to seriously hamper the older man's ability to fight, but it was enough to force him to put distance between himself and his opponent, allowing Saber to collect his fallen blade and prepare for what came next.
      His opponent summoned a series of swords that floated in mid-air around him. As Saber rushed forward, his foe began unleashing the fury of his summoned blades, firing them at high speeds directly at Saber. Saber managed to deflect or dodge most of them as he closed the gap, losing one of his blades from a particularly rough hit.
      Using his remaining blade to keep up his defence, Saber held out his free hand. Azure energy swirled in his palm as a new blade materialised. Rather than the simple, monochromatic daggers he tended to use in combat, this one was a large broadsword, blue and gold in colour, that she could swear...

      Artoria's eyes shot open as her sleeping mind fully recognised the blade. Her gaze travelled across her bedchambers to the spot where the sister blade of the one in question rested within arm's reach. She pushed herself out of her bed to look over the blade to make sure she hadn't made some kind of mistake. Although that blade was lost forever, and its exact details faded more and more from her mind with each passing day, Artoria needed only to look upon its sister as she held it aloft, and she could vividly recall every intricate detail of the Sword of Selection. There was no mistaking it now: Saber had been wielding Caliburn.
      So many possibilities swirled in her head that she felt dizzy. Did he have access to Caliburn in his own time? Had it been found between her time and his? Was he using a copy? Was that an ability he possessed? Or was it simply her own mind influencing a minor aspect of the vision? She decided to consult Merlin; he would know more about these visions than she did.
      Hearing shuffling over by the bed, Artoria realised that her frantic actions had roused Guinevere from her slumber. Wincing, Artoria placed the sword back atop its perch and returned to the bed. Although Artoria and Guinevere's marriage had been one of duty and not love, sharing a bed only to avoid difficult questions, Artoria still valued the other woman as a friend and confidant. Robbing her of rest was not something she could avoid feeling guilty about.
      "Did I wake you?" she asked softly, already knowing the answer.
      Guinevere sighed. It was a small sigh, measured so as to avoid causing offence, but Artoria recognised her spouse's frustration. Of course, Guinevere was the type to keep up appearances by keeping her frustrations to herself. Some days, Artoria allowed this, so as not to become burdened and distracted by matters not crucial to the realm's governance. On others, she allowed her guilt to compel her to pry.
       This day was the former, as the matter of Saber's capabilities was, objectively, more important than whatever it was that was bothering Guinevere. That matter could wait for later. Right now, she needed answers that might help her win the Grail War. She embraced her wife for a time, letting her know she cared for her, as a good friend. Guinevere seemed to perk up some at that - enough, at least, to see Artoria off with a smile as she departed for her meeting with the wizard.
      Merlin was able to confirm that what she saw in the vision was what really happened during Saber's life - nothing from her own mind could influence what she witnessed. All he could suggest was that she ask Saber himself about it. After all, he should be aware that she had seen it.
      As before, she found Saber practicing his sword swings in the courtyard. An awkward air filled the area when he noticed her. He knew she had seen it, then.
      "I saw your duel with that red-clad swordsman," she stated simply.
      "Archer," he responded.
      "That was a Servant?"
      "It was."
      "And you fought him yourself? Were you empowered by a Caster?"
      "No, I wasn't paired with Caster. I was just able to advance enough in my training and convictions to challenge Archer."
      "Archer?" she cocked an eyebrow at the classification of the bladed warrior.
      He smiled. "Servant class criteria can be surprisingly flexible."
      "How interesting... But, towards the end of your duel, you summoned Caliburn."
      The smile faded from his face. "So, you did notice that, huh?"
      "I did. I would like an explanation."
      Saber nodded slowly. He indicated towards a stone bench close by and the two sat down to discuss the matter.
      "Technically, I didn't summon Caliburn. Projection magic has always been my specialty. You saw I was using the same blades as... him, right? Trace on." Saber held up a hand and the white dagger appeared in his grip. "Projection," he said as he held the blade out for Artoria to touch to confirm its tangibility before it dissipated. "I only need to see an object on time to project it. Projecting a legendary weapon like Caliburn is a real strain, though, so I tend to just stick with Kanshou and Bakuya."
      "If sight is required, then how had you seen Caliburn?"
      There was a clear reluctance to answer in Saber's body language as he remained silent for a time. But he seemed to realise that she would not let him avoid answering so important a question. He likely knew, being from the future, that the sword had been lost in this era. There were several possibilities Artoria could think of to explain how he could have seen the legendary lost blade, but she doubted any of them were correct. Fortunately, Saber did ultimately relent.
      "...I suppose I should start from the beginning. The Twentieth Grail War took place in the first half of the twentieth century. For the rest of that century, the various magic associations collected catalysts and made plans for the next one. Near the end of the century, a man named Kiritsugu Emiya retrieved Avalon for the Ainsbern family - his wife's family, that took part in a few prior Wars."
      "He took Avalon as a catalyst? Then, he was trying to summon me?"
      "Yes. In my time, King Arthur's story is legendary. Not everything is known - I didn't know that you fought in a Grail War until I met you. But in my time, you're highly sought after as a Servant."
      "I see." There was little else Artoria could say, pondering as she was exactly what kind of legend she was to create.
      "But there was a struggle. A rival faction tried to take Avalon by force. A great fire broke out that decimated Fuyuki City. A... lot of people died. Kiritsugu found me in the wreckage and saved my life. He blamed himself for my parents dying in the fire, so he took me in and raised me as his own son."
      Artoria sat in silence as Saber explained the almost unimaginable tragedy he had faced at what must surely have been quite a young age. She had seen many towns and villages burned by war in the last twenty years. Her battles with Vortigern, the Picts, the Romans... so many conflicts with so much collateral damage done to the nation and its people... She had hoped such conflicts could end within her lifetime, but it seemed that humanity was doomed to repeat the mistakes of its past, long into the future.
      "I didn't know it at the time, but he'd used a ritual to store Avalon inside me. That was how he saved me - Avalon's healing properties. He lied to the Ainsberns about it, said the scabbard was lost in the fire. He was disowned by them and was never able to see his wife or daughter again."
      "How cruel..."
      "Yeah. By the time the Twenty-First Grail War began a decade later, Kiritsugu was already dead, and so was his wife. I learned a little magecraft from him before that; it was enough that I could supply mana to my Servant without the Grail having to supplement it, like it does for non-mages like you. But aside from that, my knowledge wasn't enough to do me much good in the War. I sorta just stumbled into it when a Servant caught me watching a battle she was involved in. It just happened that my dad had made all of the preparations for the possibility he could take part in a Grail War, and I ended up in contact with the summoning circle. And with Avalon inside me, it acted as a catalyst to summon my Servant and make me a Master."
      "You... You are saying that... in you Grail War, I was your Servant?"
      Saber nodded with a smile. "Ironic, isn't it? Even though, from my perspective, that was decades ago, it still took me a while to get used to being called 'Saber' by you instead of my name or 'Master'."
      "I can imagine. I suppose, then, that I will go through a similar experience when it comes my time to be summoned as... I assume, a Saber, also?"
      Saber's expression was... unreadable for a moment, but Artoria didn't like how it looked. "You were a Saber, yes," he replied, giving Artoria the distinct impression that he was keeping something from her. "I mean, your sword is, maybe, the most iconic sword in all of history, even in Japan. I think you'd still qualify for Lancer, though."
      "Because of Rhongomyniad?" Artoria asked, opting to let Saber's discomfort be, for now.
      "Yes. You score some major victories with that thing. In certain versions of the legends, I mean." Was he referring to her battle with Vortigern, or trying to avoid revealing some of her future accomplishments with that addition? Regardless...
      "I see... Are you eligible for other classes, Shirou?" Artoria used Saber's real name simply because she was asking him about other classes, so calling him by one of them would feel odd. But she found, when she uttered his name for the first time, that it felt strangely natural to do so. Once again, she felt a connection with him that was difficult to explain, which she now had to wonder... was it a result of their supposed bond in Shirou's own time? Had he somehow brought their bond over with him when he was summoned? Was that why she trusted him so readily? Or was that simply a result of his polite and witty personality?
      "Archer," he said quietly. "I was in the Archery Club at school. I dropped out not long before the Grail War, but I was always pretty good at it."
      Artoria shook her head. "That sounds like needless modesty to me. To qualify for a Servant class, so I am told, one must be more than simply 'pretty good'. One must excel. Qualifying for one class is impressive enough. Qualifying for two is incredible."
      "I... I suppose so." Saber's face was almost as red as his hair as he averted his gaze and scratched at his cheek with one finger. "But then, I've seen you in action as a Saber-class, so I can't really deny how amazing you have to be to qualify."
      It was then Artoria's turn to blush. She couldn't be sure if the rising confidence she felt within her breast was due to the compliment coming from one who had seen how worthy she would one day become... or if it was because of their alleged bond in his time. She was at once concerned and fascinated by the effect such a simple compliment was having on her. There certainly seemed to be something to the idea that he was essentially sharing his side of their future bond with her.
      She cleared her throat, her own eyes avoiding looking at him. "I will be relying on your skills to see us through this War, Saber. The skills that made the Throne of Heroes deem you worthy of the title of 'Saber'." When she spared a quick glance his way, he was flashing a warm smile.
      "My skills are at your service, Master."

Chapter Text

      "I should have been paired with a great Roman Emperor," Tiberius grumbled, his frustrations with Archer already fully known by his fellow Masters of Red.
      "We can trade Servants, if you'd like," Mordred offered sarcastically. "All you have to do is beat me in a fight."
      Morgan slammed her staff on the ground before Tiberius could respond to the taunt, silencing both. "How childish. We are supposed to be united by common cause; yet you two, among those most intend on destroying Arthur, bicker like children. We have already lost enough with Klingsor and Caster's deaths." She was about to threaten to enchant the two the same way she had Gareth and Gaheris, but thought better of it.
      For one, without Klingsor and Caster, the enchantment was maintained exclusively by Morgan herself. Tiberius knew that, and if she gave him the opportunity, he would defy her authority by acknowledging her inability to so deftly control four of them at once.
      Second, she knew Mordred had some misgivings about the enchantment. Mordred understood the necessity, of course, but that hardly meant she agreed with it. Threatening to do the same to her risked her favourite child's loyalty. And as the Master of Saber, that was something she could not allow.
      Mordred's Servant had proven essential in the continued existence of Morgan's Red Faction, especially in light of the early loss of Caster and the utter ambivalence of Archer. Nero Claudius' striking resemblance to Arthur - arguably even closer than the king's own sister - allowed the enchantment keeping Gareth and Gaheris in line to latch onto the likeness to sell them on Morgan's lie: that Arthur was a usurper, while Nero was the true King Arthur. Saber of Red had a surprising number of enemies on the rival team, but she ensured that two of Morgan's children were not among them.
      Of course, the late emperor had reservations about playing this part in Morgan's manipulations, but a Command Spell from Mordred was all it took to keep Saber in line. This demonstration of the obedience one could instil with a Command Spell was highly valuable to Morgan, who was able to plan around the individual wills of the Servants with greater ease. This would be valuable in keeping her own Servant in line, especially. 
      Vortigern - brother of Uther Pendragon and thus uncle of Artoria and Morgan. He was the incarnation of the destructive White Dragon of Britain, and the opposite of Artoria, who had been born to embody the Red Dragon that opposed him. His ability to deprive her and Gawain's swords of their light would be invaluable to Morgan's war effort. This power had not saved him from being slain with Rhongomyniad, but he had not been backed by Mordred, Morgan and the Servants of Red at the time.
      In truth, Morgan had gathered a catalyst and summoned Vortigern primarily as a siege weapon and a tool to prevent Excalibur and Excalibur Galatine, two weapons that could easily match a Servant's power, from being used against her forces. And his destructive tendencies could be curbed with Command Spells, which could also be used to have him destroy himself should he successfully outlive the competition.
      Despite his relatively recent reign of destruction, it seemed there were still many who remembered him as a king, not a dragon. This may go some way to explain why his form as a Servant was that of a man clad in draconic armour. Even she had initially been somewhat intimidated by the eyes that burned white-hot beneath his helm, even when not overcome by the archetypal rage of the Berserker class.
      In fact, Morgan continued to be amazed by how amiable the White Dragon could be. But she supposed he was willing to bide his time until he met Artoria again. From Mordred's report on the first encounter, even the enemy Rider had moved with the ferocity of a Berserker against her Saber, due to their own history. Morgan could vividly picture Vortigern doing much the same when the time came. She already sensed he was beginning to grow restless, especially since that initial skirmish that he had been left out of.
      Morgan had to carefully consider whether it was better to let him get it out of his system soon, use a Command Spell to temper his rage as she had upon his initial summoning, or take the risk of letting things be for a time. If only Gawain could be at her side now. Then she could have consulted one of those that had battled Vortigern to the death. Then again, Gawain's presence may have made Vortigern beyond controlling, so it may have been for the best that he be in the enemy ranks instead...
      By now, Tiberius had left Morgan and her daughter alone. Well, not entirely alone. Nero and Vortigern were both present in spirit form, she sensed. Ironically, it was Nero Claudius' presence that had initially forced Morgan's hand in compelling Vortigern's obedience when he, much like his great-niece, mistook Saber for Artoria.
      Nero's summoning, despite those initial setbacks, had been fortuitous, given that Boudica and Artoria were among the enemy ranks. Through Boudica, a spotlight had been shone upon Nero and her visual similarities to Artoria. If Nero continued to flaunt her body as she had been, highlighting how very similar Artoria appeared to this woman, it may result in Artoria's own secret sex being exposed. And what chaos that would sow within her ranks...
      For now, Morgan needed to plot her schemes around the ticking timebomb that was Vortigern. She would need more intelligence on the enemy forces. "Mordred."
      "Yes, Mother?" Mordred responded as dutifully as Morgan expected.
      "I have a mission for you and Saber. There is one among the enemy we know little about in regard to the War. I want you to find him and learn as much as you can about his role in Arthur's plan."
      "We can do that. Who is he?"

      "Two more steps to the left, Caster!" Gawain called out to the blue-clad mage that had joined him as his Servant. She, atop the walls of the ruined outpost, followed his direction perfectly. Her mirror, held aloft, was able to reflect the sun's light in a beam directly onto her Master. "Perfect," he uttered as he felt the sunlight imbue him with strength. He showed off this strength by, with but a single slash of his sword, cutting a nearby tree in twain. "Alright," he said, wiping sweat from his brow, "come on down!"
      She was down at his level in short order. The pink-haired woman approached with a fond smile. "This is quite the intelligent strategy, Master," she praised. It was quite the contrast with her initial assessment of the knight.
      "No longer threatened by my sun affiliation, are we?" he teased, recalling their early interactions.
      Blushing slightly behind her paper fan, she nodded. "I admit, you are not the threat to my position I initially took you for. And I cannot deny that our abilities complement one another marvellously. You, the gallant knight wielding the power of the sun that I cast down upon you. You should be thankful you were granted a Servant as perfect as I!"
      "Perfect as a Servant, or perfect as a woman?"
      "It would be unbecoming of a maiden to make that assessment herself. But I wonder, what does my handsome Master think?"
      "I think your radiant smile could empower my blade even without your connection to your country's sun god."
      "Hoho, such a flirt my Master is! Are you not a married man? Is this a forbidden love affair?" Her hands covered her cheeks, akin to a maiden hearing the latest romantic gossip.
      "So long as nothing comes of it, some harmless flirting never hurt anyone. Especially with one not considered human."
      Caster brought a hand up to her chin in a playfully thoughtful manner. "I wonder, should I take offence at that comment? Is it because I am a Servant, or a fox?"
      "I... would much rather you not take offence."
      "Hmm... Strangely, I get the sense that you meant nothing by it. Very well, Master. None taken."
      "I appreciate it. Now, shall we get back to planning, Caster?"
      "Of course, Master. Our enemies will be in for quite the rude awakening when next they set foot into our territory."

      Unbeknownst to the duo, they were being observed by another duo consisting of a child of Morgan and a Servant perfectly suited to their service.
      "Ugh, that buffoon," Mordred cringed, watching her brother flirt with the fox woman.
      "That Blue Caster; I do not like her," Saber growled.
      "It isn't like you to drop your mask of unbreakable composure," Mordred observed from her side.
      "Pretence? Surely, you jest, Master. This Roman Emperor, as all those before and after her, was trained from birth to be the absolute master of her emotions."
      "Assassin told me about your little chat with Archer."
      Saber gulped.
      "I don't trust him either," Mordred admitted. "So I want you to keep an eye on him. Gaheris agreed to have Assassin co-ordinate with you on this. But take no action without my explicit command."
      "As you wish. In the meantime, perhaps we can strike down that troublesome fox?"
      Mordred groaned. "Gawain is the last person we want to fight during the day. It puts him easily on par with a Saber Servant like you. We need to gauge how much of that power he can maintain with his Servant at night."
      "Very well," Saber sighed.
      "What is your problem with her, anyway? This is clearly more than just Servant-versus-Servant animosity. Did you know her in life, Nero?"
      "Hmph! To believe I would allow such a discourteous woman to exist in my Roman Empire!"
      "Was it another Grail War, then?" Mordred proposed, choosing not to engage with that last comment directly.
      Saber shook her head. "Truth be told, Master, it is only a feeling that I cannot explain. A strong desire to put that haughty woman in her place. I have little doubt that I have encountered her in another life, but if so, it is one I cannot recall."
      "Is that normal for Servants? To be reset every time they return to the Throne?"
      "Not necessarily. As you... may or may not have been informed by your mother..." Mordred sensed a hint of distrust towards Morgan in Nero's tone. "...the Throne of Heroes exists beyond the bounds of space and time. Many tangent timelines draw from the same pool of Heroic Spirits. I, for instance, may be derived from the Nero Claudius of this world, or from a different one altogether. Perhaps I was summoned to this other world once before, or perhaps not. But there is something about this world in particular..."
      Morgan had explained the concept of worldlines and timelines to Mordred once before, when explaining the concept of Heroic Spirits and Servants. It still managed to make her head spin when she thought about it all, but she understood the basic concept.
      "What about it?"
      "It feels... unnatural, somehow. I have consulted a few of my fellow Servants on the matter. We are all certain we have been summoned into Grail Wars in the past, yet none of us can recall any of the details."
      "...Why not?"
      Saber shrugged. "Even Caster knew not the cause. But she suspected this world was unusual; as if the rules here were somehow different."
      "So, what, Servants aren't allowed to remember past Grail Wars in this specific world?"
      "Not quite. Archer has boasted of past Grail War victories in this very timeline. But his recollections of Grail Wars held in other worlds seem to elude him as well."
      "So then... someone or something is isolating this timeline? Keeping outside knowledge from creeping in?"
      "Umu! That is the conclusion we have reached as well. My Master is surprisingly sharp!"
      "Watch it, Saber," Mordred growled.
      "Now, now. It is a compliment."
      "It sure didn't sound like it."
      "Be that as it may, the culprit and their purpose eluded even Caster."
      "And none of you have brought this up before because...?"
      "Because we do not believe it is a hostile intent that created this oddity. So it will likely have little effect on the outcome of the War. It is akin to... learning that your religion is incorrect, I suppose."
      Mordred cocked an eyebrow. "How's that?"
      "Master is a Christian, yes? If you learned that your god was a lie, that the Roman Gods were the true power in this universe, would that change how you live your life? Would it affect your ambitions and goals?"
      "Well... no, probably not."
      "Umu. Then, all Master needs to worry about is winning this War and putting her father in his place."
      "Yeah," Mordred nodded, smiling slightly. The world seemed somehow brighter for her Servant's words. "You're good at these little speeches. I can see why your people loved you so much."
      "Umu! Master is very- Watch out!" Mordred was suddenly being held under Saber's arm as the Servant leapt from their hiding spot. Mordred had only a moment to admire her Servant's impressive strength before she saw the bushes they had been hiding in burn away to nothing as a beam of searing light obliterated their hiding spot.
      Saber landed farther away from Gawain and his Servant, whom Mordred now realised had somehow spotted them and were currently preparing for a fight. Mordred rose to her feet and drew Clarent as her brother drew Excalibur Galatine.
      "Darn. They evaded my attack," Caster of Blue pouted, lowering her mirror from over her head. "Apologies, Master."
      "Don't worry," Gawain responded, his tone far more serious than during his earlier discussion with her. "We don't need the element of surprise to deal with this traitor and her fake Arthur. The two of us together are more than a match for any of the Red Faction."
      Caster's cheeks flushed sakura-pink. "My Master is so cool..."
      "Someone's confident," Mordred taunted. "You think having a sun-themed Servant gives you the edge against me?"
      The look of disgust and disdain Gawain showed Mordred genuinely chilled her. While never especially close, the two had gotten along fairly well before all of this. Gawain was always an easy person to get along with, after all. But now, that friendliness was gone. To him, Mordred was not his comrade, nor his sibling; merely his enemy. And with that look alone, the gravity of this broken relationship truly sank in for Mordred.
      But she couldn't let that discourage or distract her. She had her role to play in this conflict and he had his. The swordsmen were to clash, and one of them was to die in that clash. Saber, meanwhile, summoned her own rose-red sword and held it in Caster's direction.
      "Your fox senses must be well-attuned to have spotted us like that, Caster. But they will do you no good in a real fight."
      Caster brought a large sleeve up to her mouth and chuckled behind it. Her fox ears twitched in an attention-grabbing way. "Ohoho, is Saber of Red truly so foolish that she believes her incessant 'Umus' and egocentric declarations are anything but shouts to the heavens of her location?"
      "Umu..." Saber growled.
      "Yes, indeed. I see now why the Roman Empire fell, with such slow-witted emperors."
      Saber drove her sword into the ground, a spattering of rose petals surrounding her has as she did so. "Berate and belittle me all you wish, fox, but be mindful of how you speak of my forebears and descendants. Disrespect their legacies at your own peril."
      "My, what a brutish temperament. Each word thrown barbarically forth from your lips only proves my point further. Shall I procure you a rock under which you can die of shame?"
      Caster had to dodge back to avoid being sliced in two by Saber's blade as the enraged emperor threw everything she had at the cheeky fox woman.
      "Will you be okay with your Servant distracted, Gawain?" Mordred taunted, hoping to goad him the way Caster had Saber.
      "Even at night, I could cut you down with little trouble, Mordred."
      "Really now? Skill is one thing, but what about your heart? Can you become heartless like the king and cut down your own blood?" Although only his half-sister, her being the child of King Arthur instead of King Lot, the two still shared blood through their mother. Gawain was not one to hold a grudge or-
      "If the duty of putting you to the sword should fall to anyone, I will gladly take it in my king's place." Gawain moved his sword into its ready position, prepared to unleash a powerful slash at any time. That surprised Mordred, but she was able to maintain her composure.
      "Your king has you brainwashed, Gawain."
      "Rich, coming from you. You turning traitor, I can believe. But Gaheris and Gareth? How much magic did it take Morgan to turn them to her side?"
      Mordred had no way to argue back. Gawain was right about their mother using her magic to force two of their siblings to join her side and serve as Masters. It was one of the few components of Morgan's plan that Mordred disagreed with. But there was little she could do about it. Were she to declare her discontent any more than she already had, Morgan would likely place her under the same spell. For now, she could only continue the fight, bring the War to an end with a Red Faction victory, and make sure her brother and sister lived to see the future they were now fighting for.
      If Gawain stood in her path towards that victory, then she would cut him down where he stood. Unlike their siblings, neither he nor she were innocents in this War. But Mordred, at least, fought for a noble cause. If whatever force had made this reality so unusual, according to Saber, were to pick a side in this duel of siblings, Mordred was confident it would be hers.
      Then Caster made the sun glow brighter as Gawain charged at his sister.

Chapter Text

      Once again, she dreamed of Shirou.
      Her understanding of what she was seeing seemed much firmer than any dream prior. She wondered briefly if that was a result of now knowing her own role in these events. She had spoken with Merlin about it, and he had claimed that such an occurrence, as far as he was aware, was unprecedented. Of course, with only five Wars prior to this one, it was easy to believe a Servant being summoned from the future was uncommon, to say the least. But those thoughts soon slipped from her grasp as her attention returned to the images being presented to her.
      From her perspective, she was sat on a bed in some run-down old building; even with the difference in architecture, she could inherently feel its age and lack of upkeep. Before her sat Shirou - the younger version, dressed in his commoner garb that now seemed oddly fitting on him.
      The clothes of the person through whose eyes she observed him were also more casual, consisting of a white dress shirt, a blue skirt and black stockings. The style of his time, or perhaps his country, may well have left a pink blush on her cheeks as she slept. The notion of wearing such clothes was... almost unthinkable.
      But the woman remained in place, forcing herself to stare at Shirou - into his eyes. There was hesitance there, no doubt unsure if he was ready for the act she knew he was about to engage in. She felt paralysed, as if her body were being puppeteered by another and made to engage in such inappropriate acts with her Servant. She shook with unnerving suspense. And also, she realised, with hesitant anticipation. She... wanted this, on some level? She found comfort in the belief that she was simply being overwhelmed by this other woman's lustful desires towards this young man, who could only be her loving partner.
      She felt a sudden sharp jolt as her perspective shifted to the side, where another entity stood - a beautiful young woman with jet black hair up in twin tails. Her arms were crossed, her frustration clear in her aqua eyes. She sensed that the two on the bed were being urged on by the frustrated young woman. The myriad potential implications of this turn of events left her mind swimming. She felt dizzy, knowing that this feeling, at least, was all her own.
      She felt her arms move as she turned back to face Shirou. Her hands were reaching for something around her neck. But she stopped as Shirou spoke. What he said, she was unsure of. But it became clear as he, now slightly more confidently, crawled closer and reached out his left hand towards her. Unlike his Servant self, this hand matched the rest of his complexion; and it felt comforting as it came closer to her, bearing his two remaining Command Seals. She only faintly recognised that this meant he would compel her obedience at least one time, as she felt a gentle tug at her neck, before a thin blue ribbon appeared in his hand. He showed her a gentle smile - one that assured her he was just as nervous as she was, which oddly made her feel at ease.
      He reached out again, this time undoing the first two buttons of her shirt. She was beginning to feel uncomfortably exposed; not only for herself, but for Shirou as well. These events had long since passed for him, but they were still incredibly intimate - private. Yet, she had somehow stumbled into this personal memory as if it were no different from one where he was showcasing his capabilities as a Servant.
      His expression shifted slightly, concern wrinkling his handsome features, opening his mouth to reassure her, as if he knew what she was thinking as she observed this moment between himself and "Saber."

      Artoria sat up so quickly that anybody unfortunate enough to be in her path would surely have been knocked unconscious. Without much in the way of conscious thought, the door to her bedchambers flung open and she was crossing the stone corridor outside in her bare feet and sleepwear, no thoughts paid to the cold and pain until she was rapping on the door to Saber's room without a care for whose sleep she might be disturbing.
      The door opened in short order. The crimson blush on Saber's face said everything. He had seen it too, and he knew she had seen it. "W...Would you like to come in?" he offered awkwardly.
      Artoria hesitated for only a moment before forcing herself over the threshold. She took a seat on the surprisingly clean bed as her Servant closed the door behind her. He brought over a robe to cover her up to keep out the cold, and laid a small rug at her feet to keep in the heat.
      "Thank you," she said in an uncharacteristically small voice.
      He wordlessly sat cross-legged on the floor across from her, looking up at his Master as he patiently waited for her to open the topic they both knew required discussion.
      "You saw that... that dream," she said, just to confirm that it was not merely some conjuration of her own mind - though she already knew the answer.
      "Yes," he confirmed uncomfortably.
      She felt guilty for having unwittingly pried into such a private moment, but she quickly recalled the important detail here: "Then you can confirm for me that... that woman..." She used the word to first confirm that he knew her true gender. It was not necessarily unexpected, as she imagined it would likely have come to light eventually during her time as his Servant. When he showed no sign of surprise or misunderstanding, she pressed forward. "You called her 'Saber'. She was me."
      Saber nodded. "It was." She was about to speak again when he frantically interrupted her: "J-Just to be clear, that was a ritual to transfer part of my magic circuit into you."
      Artoria struggled to find such a claim believable, which must have been evident in her expression.
      "I swear! Something went wrong with your summoning because I was still a novice magus. You were in a situation like I am: not able to enter spirit form to replenish your mana. You were running dangerously low. So, Tohsaka - the other girl there; she explained most of how this Grail War stuff worked to me - she walked us through the process of transferring part of my magic circuit into you so you could regulate your mana more easily."
      Now that he laid it all out, it did sound plausible, to Artoria's own limited knowledge of magecraft. Yet more similarities between herself and her Servant were becoming apparent. Which begged the question: "Say I believe you, Saber. If you transferred part of your magic circuit into me... does that mean your incomplete circuit is the reason you cannot replenish your mana as a Servant now?"
      "I... I suppose so? Even after the War, I didn't focus much on magecraft, so I'm not really sure. D-Don't get me wrong, though. It's not your fault I'm like this. I summoned you wrong in my time, so really, it's just the price I pay for my mistake."
      "I wonder..." Artoria pondered aloud, "what exactly is involved in this procedure?"
      From the colour his cheeks turned, it looked as if Saber's face were about to burst into flames. She doubted she was going to get a straight answer about the subject, at this point. She would just have to consult Merlin later, and discuss a different topic for now.
      "Very well. Keep that a secret, if you must. But I insist on you telling me everything else. Your War, my involvement, your now-suspect motives for being here. I want to know everything."
      There was a sense of awe on Saber's face as his eyes met hers. Compelled, he nodded his head and obliged. "I guess I should start from the night you were summoned, then. But, there's a lot to explain. Are you sure you have the time?"
      Artoria crossed her arms over her chest. "I can make time."
      "Alright then. As I said, I was a novice in magecraft. I didn't know how the Grail Wars worked, at the time. My father only taught me enough to defend myself before he passed. So I had to learn a lot in those first few days. You and Tohsaka were a huge help with that. Tohsaka was a classmate from school, and one of the other Masters, but she agreed to help me figure things out."
      "Yours was a team-focused War as well?"
      "No, ours was the basic seven-way War."
      "An alliance with a rival Master, then? That sounds like a rare occurrence."
      A slight smile appeared on Saber's face. "Trust me, she made that quite clear on several occasions. She denied it a lot, but she wasn't the sort to let someone who was basically a bystander get caught up in all this stuff and get killed without ever having a chance. She tried to convince me to drop out, at first. To give up my Command Seals and accept Ruler's protection until the War was over."
     "Given the circumstances, that sounds like an appropriate course of action. Yet, you pressed onward? Why?"
      Saber, again, averted his gaze with a pinkness to his cheeks. For a moment, Artoria thought he was about to say something absurd, like that he had fallen in love with her at first sight, but his eventual response was far less ridiculous than she expected.
      "Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a hero of justice. My father saved my life after the fire, and took me in as his own son. Of everyone who lived in that area, over five hundred people, I was the only one who survived. I felt like... that had to mean something. Either, I was the one who survived for a reason, or I had to find a reason I'd survived..."
      Artoria simply nodded in silence, waiting for him to continue.
      "I guess I saw the Grail War as a chance to find that reason. To make sure as few people died as a result of the War as possible. Even if I had to start from nothing and work my way up to being strong enough to do that, I wasn't going to leave this to some mage who might only care about their own reward."
      Artoria had little experience with mages. Merlin and Morgan were the only ones who stood out, though there had been the odd druid or pagan occultist that had threatened the stability of the nation in the past. Her perspective was rather limited, so her ability to judge was skewed, but even Merlin often struck her as dispassionate towards the fate of the nation. She could, at least, understand how Saber could come to this conclusion about mages.
      "I'm sure Kiritsugu would've done a better job in my position. Actually, the summoning circle I used to summon you was one he'd put in place. I think I mentioned that last time. He wanted to fight in the War, if given the chance. He could've lived that long if he hadn't been killed by that curse. So, I took on that task for him."
      "You seem very self-sacrificing."
      He chuckled. "I've lost count of how many people have told me that. Tohsaka, Archer, Fuji-nee, you. The other you, I mean. Well, and this you as well now, I suppose."
      "It is an admirable trait; to put others before yourself so readily. It is the kind of King I aspire to be."
      Saber nodded in a way that suggested an understanding far deeper than her words could have inspired. There was something in his eyes that she couldn't quite identify as he looked at her.
      "Anyway, I brushed up on magic under Tohsaka, and swordsmanship under you."
      A sudden wave of understanding cascaded over Artoria as the pieces fell into place. "That explains why our styles are so similar..."
      "I had Fuji-nee's teachings as a base, but your instruction was on a whole other level. Both in results and intensity." He shuddered slightly, and she couldn't help but grin slightly at the image of herself harshly instructing a man who would one day qualify for the Saber class.
      "I was pretty good with a sword by the end of the War. And I only got better afterward. And it was all thanks to you." That smile - that genuine, grateful smile - was something Artoria was not accustomed to seeing. It was nice. Until it faded. "But things got complicated during the War. We fought a lot of tough battles against overwhelming odds, thanks to the limits placed on your abilities by my screw-ups...
      "But you were still incredible, regardless. Always ready with a masterful sword technique or a clever strategy. You always had this cool, collectedness about you, no matter how dire the circumstances. It seemed like the only thing that ever fazed you was when I overestimated myself and wound up in danger. But you always managed to protect me."
      Artoria's heart swelled as she imagined herself gallantly leaping into the fray to guard Saber from some figure of legend or other, defending the commonfolk as a knight should. She was so enraptured with the image that she almost missed the next thing her Servant said.
      "Really, it's no surprise that I fell in love with you."
      Whatever momentum his explanation had died at the exact same time as Artoria's fantasy, as both absorbed the impact of what he had just revealed. Neither said anything. Both wanted to, him to deny it and her to push for elaboration, but words refused to pass their lips, forcing them to simply stew in the uncomfortable silence of the revelation. It was only as the shadow of a large bird passed a little too close by the solitary window illuminating the room, causing the two to react instinctively, standing ready to defend themselves without a single weapon on-hand, that the tension finally dissipated as the two found themselves chuckling together at how on-edge they were.
      Artoria took a deep breath and returned to her seat, Saber following suit, both feeling considerably more relaxed now. "So..." she began before she had settled on how to word her request for elaboration. Fortunately, the question itself was obvious enough for Saber to answer without further prompting.
      "Y-Yes. I fell in love with you."
      Artoria very much doubted that was the case. "Are you, perhaps, attracted to female warriors, Saber?" Someone falling in love with her? "Women who can match you in a duel?" Absurd. "Or perhaps, knights, specifically?" It could never happen. "The foreign mystique of a bygone era?" Impossible.
      "N-No!" Saber leapt to his feet, clearly - justifiably - offended by her unintended assertions of shallowness on his part. "It wasn't just the warrior. In our time together, I got to know the real you, beneath the veneer of the King of Knights - the Artoria Pendragon who loves food, who worries that her body is too muscular to appeal to a man, who thinks she failed her people as their king-"
      "F...Failed?" She was on her feet now. "What does that mean!? Explain!"
      Saber shook his head fiercely, realising he had just made a huge mistake. "I shouldn't-"
      "You must!"
      "I can't."
      Artoria held up her left hand, three crimson symbols adorning its back. "Then you leave me no choice. By my Command Seal-" Artoria suddenly found herself lying flat on her back on Saber's bed, her Servant straddling her waist and pinning her left hand down with his right, while his left covered her mouth to stop her from finishing her command.
      He hid his face from view, but she could see enough to recognise the anguish he was feeling. As important as the information may be to Artoria and the future of her nation, she was forced to recognise that she, through her anxious and impulsive-driven attempt to enforce her own will over his, had betrayed her Servant's - her partner's - trust. Not to overcome his physical limitations, nor to prevent him from committing a despicable act. No, she had almost wasted a Command Seal to bypass her compatriot's will to gain the answer to a question. As important as this answer was, she had crossed a line; as a Master, as a king, as a comrade. In a sense, she already had her answer.
      She ceased her struggles to resist his grip as the realisation set in. Her body relaxed into the bed as her mind and heart took on all of the tension. An uncomfortable warmth filled her body as tears welled up in her eyes. Artoria had always attempted to maintain the image of a reliable, aspirational king for her people and her knights. She would always bottle up her emotions, deaden herself until she was alone, before finally letting them out. But with Saber, she could barely find the strength to hold back.
      She trusted him on some deep, intrinsic level, despite having only known the man for a little over a week. Perhaps, it was because of the things he had said, about her desires and her insecurities, leaving her feeling like there was no need to erect up her walls around him. She had this innate sense that he would never betray her the way she had him. And that only crushed her further.
      Saber gently removed his hand from her wrist. He brought it up to her face and used one finger to wipe away her tears. Such an act was improper, at the very least. But because it was him, she felt... relieved. As if his wiping her tears was a pledge to do the same to the cause of such an emotional display in future.
      He stood from the bed, holding out his hands for her to take. She did, and he gently pulled her into a sitting position. He then lowered himself to one knee, intentionally positioning himself below her, like an understanding parent, rather than a stern authority figure. He looked out the window and saw the sunlight peering over the horizon.
      "May...Maybe we should stop here for now," he suggested uneasily. "We can come back to this later, once we've both had a chance to cool off."
      Artoria caught herself about to nod silently. No, she had already acted enough like an impudent child for one day. She took a deep breath, looked Saber directly in the eye and told him, "I agree, Saber. We should both get some rest and... re-evaluate some things."
      Saber seemed to understand that she was referring to her own actions, rather than his, as he forced a friendly smile and departed the room, leaving his Master alone with her greatest enemy - her own thoughts.

Chapter Text

      "Can I ask you something, Rider?"
      "Of course, Master. Anything you'd like."
      Gareth crossed her arms over Rider's back to act as a pillow while she nestled into a relaxed position atop her equestrian Servant. "You're a centaur, right?"
      "That is correct."
      "Then, are you from the Age of Gods?"
      "Nay. I am from the Age of Man; four centuries ago, if I am not mistaken."
      "There were centaurs four centuries ago?"
      "Nay, I was not a centaur in life. In life, I was a mighty steed, but one born of the 'natural world'. At least, I think I was."
      "You're not sure?"
      "In my time, there was an idiom: 'Among men, Lü Bu; among horses, Red Hare.' A legendary warrior and his legendary steed. I am Red Hare. But I am also Lü Bu."
      Gareth scratched her head. "Does that make you Lü Bu as a Rider, or Red Hare infused with Lü Bu's legend?"
      "Even I am unsure at times." Rider's tone was steady, stoic, but also carried a hint of the concern her felt.
      "Hm. You're an amazing Servant, either way."
      "Indeed! Few Servants can claim to be two legendary figures in one!" His tone was full of energy now. Gareth couldn't help but wonder how much of his now discarded concern had been real.
      "What other classes could you be summoned in?"
      "Lü Bu is famous for his might with a pike, and his skill with a bow. Lancer and Archer are options, guaranteed. And such a beast in battle was he that Berserker is also unquestionably available. He also assassinated his foster father, as well as the man whose service he left to join said father."
      "Then, Assassin is probably an option as well," Gareth said with a shiver.
      Rider nodded.
      "I'm glad you're a Rider," Gareth said as she snuggled into Rider's fiery mane.
      "As am I, Master," Rider responded with (what Gareth was fairly certain was) a smile.
      The two remained silent for a time, accompanied only by the sound of the breeze passing through the grassy plain. This was a spot Gareth had found while out training with her Servant early on in the conflict. She came here with him often to just enjoy the scenery and the breeze.
      "Master," Rider eventually said in a low voice. "May I ask you a question now?"
      "Sure," Gareth chirped, sitting up suddenly, eager to answer one of his questions for once. "What's on your mind?"
      With surprising flexibility, Rider turned his upper body to hold Gareth under her arms and lift her off of his back. The massive centaur planted her down on a nearby rock and lowered himself to meet her eye level. Gareth tilted her head a little as Rider stared deep into her eyes.
      "You smile often," he observed. "More often than not, in fact. Even in spite of the current state of affairs."
      "It's important to stay positive," Gareth replied with the aforementioned smile.
      "That is true. That being said, why does your smile never reach your eyes?"
      "...Pardon?"
      It was a difficult observation to put into words. Her every smile was genuine - as much was readily apparent to even one who was once a simple animal. Her eyes, her pretty emerald eyes, never shone like the gemstones they resembled. No matter the circumstance, this chipper young woman who could smile through even the toughest of trials never seemed truly happy, despite her genuine smile. There was almost a glaze of sorts over those jade orbs that stopped them from shining to their fullest potential.
      "I cannot help but worry that you are not in this War for your own reasons. I understand you are loyal to you mother, but-"
      "That isn't it?" Gareth sounded about as certain of this as Rider was.
      "It... is not?"
      "I don't... think so? We... No, we're fighting for... To save the kingdom from the imposter."
      "Imposter? What imposter?"
      "I... Arthur, he..."
      "Now, now, Rider," Morgan le Fay interrupted, appearing behind Gareth and gently wrapping an arm around her daughter's body. Her free hand cast some kind of magic barrier between the Servant and the two Masters. Before he could question this action, Morgan placed her fingertips against Gareth's temple, where they glowed with mystic energies. Gareth's eyes became glossier than Rider had ever seen them.
      Now understanding what was really happening, Rider began bashing the barrier with his fists. Then his powerful hind legs. And then his lance. Nothing he did made so much as a dent. And at this range, his Noble Phantasm would only be a danger to his Master. Despite the immense power of Servants, there was nothing he could do.
      Morgan gently tugged her daughter's wrist to raise up her hand and display her Command Seals - three arrowheads converging on a central spot; fitting for the era from which her Servant originated. Of the seven Masters in Morgan's camp, Gareth was the only one thus far that was yet to use one. Even Caster's Master had used one in their one and only battle in the War. Gareth was not like her compatriots. Those three untouched Seals were a symbol of how she viewed her own Servant: as a friend.
      "Lend me a Command Seal, won't you, daughter?"
      "Okay, Mother," Gareth responded with more exuberance than one might expect of one being so brazenly puppeteered. It was in her nature, Rider supposed. But even so, the words were not truly her own.
      "Thank you," Morgan cooed before turning her attention towards the centaur. "Rider, with this Command Spell, I command you: never discuss these concerns with Gareth or anyone else. She is better off simply doing as she is told than she is thinking about her circumstances."
      "You made your own daughter your puppet," Rider spat. Even for one who may or may not be the famous Chinese betrayer, this act disgusted him. "And your other children - Assassin and Saber's Masters? Are they under your influence as well?"
      "'Anyone' includes me, Rider," Morgan replied simply, ignoring the accusation, thereby confirming it for the Servant. "Be like your Master and obey."
      The Command Seal glowed crimson as the compulsion took hold. He could do naught but watch the Seal fade from his Master's hand as the spell was cast. Rider was now entirely incapable of discussing this revelation to anyone. Even knowing his Master was not responsible - the dullness of her eyes as he stared into them proving as much - he still could not help but feel a sense of betrayal over this.
      "Good boy," Morgan said in a dehumanising manner. "And you did very well, Gareth," she then said in a sweet, motherly tone. "Your mother is very proud of you."
      Now, Rider observed, that smile finally reached her eyes.
      Morgan's own eyes turned to face Rider. "I have countermeasures in place, in the event you try to act against me. Countermeasures that will not bode well for Gareth. Simply comply with my will, like a good pet, and you and she will not be harmed. Am I clear, Rider?"
      Despite his reluctance to comply with this tyrannical parental figure, as was in the nature of Lü Bu, Rider bowed respectfully. "Crystal."
      Nodding with satisfaction, Morgan gave out one last command while her fingers wound down their hold over Gareth. "Bring her back to the stronghold. Our next battle draws near, and I will require your abilities. With that, Morgan melted into the scenery. With her mother gone, Gareth returned to life.
      "I'm sorry, Rider. I lost focus for a minute there. What were we talking about?"
      Rider stared into his Master's eyes long enough for her to notice. He noted how, despite life returning to them, they were a little duller than they had been before. As if, on some level, she was aware of what had just transpired. Such was the price for his disobedience.
      "Rider?" Gareth asked, slightly concerned.
      Rider placed a firm, comforting hand upon his Master's shoulder. "It is nothing, Master. Come. We should return to your mother soon. I am sure she has a new battle plan ready by now."
      "You're probably right," Gareth shrugged. She clambered up onto her Servant's back and playfully kicked his sides, as she liked to do. "Mother is so smart."
      "Hold on tight," Red Hare commanded, facing forward to keep his face from her view. If his expression matched the terrible grip on his heart, he was sure that even his equestrian face would clearly display how crushed his spirits were by Morgan le Fay's awful power. He would keep this fact from his Master. He wanted her to be happy, truly happy, again. If it was not within his power to make that happen yet, he would have to settle for keeping her from losing what little of it she had left.
      A sudden image flashed through his mind: a young woman, talented, determined, indescribably beautiful. He recalled an overpowering desire to restore her smile, to rid the world of that shallow smile that never reached her eyes. Even he didn't remember if she had ever truly existed; such was the influence of Luo Guanzhong's epic masterpiece. But real or not, the intense feelings she inspired were very real to Lü Bu, and to Red Hare. They had failed her, but they would not fail Gareth.
      He reached his mighty arms back, wrapped them around Gareth's tiny body. To her, it was simply a way to keep her from falling from his back. But to him, it was a promise. The very same promise he had made to Diaochan. And the Flying General would burn through every ounce of strength he possessed - physical or mystical - to ensure that he kept it.

Chapter Text

      Artoria was tired and covered in sweat.
      Several clashes between the two sides had taken place by this point. First, the battle at the gates, in which the Blue Faction had claimed Klingsor and Caster of Red's lives. Since then, only one larger battle had taken place.
      In between, Gawain and Caster had battled Mordred and his Saber, neither side managing to claim a life, thanks to King Lot's army reinforcing Morgan's loyal child. To a point, Artoria was glad neither of the two siblings had been forced to kill the other. But Mordred was a traitor, and a willing one at that. And killing him would be far easier than eliminating his Servant.
      Unfortunately, the second loss in the War was one of their own. In the second large battle, the Blue Faction had seen the loss of their Assassin, Semiramis. Her Master, Sir Tristan, had taken the loss rather harshly. He left Camelot to spend some time by himself. Artoria asked Sir Agravain to put together a platoon to accompany Tristan, just to be sure Morgan and her faction made no attempt on the now Servant-less knight's life.
      This decision did not go over well with Tristan. He pushed back against it, declaring his need to be by himself to mourn the loss. But she was insistent, enforcing her position as his liege, to whom he had sworn fealty. 
      "The king does not understand the hearts of men."
      Those were the words with which Sir Tristan departed Camelot, likely never to be seen by Artoria again. Agravain did put his team together and dispatched them to shadow Tristan, but they soon returned to report that he had eluded their pursuit.
      Tristan's words shook Artoria. She inherently understood that these were not words used lightly, nor chosen on the spur of the moment. These were sentiments that had been bubbling beneath the surface for some time. But Artoria was able to keep their impact on her from showing. After the recent revelations from Saber, she doubted much of anything could truly rattle her these days. And, perhaps, that was entirely Tristan's point.
      But theirs was not the only side to suffer losses. King Lot - Morgan's husband, father of most of her children, and Master of Lancer of Red - was struck down in the battle by Sir Gawain, with help from Sir Agravain, and Artoria's ally, King Pellinore. This slaying had many ramifications.
      First, it dispelled any notion that the two knights were in league with Morgan, as their three siblings were. Second, it made King Pellinore and his family targets for Morgan's faction, leading Sirs Galahad, Percival and Bors to depart to reinforce King Pellinore's territory for fear of retribution, leaving Camelot without its Archer or Lancer. Third, Lancer of Red, wielder of the legendary Mac an Luin, was left Masterless and his whereabouts were currently unknown. Fourth, it left Morgan in deep mourning, granting the Blue Faction time to prepare for the next encounter.
      With her free time, rather than relaxing or recovering, Artoria spent the day training with Sirs Bedivere and Gawain. Her muscles ached from both the performing and receiving of fierce sword strikes all day long. She absconded to her private bath to take a nice, long soak in the hot water. A luxurious sigh departed her lips as she settled into the water. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the tub, stretching out her legs and allowing one foot to float up and break the surface. By God, she needed this.
      Her relaxation was interrupted as a quiet knocking on the door filled the chamber. Such an interruption was a rare occurrence, typically only resulting from dire circumstances by either Sir Lancelot or Agravain. "Yes?" she called out.
      "It's Saber," her Servant declared from the other side of the door. She doubted he knew what this room was used for, having rarely set foot in her bedchambers before. It was bold of him to so brazenly enter the king's private chambers like this, but after everything she had learned about his life so far - how she had been his Servant during his Grail War, subservient to his commands, and even how he had fallen in love with her - she supposed this history with her that he had experienced may be leaving him blind to his impropriety. She could forgive him for this mistake, so long as he never did it again once she had heard the full story and could decide where to set their boundaries.
      "Do we have news of Morgan's movements?" she asked, realising she had been quiet for just a little too long.
      "No, its nothing like that. I was just wondering if now was a good time to pick up where we left off our conversation last time."
      Artoria sighed. Her frustration was not with him, but with herself for not being able to make a timeliy decision. She certainly wanted to know more, but she would also rather like to soak for a while yet. She almost found herself telling him to come in and explain now, seeing how he not only knew she was a woman, but had evidently also seen her fully nude in the past/future. But then she reminded herself that it was another her he had seen, not this her. However similar the two may be, they were not the same Artoria. And this was something she would need to impress upon Saber as well.
      This was one of the primary causes for her consternation when it came to Saber. He knew far more about her than she did about him. And not because he was a particularly private individual. She imagined that the time he had spent with the future Artoria had led to his defences being low around her. But the gap in their knowledge about one other left her feeling uncomfortably vulnerable with him. So many years she had spent keeping her true gender and name a secret from even most of those closest to her, and then suddenly appeared a man who knew just about everything there was to know about her, right down to intimate aspects of her personality that she kept from even the likes of Kay and Gawain.
      Again, she realised how slowly she was responding, caught up in her thoughts for the second time. "Just a moment," she sighed, opting to rise from the tub and dry off to get the discussion out of the way sooner.
      It was as she leaned on her left arm on the side of the tub to bring her leg over the edge - at this precise moment - that a fierce strike she had received from Gawain to her left bicep chose to act up. The pain itself was not such a large issue for a warrior like herself. But the surprise it brought with it, combined with the wetness of her hand and how reliant upon these exact muscles her physical stability was in this moment, led to her slipping suddenly.
      She hit her head, her elbow and the side of her knee on the rim or the tub all at once. The pain in her arm had been endurable enough for her to not make a sound. All of this at once, however, was not. Her involuntary cry of agony was followed in short order by the door slamming open and Saber rushing to her side. "Sa- Master!"
      More than the pain, Artoria was overcome with concern over being found in such a compromising position. Despite how much of her true self Saber had evidently come to know in his time with her in his era, Artoria still felt anxious being so exposed; both as a fallible, human individual, and as a woman. She tried to convince herself that, if anyone should see her like this, Saber was the ideal person. He had made sure to help maintain the image his Master had so carefully crafted over the years, going out of his way to help her hide her sex and her insecurities. In theory, she couldn't ask for a better partner.
      But any attempt of hers to set up boundaries, to distinguish between herself and his Artoria, to assert a relationship of king and retainer, would instantly crumble after he saw her in such a vulnerable, compromised position.
      His hands reached for her head, looking her over for any signs of serious injury. He then did the same for her arm and her leg. His expression was focused, determined, even as he looked over and touched her nude form. The only change in his expression came when he made her wince by touching her arm a little too tightly. There was no blush, no awkward eye aversion; far from the nervous, blushing young man that had appeared in her latest vision.
      "It looks like you just strained your arm a little," he concluded. Gently, he lowered her back into the tub, submerging her sore limbs back into the warm water. By the time she was resting in a comfortable position, the throbbing soreness was already dissipating.
      "Is this... healing magic?" she asked, rolling her shoulder slightly.
      Saber smiled reassuringly. "Even I can do this much. Besides, once I got started learning it, I turned out to have an aptitude for it. But then, that's not because of my own talent..." There was a story there, and she suspected it required some building up to.
      "Last time, you said you fell in love with me?" Only now did his cheeks turn red, likely concerned she suspected some ulterior motive here. Artoria pushed onwards to keep their discussion from being derailed again. She held up her uninjured arm, clenching her fist to flex the muscles there. "That girl from your time... Tohsaka, was it? She looked slender and dainty. Is that not how girls are in your time?"
      "G-Generally, yes."
      "Then, even with a body like this...?"
      Saber gently took her hand and ran his tender fingers down the inside of the forearm. "These muscles tell a story. The story of your strength. Not just your physical strength, but your strength of will. Women warriors are even less common in your time than they are in mine. It's almost unheard of here. But, even as a young woman, you had the courage to try to pull the sword from the stone; the determination to dedicate yourself, body and soul, to leading and protecting your nation." His fingers ran along the upper arm now. "Every swing of your sword, in training or in battle, has played a part in building these muscles. Each one is a part of your story, each building into... all of this.
      "It's a tragedy that you need to keep your gender a secret - that no one else gets to see this record of your dedication to your cause. But I did. I was given the privilege of seeing the full extent of your strength of will." He looked her deep in the eyes and smiled. "How could I not fall in love with someone so incredible?"
      Artoria blushed deeply, lowering her head to avoid his earnest gaze. Once again, the way this man understood her on such a deep, intimate level... She understood how, but it still felt strange for a man who was practically a stranger to know her so well. It also felt strange that this no longer bothered her. Until now, few had been in a position to know the truth beneath the mask of King Arthur. But none had been allowed to view quite so deep beneath. Not her brother, nor her wife, nor her closest companions and most trusted advisors. She felt... relieved; as if the weight of the nation she had been bearing alone for so many years was now being shared by this man who had only entered her life a few weeks ago.
      She splashed some water on her face so that he wouldn't see her tears. But he raised her chin with a finger and wiped her eyes with the other. He knew. Of course, he knew. How could one who understood her so deeply not be able to instantly tell the difference? She laid back, letting him see her face as she smiled gratefully at her Servant.
      "I can tell you more about my War, if you'd like," Saber offered after a few moments of silence.
      Artoria nodded her ascent.
      "Alright." Despite his smile, there was a clear reluctance there. But he pressed on. "Well, working together with you, training with you, and seeing your story in my dreams, I fell in love with you. You, uh... You felt the same way."
      He averted his eyes for a moment, blushing deeply, as if expecting her to reject this notion. But Artoria felt only pure honesty radiating off of him. And knowing what she did of him now, she could imagine that being the case. She nodded for him to continue.
      "Well... things went pretty well for a while. We managed to beat some of the other Servants. That was when we learned that Archer, the guy you saw me fighting in that other vision, was actually me from the future. ...But you don't seem surprised to hear that."
      Artoria nodded. "I imagine my other self was. But, I already know that this version of Shirou Emiya has been summoned from a future time, and that you can qualify for the Archer class. I simply now have the final pieces to understand how you are aware of the latter fact, and how you came to know that time travel via the Grail Wars was possible."
      Shirou chuckled. "Yeah. Even back then, you- uh, now, you've got that same analytical mind that helped me survive the other War."
      "The Saber class is not meant for one simply skilled with a sword, after all," she boasted mildly. "Without other skills to offer, the class would not have its reputation as the strongest."
      "That's true. I bet you could've beaten Archer no problem, even before the Magic Circuit transfer."
      "I appreciate the confidence, Saber," Artoria smiled. This was one of the rare instances where she could be confident that such a positive appraisal of her abilities came from a place of personal experience, rather than a respectful platitude. That it came from one qualified for the Saber class also inflated her ego some. "Please, continue."
      "Continue the story, or continue praising you?"
      Artoria laughed out loud. Rarely could she do so - or be inspired to. She had almost forgotten that she could. It was nice to enjoy the simpler things for once.
      "Well, Archer was me from a timeline where... well, he had a lot of regrets by the end of his life. He wanted to fix them by making me change my ideals before I could become him."
      "But you didn't? That fight, it was a battle for your ideals and you emerged the victor with your copied Caliburn, correct?"
      "Yes. You were there as well. You agreed to let me fight my own battle, and served as a witness to it. I wouldn't be the man I am today if you hadn't allowed that. So, thank you."
      "I suppose, then, I have my other self to thank for me being able to summon you as my Servant?" she asked jokingly.
      Saber chuckled. "I suppose so." The smile faded as he followed up with, "More than you could know."
      "I beg your pardon?"
      "Well... those dreams you've had of my life were backwards. First, we fell in love. Then, I fought Archer. And last..." This part, of the entire tale thus far, was clearly the most difficult for Saber to discuss. More so than even the discussion of their... relationship; physical aspects and all.
      "Saber... I can tell this part is difficult for you to discuss. If you would like to skip past it, I will not mind. I take it, this is the part where I was killed, and we lost the Grail War?"
      To her surprise, he shook his head. "Well, yes, but... I always wondered if Archer went through something similar in his timeline as well..." He took a deep breath, stared firmly into her eyes and pressed on. "There was this girl. A friend of mine, named Sakura. She was an underclassman in the Archery Club and we started spending time together as well. She was one of my closest friends at the time."
      An unusual iciness gripped Artoria's heart as Saber began discussing another woman. She could tell it was not simple jealousy, but the wording combined with the close proximity to the discussion of Artoria's own fate. A quiet dread began to build, and she had the strange sense that it was not her own assumptions or fears driving this, but Saber's experiences bleeding over through their bond.
      "She'd had feelings for me for a long time, but I didn't realise it until... until it was too late. Her grandfather was one of the most powerful magi in Japan, maybe the world. His family, the Matous, had been injecting themselves into Grail Wars for centuries. And he had big plans for Sakura. He even made her the Master of Avenger."
      "Avenger?"
      "It's one of the rarer classes. It was supposed to be a Rider, but the Servant they received was another version of the Rider Servant they were aiming for, I think. I don't know all the details. But, the point is, she was part of the War as well. You couldn't enter spirit form, so we made a cover story that you were an old friend of my father's, staying at my home for a while to check up on me."
      "That seems an intelligent strategy to ward off suspicion during a time of heightened danger."
      Some of that earlier smile returned to Saber's lips. "That's exactly what you said back then as well."
      Artoria blushed slightly.
      "Sakura could tell we were close, even before she found out we were... you know. She really took it hard. And Zouken, the bastard, knew exactly how to take advantage of that. And how to take advantage of the Grail."
      Artoria's stomach sank. "Take advantage? Of the Grail? But... the Grail is a holy artefact dating back centuries, is it not? How...?"
      "He had a millennium-and-a-half of further research to understand the Grail and how the Wars had affected it."
      "How can the Wars affect the Grail? Is the Grail not actually a tool of God?"
      "That... even in my time, we're still not sure what the Grail actually is. But we know how it changed. I think I should go back and explain the previous War. It's actually very important. Apparently, the Twentieth Grail War began in response to the large-scale suffering brought about by World War II."
      "World War?" Artoria uttered before she could stop herself. Or realise the broader implication: "Two?"
      Saber nodded solemnly. "By the Twentieth Century, the world was a lot less isolated. Open communication and worldwide trade made it easy for alliances to snowball from a few nations to most of the world being drawn into a war that resulted in millions of deaths. Both occurred before the century was even half over. And with the second resulting from the circumstances that followed the first, it can really be considered one massive conflict that cost a hundred million lives."
      "One Hundred Million..." The number seemed... impossible to conceive of. That there could even be that many humans alive at one time was difficult enough to imagine, but for that many to perish and still have enough left for humanity to survive a further century before Saber perished in his time... it was unfathomable.
      "The Grail started a Grail War to try and control the devastation, it's assumed. Each nation involved was given a team of the seven cardinal classes to fight on their behalf. Not that that stopped the fighting with regular people. Actually, it only made things worse."
      "How can one hundred million deaths not be as bad as the situation could become?"
      "Magi."
      "Oh..."
      "The Grail World War exposed magecraft to the world after centuries of being hidden. Now that the cat was out of the bag again, magecraft became a tool of war, alongside the Servants. I don't know much about the specifics, but I had a dream about the War from you."
      "From me? I was summoned into this 'World War' as well?"
      "Well, as Britain's most famous king, it's only natural you'd be summoned to fight alongside your peers. That's actually how I learned you were British. I honestly assumed you were French for a while."
      "French? What an odd conclusion to come to."
      "In fairness, there's going to be a pretty famous lady warrior from there in about five hundred years, and nobody in my time knows you're a woman."
      "Those are valid reasons, then."
      "Anyway, the Ruler in that War was an Avenger named Angra Mainyu. That specific Servant being active amidst such unfathomable loss of life made the entire Grail War system become corrupted. In his legend, he was essentially a man who was made to represent all the world's evils through horrific, lifelong torture. His sacrifice eased the minds of his people, though, which qualified him as a Heroic Spirit.
      "But with legends influencing the forms of Heroic Spirits, Angra Mainyu became a true representation of mankind's evils. And being summoned during the Grail World War, a time of unprecedented bloodshed... those sins were too much for the Grail to handle, thanks to its connection to the Servants summoned. The Grail's corruption produced this... mud that corrupted whatever it touched.
      "Zouken had already used a twisted procedure to turn Sakura into a vessel for him to merge with the Grail. Once he knew Sakura was heartbroken over the two of us, he exacerbated the issue; he emphasised her unrequited love to turn her into some sort of shadow creature that could control the mud. She... She used the mud, consumed you with it."
      "...And this mud... That is what killed the other me?"
      Saber shook his head. Tears were welling up in his eyes now, unable to maintain his composure in the face of the revelation he was about to unleash. "It corrupted you. It turned you into an 'Alter Servant'."
      Artoria vaguely recalled Merlin discussing a concept by that name in the past. He had explained that it was a state of inversion into which a Heroic Spirit could transform or be summoned, wherein their personality and desires became warped and distorted. Of course, he had suggested that this was not a recorded phenomenon in the Grail Wars, and so would likely not be a concept she needed concern herself with.
      But once the Grail became corrupted by this World War, it would become a very real threat to Artoria upon her summoning as a Servant. The thought of her will and desires being twisted to the whims of another made her entire body shudder horribly.
      "Once it became clear that the Grail was corrupt, we decided to put an end to the Grail Wars," Saber continued, seemingly too caught up in his own emotional turmoil over the events he was recalling to notice the effect it was having on his Master. "We tried to destroy the Grail - Tohsaka and me - but you were there, standing in its defence. Even powered up by Archer's arm, I just barely managed to... to... kill you."
      With these words, that very first dream came rushing back to Artoria in vivid detail, sucking her into a trance in which she relived the entire thing, now with full understanding of the context that led up to her fighting her former Master - with her standing on the wrong side of the conflict. Had she the ability to choose, knowing of the Grail's corruption, she would, of course, stand by Shirou's side and dispatch the Grail herself. But instead, it was she who was dispatched; by her Master, her lover.
      As Shirou Emiya plunged one of his daggers into her chest, piercing her blackened armour and penetrating her flesh, she felt the skin and muscle tear away, the bones break, her heart rupture - broken by both his blade and her circumstance- their circumstance. For now, as she once again saw Shirou wail in anguish as the life drained from her form, she could at last feel her own turmoil - her regrets and fears.
      She had failed her kingdom and her people in life. All those who had looked up to her, believed in her, and relied upon her. She had failed them all. The specifics eluded her, but the shame of that failure was as palpable in Artoria's heart as it was for her other self. She knew instinctively that this was what would one day drive her to become a Servant, to strive for that coveted wish on the Holy Grail.
      She had been given this incredible opportunity to achieve a better outcome for her kingdom, and she had entirely bungled it. Not only had she lost the Grail War, she had allowed herself to be used as a tool against the man she had fallen in love with. Her first genuine love - true love, she knew - had likewise been reliant upon her. And she had failed him too.
      The tears welled up in both Artorias' eyes, as they did in both Shirous', the four weeping in tandem, unified across time in their heartache. The Alter Servant begged her love to forgive her as he cried her name to the heavens she would soon ascent to. Or, perhaps, it was to the depths of Hell with her for her constant failure to fulfil her duty - to save anyone.
      Artoria snapped back to reality, her nude body aching from her uncomfortably stiff poise in the small tub she had been stuck in long enough for the water to grow cold. Saber was sat beside the tub, facing away from her in shame. She sensed that he knew how much of their future encounter she was now aware of. She leaned over the side of the tub and wrapped her soaked arms around her Servant's shoulders from behind.
      "Thank you, Shirou," she felt compelled to say, feeling the ramrod tenseness overtake his refined muscles. "What I became.... it was a grave disgrace to my name and rank. Thank you for putting a stop to my dishonour. And for allowing me to know love before the end."
      She meant every word. The strength of these feelings paled in comparison to the turmoil of knowing her own failures, of course, but Saber needed her acknowledgement. He needed to know that he had done the right thing. That his love could rest easy knowing that he would stop this wicked version of herself when her time came. These thoughts did not require words, however. He knew how she felt. She somehow knew he did. Instead, she pushed him onwards, urging him to complete his story so that his own emotional turmoil could finally be put to rest.
      "What happened next? After you... absolved me?"
      It took a moment, but Saber eventually found the strength to continue. "We-We tried to destroy the Grail. But we just weren't powerful enough. Even with all of Tohsaka's magecraft and my Unlimited Blade Works, we could only send the Grail out of this world until the next War. And being teenagers in 2004, neither of us lived to see the next one. And no one believed that the Grail was corrupted. Especially after the World War, everyone thought, like you did, that it was still some omnipotent holy artefact.
      "Tohsaka was from a renowned magus family, so she wasn't branded a heretic like I was. I went underground and tried to be the hero I'd always dreamed of being. But even with a new name on the other side of the world, it wasn't an ideal that was easy to live up to. At a certain point, my killing to save others just felt like... killing. And eventually, it all caught up with me, and I was mortally wounded.
      "I'd done enough good in the world to qualify to become a Heroic Spirit, but it wasn't enough. I was filled with so many regrets for my failure to save everyone. And that's when I saw your face in my mind. The you that was corrupted and died in front of me, begging to be forgiven for the same regrets. It was all I could think of - how you had gone through the same, both in life and as a Servant.
      "So, I made my decision. I agreed to become a servant of the Counter Force. I did whatever task I was assigned for it in return for my chance to go back. I was determined to be summoned as a Servant in your War, just like the other me was summoned back into mine. Archer was summoned because he had a pendant Tohsaka used to save my life when Lancer attacked me, right up to his dying day. She had it on her when she performed the ritual, unwittingly having a catalyst to summon a special kind of Servant. Likewise, you already had the catalyst needed to summon me, so I knew it could work."
      "Catalyst? We used Avalon for its potent healing abilities, but... you still had Avalon with you?"
      "I was an idiot during the War. I was always leaping into the fray to keep you safe. At first, because I didn't like the idea of girls fighting. Then, because I cared about you, and I wanted you to still have a chance at having your wish fulfilled, even if you needed to contract with another Master to do it. I guess I thought that giving my life to help you save your kingdom would be enough."
      "But why? Why would you value my dream over your life? Surely, it cannot simply be because you loved me."
      "That was part of it. But I held little regard for my own life, in general, back then. I was the only survivor of that fire, and it was thanks to Avalon being implanted into my body. I thought, maybe it was destiny. Maybe the reason I survived - the reason I was given Avalon so I could live when everyone else died - was so I could help Avalon's owner to have her wish granted."
      "Oh, Shirou..." Artoria squeezed her Servant tighter. She could feel his racing heartbeat as she pressed her cheek against the back of his head. "I wish you would hold yourself in higher regard than that. No one needs a reason to survive. A sole survivor needs no reason to be the only one fortunate enough to live. It is, perhaps, too late to say this now, but you should live your life to the fullest, embrace your opportunity the way those less fortunate were never able to."
      Saber held onto Artoria's arms tightly. "The other you felt the same way. That's why she never took Avalon back. She knew I was so bullheaded that there was no way she could keep me out of the fight. That's why she trained me with a sword and had me keep the scabbard, even though she was weaker without it. I guess, that's the only reason I was able to beat her in the end. If she'd had Avalon, I'd never have won. But, maybe if she'd killed me, she might've-"
      Artoria grabbed Saber by the hand and swiftly turned him to face her, with no regard for her exposed body. "You listen to me, Shirou Emiya. I cannot speak for how her experience may have changed her from the me I am now, bit I assure you that this Artoria Pendragon would be devastated to be made to end your life. The emotional shock may have been enough to break her free of the corruption, but perhaps not. And I, in her position, would not have found the strength to push onward as you did. Your life is worth so much more than you allow yourself to believe. I had hoped that your experiences in later life might have snapped you out of your deluded viewpoint, but it seems that you are as stubborn as you claim..."
      Saber averted his eyes in shame. "I'm sorry."
      Artoria softened her expression and pulled his chin up to look her in the eyes. "Please, promise me that you will place greater value on your life, in this War or any other. I am not commanding this of you as your Master. I am asking this of you as your friend, Shirou."
      Saber nodded slowly, his expression displaying his surprise at her words. "O-Okay. I will. For you."
      Artoria shook her head. "No. For you."
      He smiled again, and Artoria got the sense that his many years of self-loathing were finally coming to an end. His smile radiated a certain... something that Artoria could not identify. But she could feel the respect, the love, the awe he felt as he stared into her eyes. And she felt the same way about him. For all his faults, he was worthy of the title of 'hero'. In a sense, he was the very heroic ideal that she had aspired to. And now, she knew the flaws in that ideal. Thanks to Shirou Emiya, Artoria Pendragon could change her ways. She could learn from his example and fulfil his wish to see her own wish fulfilled. Thanks to him, her kingdom was no longer destined to fall.
      And that was why she kissed him.
      Both Master and Servant, Servant and Master, Artoria and Shirou, reunited across time, submitted themselves fully to their passions. Her slippery arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer, pressing their lips more and more firmly against one another. He embraced her too, wrapping his warm arms tightly around her cold body. She pulled him into the bath, her legs wrapping around his waist as the water began to overflow and pour over the sides.
      In some ways, this was wrong. In many ways, in fact, it made no sense. But what was perfectly clear to the two was that she wanted him and he wanted her. And to them, that was all that mattered.
      But not everyone would see it that way. And unbeknownst to the two lovers, their secret rendezvous had not gone unobserved...

Chapter Text

      Sir Lancelot marched through the halls of the castle, his destination clear in his mind. It was to meet with Queen Guinevere. She must know of her husband's true nature - if, indeed, Arthur could even be considered a 'husband' anymore.
      Lancelot had not seen much of the inside of Arthur's private bathroom, but he saw enough and knew the sounds coming from within to be those of passionate lovemaking. This was not the sort of affair that would occur only one time. Perhaps the chivalric thing to do would have been to barge into the room and confront the king and his Servant. But Lancelot's first thought upon realising what was happening was not of the king, but the queen. Guinevere had given herself wholly to this man, who now desecrated the sanctity of holy matrimony. Lancelot felt honour-bound to, above all else, inform the queen of this treachery.
      Guinevere was a good woman. She and Lancelot had spent many long hours in each other's company, privately discussing matters both political and personal; from the state of the War to the state of her royal marriage. In a sense, he was her closest confidant when her husband was physically or emotionally incapable of supporting her. She held naught but love for her kingdom in her heart. She did not deserve to be betrayed in this manner.
      As luck would have it, the two had already arranged to meet in private around this time. As per usual, they would be meeting far from her and the king's private quarters, in a part of the castle in which none would expect to find the queen. This allowed them their privacy in discussing whatever affair was plaguing Guinevere's heart. And tonight, it would be a very specific type of affair that they would discuss.
      After making sure he was not followed, Lancelot knocked on the door to their secret chamber. Such an out-of-the-way location was unlikely to be compromised, but it never hurt to be cautious. They had begun meeting here to discuss matters Guinevere was hesitant to discuss with Arthur; specifically, the recent revelation of the parentage of no less than five of the Knights of the Round. Arthur trusted them regardless, especially once the revelation of the enchantment placed upon Sirs Gareth and Gaheris was made. Guinevere was hesitant to hold such faith in them, but was unable to discuss the matter with Arthur for fear of upsetting him. Or worse, putting doubt in his mind that might spiral into ruin.
      For many hours had they discussed such matters, after Lancelot had intuited the queen's numerous unaddressed concerns. And she, in turn, did the same for him. He understood her inability to be fully open with Arthur, as both saw him as some unattainable, superhuman figure. But that was about to change.
      Guinevere called him into the room and he closed the door behind him. The woman was sat on a comfortable seat by the window in the small room. His own seat rested beside hers, allowing the two to look out over the grounds as they spoke. It was on rainy nights like this one that Guinevere was the most open. Something about sitting inside while rain poured down outside calmed her, she had once explained. For some reason, that had always stuck with Lancelot.
      Guinevere smiled as Lancelot entered. It was a genuine smile that she flashed whenever the two were together. It differed from her 'official' smile - that which she wore before her subjects. She was not unhappy with Arthur or her role within the kingdom, she had claimed, and he believed her. But she was not so happy that she needn't force it at least a little. Lancelot had come to recognise the difference quite some time ago. He doubted Arthur was capable of such. Sir Tristan's recent words echoed in his mind at the thought.
      Taking his seat and kissing the queen's hand, as he usually did, Lancelot noticed the slight uptick in her smile. She was so happy to see him right now. And yet, he had come here to tell her that her husband was engaging in an extramarital affair as they spoke. It would break her heart. He could already picture her tear-stricken face clearly in his mind, having seen it many times as she confessed many views and feelings that she believed made her a poor fit for a queen. He had always managed to bring back that glorious smile, but he was doubtful he would be able to do the same now.
      Despite knowing the truth would crush her, she deserved to know. And yet, as he opened his mouth to speak this shocking truth... words escaped him. Or, rather, the strength to release them did. He found that, for reasons that eluded him, he simply did could not will himself to speak the words. It would feel like a betrayal of his king to do so.
      All he could do was hold her hand long enough for her smile to fade, asking what ailed his soul this night. Even as he tried to protect her smile, a part of him willing him not to speak the horrid truth, he still managed to find a way to steal her happiness from her. He kissed her hand again, trying to reassure her. She showed him a smile, but not her true smile. It was the manufactured one - one used to reassure him and put his mind at ease. That wasn't the smile he wanted to see. The one he had stolen from her...
      He would give it back.
      That was how he rationalised his body moving on its own, leaning forward and kissing her on the lips. He had denied it for so long, insisting to himself that he merely respected her caring nature and strong will, appreciated her trust in him, and yes, admired her beauty. He told himself that he simply valued her for the incredible woman she was and took pride in the opportunity to serve her. But the sheer strength of his feelings of revulsion on her behalf, his overpowering desire to protect her smile, the utter elation that washed over him when, rather than pulling back, Guinevere leaned into his kiss and returned it in equal measure...
      He told her that he loved her. And he meant every word. She kissed him this time, just as overcome by emotion as he. Years of pent-up frustrations of various kinds all being let loose in a single moment, driving the two to commit an act of betrayal that neither much cared to contemplate in the moment. His armour clattered to the floor, not a care given for who might hear the commotion. Her clothes joined his, less noisy but no less deafening to his ears.
      The afterglow would hit them with the force of Rider of Red's centaur kicks.
      "What have we done?" Lancelot questioned as the two lay side-by-side on the floor of the small room.
      "We... We let our lust overcome us," Guinevere responded breathlessly.
      'Lust'. The word she used to describe their affair was one of detachment - mere physical need. He loved her, from the heart. But to her, this was no more than a way of relieving some pressure. Of course, he should have expected no more than that, seeing as she was a married woman. Despite the man's inattentiveness, Lancelot knew Guinevere held immense respect and admiration in her bosom for her husband. She could not be swayed by love so easily.
      "We have betrayed the king," Lancelot wept. It was strange to find himself feeling so heartbroken over this betrayal, despite having come here himself to report the king's own infidelity. Such was the depth of his loyalty to Arthur. It was borderline sycophantic.
      "We have." While evidently not to the extent Lancelot was, Guinevere was clearly also disgusted by their actions. It was now, seeing the tears cascade down Guinevere's cheeks, that desire to protect her from such sorrow welling up in his chest and pushing aside his own heartbreak, that Lancelot found the strength to say what needed to be said.
      "Dear lady. You are guilty of no crime. In truth, I came here tonight intent on reporting an alarming truth I uncovered earlier this evening. You are not the first of your union to engage in such a tryst. Earlier today, I discovered that Arthur has engaged in his own extramarital affair with his Saber."
      It was difficult to read Guinevere's thoughts as she processed what she was just told. Surprised, for sure. But there also seemed to be a sense of acceptance there. Or perhaps, understanding?
      "You do no seem particularly perturbed," he noted aloud.
      "I..." He recognised the hesitance there. It was the same kind he himself had felt upon his arrival - a sense of loyalty to Arthur that bound them from divulging his secrets.
      "He ill deserves such devotion, my lady. Not that we deserve much better... But his betrayal-"
      "I cannot." She shut him down instantly. "Arthur is a good... a good man. He-" she interrupted before Lancelot could make his next argument. "He deserves a chance to explain himself later. For now, we must have faith-"
      "Faith? How can you say that in the face of such infidelity?"
      "There is... a good reason - one that I cannot divulge - for his and my... lack of intimacy."
      "'Lack of intimacy'? Then, the reason you were so overcome with lust is because he has denied you an outlet?" Lancelot was on his feet in an instant.
      "Lancelot, wait!" Guinevere scrambled to hers and gripped his arm to stop him, but he shook off her hold and already had his trousers pulled up before she could try again to stop him from being rash. He was ready to leave and confront his king right this-
      "Arthur is a woman!"
      Lancelot froze. He understood each word individually, but together, they made not an ounce of sense. He rounded on Guinevere, nude save for the blanket he had draped over them towards the end of their tryst. "What nonsense is this?"
      Again, that expression of guilt, of hesitance. Guinevere took a deep breath to calm her nerves before she exposed Arthur's deepest, darkest secret. "Arthur is a woman. It is not readily apparent due to her body ceasing to age before her feminine features fully developed. But knowing her subjects would not follow a woman, she took on a masculine identity. Ours was never a union born of love. I did love Arthur, long before I ever met her. But we wed purely for political reasons - to unify the nation under a King and Queen.
      "Publicly, our union is unbreakable. But in private, there is... a lack of intimacy. Such is to be expected when we are both women, both drawn only to men. We never discussed any outside means of finding release, lest it expose our ruse and weaken the kingdom. She, especially, could not indulge in such needs, lest her true nature be exposed. I vowed to live the same way, in solidarity. I vowed to support her however my meagre abilities allowed. But...
      "It was difficult, to live that way. I would surely have crumbled without your support, Sir Lancelot. Your presence. Your willingness to lend an ear whenever I needed it. Your immense kindness. Eventually, I could no longer hold back my feelings. I love Arthur as my king, my idol. But it is not the same as the way I love you."
      Her hand reached out, seemingly unconsciously, freezing as it neared his cheek. The knight leaned into her palm and allowed her caress. He placed his hand over hers and held it tight.
      "I had no idea you carried such a burden," he lamented, kissing her palm. "Rest assured, I will not speak a word of what you have told me here tonight. Nor will I discuss our affair with Arthur. I will continue to serve my queen in any way she requires, or desires. Arthur has his outlet, and you, should you have need of one, will have yours as well."
      Overcome, Guinevere's other hand came up to his face, releasing her grip on the blanket and exposing herself in all her radiant glory. Lancelot barely had time to drink in her beauty as she pressed her lips against his, and they lay down to begin anew.
      Whatever occurred between the two, emotionally or physically, it was no betrayal of the king. Arthur had Saber, and Guinevere had Lancelot. There was no guilt either party needed to dwell on, for both monarchs had found one who understood them and could share in their burden. If anything, Lancelot and Saber had been given a sacred duty to ease their respective lady's mind and soothe her soul.
      Feeling guilty for fulfilling said duty would be truly foolish.
      This was a guiltless affair.
      Guiltless.

Chapter Text

      Artoria could not sleep.
      She had retired for the night some hours ago, alongside Guinevere, but Artoria's mind was so full of wild ideas stemming from her discussion with Saber that sleep kept itself far from her grasp.
      She rolled over and found herself facing the sleeping Guinevere. Her wife's face was illuminated by the moonlight shining in from behind Artoria. A slight crease appeared in the other woman's expression. Artoria reached out and gently stroked Guinevere's cheek. When that proved ineffectual, she leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. This seemed to relax her spouse back into a calm slumber.
      It was a simple symbol of love, but not necessarily the kind one would expect a husband to show his wife. After all, Artoria was not attracted to other women, nor was her spouse. But they still loved one another in a platonic manner. They could trust each other, rely upon one another, as any married couple should. Guinevere had kept Artoria's secrets for many years now, and Artoria would always be grateful beyond words for this.
      That was why the heartache Artoria felt was so immense for what she had done with Saber. What she had expected would be a simple, brief kissing session to alleviate their respective frustrations - both were only human after all, even if he was a spirit - had become a full-on sexual encounter. In the moment, she had briefly told herself it was only a mana transfer, meaning nothing more than their future circuit transfer.
      But when she saw the lust in her Servant's brown eyes, she succumbed to her own and thought of little besides the pleasure she had long denied herself since becoming the king. The lucidity that came after they finished had been like awaking from a long, wonderful dream - the kind one might turn over and attempt in vain to resume in another rest period.
      Of course, she told herself she had gotten it all out of her system, that going forward, any further such relations would be purely pragmatic in nature: mana transfers, Magic Circuit transfers and the like. Saber was certainly special to her, and she to him, if not necessarily in the same way. But the guilt she felt as she lay beside the woman she was bound to...
      In truth, she was not entirely sure if such relations ultimately were a betrayal. After all, again, it was not love that bound them, but duty. Technically speaking, so long as the matter never went public, relations outside of their marriage were not a problem, so long as they were not a threat to their public unity. But thinking like that made Artoria feel inhuman. She had not consulted with Guinevere on the matter; only contemplated her own viewpoint and that of the nation. But not Guinevere's.
      The moral thing to do would be to speak with Guinevere first thing in the morning. Tell her everything she and Saber had done and ask her forgiveness. But then, could she risk destroying their marriage, which was vital not only for Artoria's image, but for her psyche as well. Losing Guinevere as a confidant, even if she chose not to betray Artoria's secrets, would surely be quite a blow to her rule.
      But, perhaps Saber could fill her role. He would not be here forever - likely only until the War ended - but perhaps there was a way of keeping him in this world for good. She could consult Merlin and...
      Artoria shook her head and rose from her prone position. She looked out at the full moon beyond her window. For some reason, it reminded her of Saber. Many things did now, but this one at least made sense. It had been with a sliver of moonlight that she had first laid eyes upon him. She felt that was the exact moment, as their eyes met and they exchanged names, that she had fallen in love with him and not realised it. That likely wasn't the truth, but she now felt as if it were the case - as if her feelings for him had always been there, waiting to only see his face to awaken.
      She wondered if this was all just a part of their bond as Master and Servant, or sympathy for Saber after learning how he had loved and lost her in his time. Or, perhaps it was his strong feelings bleeding into her heart through their shared dreams. She had absolutely zero doubt that he truly did love her. That was irrefutable to her. She could feel it whenever they were in proximity.
      But did that mean she loved him in return? Had it been a mix of sympathy for his past and respect for his skills that had filled her with such uncontrollable lust? Or had she genuinely fallen for him as she was alleged to have in his time?
      The words of Sir Tristan echoed in her mind: "The king does not understand the hearts of men."
      He had spoken those words soon after Assassin was killed, and he departed Camelot soon after. Sir Gawain had assured her that Tristan had simply been overcome with emotion over the passing of his Servant, as he too had grown rather attached to his Caster. And love or not, Artoria was certainly attached to her Saber. But, she knew there was truth to her now former knight's words.
      Truly Artoria did not understand the hearts of men. She knew not what she felt in her own heart, after all. And convoluted timeline confusion aside, she should have at least been able to determine whether or not she loved Shirou. Her use of his name just now made her lean towards yes, but she could not say for sure.
      She was pulled from her thoughts as Guinevere murmured in her sleep, that crease in her features returned in full force. Artoria leaned over and kissed Guinevere's forehead again, having much the same effect as it had earlier. There was little Artoria could do for her friend in this moment, but if she was going to lie awake for the rest of the night, she could at least try to clear Guinevere's mind of worries until sleep finally relented and agreed to take her.
      And by the time it did, Artoria still could not decide when, or even if, she should tell Guinevere of her affair, never realising that this very same conflict was the cause of her wife's restless dreams.

Chapter Text

      Several days had passed since the battle that took the lives of Assassin and King Lot, and much had occurred since. While Morgan and her children had mourned the loss of their husband/father, other members of the alliance were not so inactive. Lucius Tiberius had made a move to leave Britain and return to Rome to amass an army, using the power of his Archer to convince his homeland to join his fight for the Grail.
      It had been Sirs Percival and Galahad, along with non-Master Sir Bors, that had met him in battle, seeing as it was through King Pellinore's territory that Tiberius had made for Rome. Alongside Lancer and Archer, the three had engaged the Roman and his own Archer to keep the War's influence contained to the island nation.
      From the reports that reached Artoria, it seemed that Longinus and Arash were simply no match for the unidentified Archer in golden armour. His Noble Phantasm had decimated Camelot's warriors, killing both Servants and Sir Percival. It was only through the shielding of Sir Galahad that Sir Bors was only grievously wounded and not outright killed. Sir Galahad himself had gone missing during the battle. Although the specific circumstances surrounding his disappearance remained a mystery, he was currently considered to have been killed in combat.
      Regardless, the Blue Faction was now down to its last four duos: Artoria and Saber, Sir Gawain and Caster, Sir Bedivere and Rider, and Sir Lancelot and Berserker. Meanwhile, the Red Faction retained five: Morgan and Berserker, Sir Mordred and Saber, Sir Gareth and Rider, Sir Gaheris and Assassin, and Tiberius and Archer. The one spot of good luck in all of this came in Tiberius' departure from the British Isles. With him now out of the country, taking his nigh-unbeatable Servant with him, Artoria and her faction had been granted time. Time with which to rid Britain of Morgan and seize the Grail before Tiberius returned to find a united front waiting for him.
      Artoria lead the funeral procession for the fallen defenders of the nation, realising that she herself may well join them before she could hold a memorial at the end of the War. She prepared and delivered long speeches about the years of service from Sirs Percival and Galahad, and also eulogised the three fallen Servants: Semiramis, Arash and Lucius Longinus. They had fallen in the service of Britain, after all, and even the Roman Servant had earned the respect of the British knights through his service, in spite of his place of origin.
      She then dispatched Sirs Kay and Palamedes to observe the situation in Rome, whilst she made preparations for the conclusion to Morgan's part in the conflict. With this, the only Round Table knights remaining in Britain were those actively fighting in the War, Sir Agravain, and potentially Sir Tristan, whose further involvement Artoria doubted she had cause to rely upon.
      Even Merlin was no longer a factor in this conflict. He had departed this world to Avalon to evade the scorned Vivian, the Lady of the Lake. Artoria wondered if this was a cover for some secret true motive for his departure, but it did her little good to dwell upon it. Either way, his part in this conflict - explaining the nature of the Grail War and magecraft, preparing the ritual and the prospective Masters thereof, advising on the countering and utilisation of Servant abilities, and of course, detecting the dark hold Morgan held over Gareth and Gawain and thereby maintaining morale among the betrayed knights - had passed.
      She sent her friend off with a smile and resumed planning for the War without him. She now planned solely around the active competitors, hoping for a surprise return of her absent knights, but not once planning for it. She spent several late nights plotting with Agravain, following long days of training with Gawain, Bedivere, Lancelot, and of course Shirou.
      Besides being a fantastic sparring partner, serving as both a representation of the power of enemy Servants and a mirror highlighting the flaws in her own stance, Artoria also found herself able to be very open with him afterwards, voicing concerns and flaws she knew of in her strategy, which he never failed to ease her mind over. He even managed to suggest a few rather clever solutions to some of those issues.
      "I learned that from watching you," he had claimed upon receiving a compliment on his keen eye from her. Even Sir Agravain had been impressed by the solution when she'd brought it to him.
      The plans were finally starting to come together now. Agravain's intelligence network was keeping an eye on the movements of Morgan's faction. She was amassing a large army of homunculi and demonic beasts, and was expected to lead that army into battle any day now. Artoria felt a sense of pending finality that was echoed by each of her comrades.
      For now, Artoria was soaking in her private bathtub, the hot water and Shirou's firm massaging of her stiff shoulders easing the tension in her body, while his words eased her mind. She almost worried she might lose her edge if Shirou continued to pamper her so. For now, though, she allowed him to continue. He had already made her legs and feet feel lighter than air, so she could hardly ignore the protests of the rest of her body.
      "Do we know where the best place to confront her army would be?" Shirou asked after Artoria laid out the latest news from Agravain.
      "There are a few," she sighed, feeling yet more tension leave her body. "Based on the locations where her faction is currently operating, Sir Agravain believes a battle at Camlann may be the best course. But other options are still being considered.
      "Camlann, huh?" Shirou uttered idly.
      "Yes, Camlann. Are you familiar with it?"
      "N-Not especially." The hurried nervousness with which Shirou delivered this response made Artoria eye her Servant with suspicion.
      She nodded her acceptance of his response, but privately wondered if it was the twenty-first century boy's own knowledge of history leading him to his unconscious parroting of Camlann's name. Was this a significant location in her future, then?
      Artoria opted to keep these ponderings to herself for now. She could contemplate all of that later. Right now, she needed to focus on healing from today's training and strategising. It would not do for the king to be unable to reach the final battle due to strain, after all. Especially with the growing discontent within the populace surrounding the War. That was yet another issue she would need to deal with once the next battle concluded. Assuming she survived, of course.
      Artoria was pulled from her thoughts as she noticed that Shirou had been massaging the same spot for a few minutes now. It seemed he was also lost in thought.
      "Is something on your mind, Shirou?" she asked, grabbing his attention.
      "Hm? O-Oh, no. Nothing, really. Nothing important."
      "'Nothing important', is it? I would like to hear it, regardless."
      "W-Well, it's just... I was thinking about the fact that, in my War, you and I spoke a lot. About the War, my life, your life, what we were having for dinner. Stuff like that."
      Artoria smiled. "That sounds nice."
      "It was. But we always spoke in Japanese. But here, now, we speak English. And either way, it's totally natural for both of us - like we've both grown up speaking both languages."
      "That is mildly amusing."
      "Yeah. Even as different as things are between our respective eras, a lot is still the same. Small things like that. Or how you conduct yourself."
      "How I conduct myself?"
      "Yeah. I'm sure you've realised that I'm nothing like the person I was back then. I was just a kid trying not to get killed; all the while, constantly putting myself in danger. I wasn't much of a fighter. It was something I had to work at during the War. But here, I can go toe-to-toe with lifelong warriors and not have to rely on luck or other people to get me through it.
      "With you, though, it's different. You've always been more than capable. You're a lot more powerful as a Servant, of course, but that doesn't make you any less amazing here, as a human. The only thing that's really changed - or, I guess, will change - is that in my War, you were a lone knight. You didn't have any of your comrades from this era to fight by your side.
      "You always cast this... gallant silhouette, standing so nobly in your silver armour, your spectacular sword in hand. It was so beautiful; overwhelming at times. But I always found comfort in having you by my side. I suppose that's part of the reason I fell in love with you.
      "But in this era, the idea of you being this legendary king is a lot less abstract. I only had brief glimpses in my dreams before. But seeing you now, at the height of your legend, leading your people like a true king... I've only fallen deeper in love with you."
      Artoria slowly turned in the tub, her shoulders pulling free of Shirou's grasp. By now, she no longer felt any sense of embarrassment or self-consciousness over her body being visible to him. Not even the below-average size of her bare breasts could make her feel in any way inadequate, knowing that Shirou loved her for far more noble reasons. It was respect that drove his love for her, not lust. He loved her for her strength of both body and of will. She had no reason to fear being rejected over something so shallow and irrelevant.
      She wrapped her arms around her Servant, and she kissed him.
      Artoria put total faith in Shirou. Without Merlin and Kay's expert advice, she found herself relying more and more upon Shirou to help guide her. She knew he was more than capable of fulfilling that role; that was why she decided to present Camlann as the site for the final showdown. Shirou had responded to the name, suggesting significance. He must know some of what was to take place there, and how to circumvent it, giving her side an edge exclusive to that site. Prior versions of her - particularly the one he met in his time - had certainly never had Shirou by their side in this coming battle.
      Artoria had absolute faith in her and Shirou's ability to lead their forces to victory against Morgan and save her nation. And then, one day, perhaps she could return the favour and help him to create a brighter future for himself in his own Holy Grail War.
      Artoria removed herself from the water, taking a towel to dry and cover herself with while a blushing Shirou averted his eyes, as he always did when she emerged from a good soak. Her wet feet padded across the floor towards her sleepwear. Once she was dressed and ready to get some rest, Shirou bade her a good night. She took hold of his sleeve as he made to leave, surprising him.
      "We have one last matter before you go. Do you mind?"
      "N-No. Not at all."
      "Thank you. Please, stand over here. Artoria led Shirou to a spot in the centre of her bedchamber and had him take a knee. She then collected Excalibur from its resting place and withdrew the blade from its scabbard. She held out Avalon for Shirou to take in his hands. It was fitting, she felt, for him to hold the device that connected the two; that allowed them to summon one another to play a role in the most pivotal battles of their respective lives.
      With the accompanying blade in hand, she held it aloft and delivered a brief speech about chivalry, about nobility and purpose. And fate. She tapped him across each shoulder with the sword of the king before lowering it and resting her hands upon the pommel.
      "There may not have been an official ceremony, and your name will not appear in history... but you are now a Knight of Britain, Sir Shirou Emiya, Knight of Fate."

      Lancelot unthinkingly passed by the room as this event transpired. His mind was, ironically, filled only with thoughts of his own affair with the queen as he passed obliviously by the king's affair in progress. He maintained a swift pace as he eagerly made his way towards his latest secret rendezvous. His only thought towards his king came as he passed the door to his bedchambers and subconsciously reaffirmed that his affair with Guinevere was just.
      In truth, he knew, deep down, that this 'affair' was something he needed right now. Sir Galahad, one of the most noble and dutiful of all the Knights of the Round Table, had been Lancelot's own son. The two had hardly had the proper relationship of a father and son, but it still saddened Lancelot greatly for his son to have so suddenly disappeared - mostly likely killed along with Sirs Percival and Bors by that monstrous Archer of Red. Thanks to him, Lancelot would never again have the chance to be the father that Galahad deserved.
      A part of him blamed Arthur for sending Galahad and his compatriots to King Pellinore's domain, but the rest of him knew that was unfair. This was war, after all. Each of the knights had pledged to place his life on the line to defend this nation and its people. To not reinforce their ally's lands after all of the aid he had provided them would be grossly dishonourable, to say the least. And sending another in Galahad's place, like Sir Bedivere or Sir Kay, would be to sacrifice them in his place. Arthur had made a decision, Galahad had agreed to it, and Lancelot would have to live with that.
      There were nights when Lancelot felt that it was, in fact, his own fault for not being the father and mentor Galahad deserved. Perhaps, if he had just been there to train him personally, Britain would still have its noblest knight and one more of its Servants... It was on those nights that the kind, soothing words of Queen Guinevere were the only thing keeping him from losing his sanity...
      His habit of walking down this passage each time had not gone unnoticed, however. One of his fellow knights had taken note of this behaviour and found it rather odd. What reason would Sir Lancelot have to pass by the king's chambers each night? His quarters were not in that direction, nor even in this part of the castle. And yet, he had been consistently coming down this hallway for several consecutive nights now.
      And it was on this night that Sir Agravain would silently stalk his fellow knight to his secret destination and uncover the truth of his compatriot's unusual behaviour.

Chapter Text

      Arthur knew of their affair. How this had come to the king's attention Lancelot knew not. He suspected one of the Servants had uncovered the matter, but he simply had no way to know for sure. She had called the two adulterers to meet with her in private, away from even the prying eyes of her own Servant. The two monarchs were already waiting in the small, private room by the time the purple-clad knight arrived.
      "I am sure you both know why I wished to speak with you," the king spoke as Lancelot stepped through the door. She was sat on a plain wooden chair, adorned in a simple tunic. Even without her throne, her sword, her armour or her crown, Lancelot was still overwhelmed by Arthur's kingly presence, dropping to one knee and bowing his head the second he stepped over the threshold.
      Queen Guinevere said nothing. Lancelot knew well the emotion strangling her voice. He had seen it adorn her face many a time. It was an expression he had not seen her wear since before their affair began. He had managed to keep it from her through their love. And had now returned it to her through what he was sure was his own error in getting them caught.
      Arthur let out a deep sigh. "I suppose I should say my own piece before I hear yours." She turned to Guinevere, sat upon another chair beside her. She held out a hand, and her wife took it. She gently stroked the back of her hand with her thumb. It was an act Lancelot himself had performed many times before. The queen had expressed once that it helped her feel calm, and so he had taken to doing it himself.
      The sight of Arthur doing this now, to the woman whose trust she had betrayed-
      No, he had to remind himself. Guinevere held no grudge for what Arthur had done. In her mind, both royal spouses were guilt-free in their respective affairs. And Lancelot believed the same. Or, he wanted to. There was always that nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he and Guinevere had betrayed all of Britain in their actions, as if the king's own affair was not to be held to the same standard. Just what power did the king truly hold over her knights?
      "Yes," Arthur confirmed, locking eyes with Guinevere, "I am aware of your... 'affair'. I can only imagine how the two of you must feel about you actions, but I must tell you of my own before you dwell upon it. The truth is..." Arthur visibly braced herself for what she was about to say. "The truth is, I have been engaged in my own extramarital affair. With Saber."
      Lancelot's head bolted upwards, shocked that the king would admit to such, and to appear so distraught by her own actions. In truth, Lancelot had never felt as though he fully understood his king. Sir Tristan's parting words had helped elucidate the reasons why, to a point. But now, in this moment, Lancelot felt as though he had taken one giant leap towards true understanding.
      "You seem surprised," Arthur said to her knight as she studied his expression, seeming to misread the cause for his shock. "That I would have such an affair, or that it would be with a man. May I beg your confidentiality, Sir Lancelot?"
      Words eluded Lancelot, who could only nod in reply.
      Arthur smiled slightly. "Thank you. In truth, I... I am a woman. It may be difficult to tell because of Excalibur suppressing my ageing, but I am no man. Guinevere and I were wed to create stability in the nation. It was a union of pure necessity. I love Guinevere, as a reliable friend and confidant, but not as a woman. It is a love that makes me rue that I cannot provide the happiness she deserves; that she has been made to sacrifice her own happiness to support me and my kingdom. And so... thank you, Lancelot."
      "Y-You thank me?" he finally managed to speak. "But..."
      "You have provided what I could not. I had noticed Guinevere's recent distance around me. I felt as if she had something she was keeping from me. Time has proven me correct."
      Guinevere looked away in shame at this comment. Despite her best efforts, it seemed she had not been able to keep the affair from her mind whenever she was with Arthur. Nor to keep herself from feeling guilty over it.
      "But I also noticed that she seemed happier when she was oblivious to my presence or observation. At first, I assumed she had grown to despise me for my recent neglect and my focus on the War. Love or no, Guinevere has been deprived of companionship by my recent focus. But once I learned of your affair, everything finally fell into place." Arthur rose from her seat, pulling Guinevere from her own. She then stepped across the small room and stopped before the still kneeling knight. "Please, rise, Sir Lancelot."
      Lancelot obeyed, stunned by the softness of the king's tone. She then took his hand and placed it over the queen's, sandwiching the two lovers' hands between her own.
      "Thank you, my friend, for providing for Guinevere what I could not. And to you, Guinevere... I am truly sorry for being intimate with Saber without telling you. There is much of his past that is not my place to divulge, which contributed to my being consumed by my emotions. I-"
      "No." Guinevere shook her head, silencing the king mid-apology. "Neither of us were fulfilled in the way a married couple should be. It would be wrong of me to blame you for seeking that fulfilment in one you understand on so deep a level as my, admittedly, limited understanding of the Servant visions leads me to believe. If anything, I, like you, am happy you have found one who cares for you so deeply. After everything you have sacrificed for this nation, you more than deserve it. And more, it would be hypocritical, given my own affair with Lancelot."
      "I fear I must confess to my own short-sightedness," Lancelot reluctantly interrupted the two's discussion. "I have only been viewing this situation from my and the queen's perspective. I never truly considered that her struggle was one you both shared. I simply used your affair to justify my own actions - as if I was providing justice for Queen Guinevere as recompense for your alleged betrayal. I see now how foolish I have been, and can only pray the two of you can forgive my foolishness."
      "The only foolishness I see is your belief that I would hold this against you, my friend," the king responded softly. Her kind, understanding, borderline motherly smile warmed Lancelot's heart, and he wondered how he had ever harboured a negative thought about her in his thick head. "I appreciate that you felt so protective of Guinevere. She is a good woman, and deserves only love and kindness."
      "Oh, no, I am not so-"
      "Yes, you are," Arthur and Lancelot both interrupted as one, fixing her with a stare that she could surely not deny. After a moment, king and knight turned their gazes on each other, whereupon they could not refrain from grinning, nor from laughing. Soon, the three were all laughing together; something none of the three could have expected, going into this discussion of the two extramarital affairs shared between them.
      It was certainly not the outcome Sir Agravain had expected when he had reported the affair to his king. No, he had expected a punishment far greater for this betrayal from a knight and the queen. In his mind, the fact that the king had committed adultery first changed nothing. It was still a betrayal of their king and nation.
    Agravain had once been dispatched as a mole - an operative in his mother's plot to destroy Camelot - long before the Grail War was even suggested to become a factor in the conflict between Uther Pendragon's children. While plotting to destroy Camelot from within, the man who had once been Morgan's most reliable child had come to truly respect and admire his uncle.
      That was why he now so fervently, so wickedly supported his uncle's rule, performing the dirty tasks that the honourable King of Knights and his entourage would never dream to. He did what was necessary, even when he knew his fellow knights would detest him for it. On one level, it was so Arthur could defeat Morgan when the time finally, inevitably came. On another, it was to prove to himself that he was no longer a puppet of Morgan.
      He had never confessed any of this sordid history to his king, of course; nor would he ever. That would only risk disrupting his work towards building a brighter future for the kingdom. Thus, as he did with many of his plots, he kept it to himself. As he would his next plot.
      Although he had not managed to overhear the entire conversation, he had at least managed to make himself abreast of the conclusion. A conclusion that Agravain knew was a poor choice, driven by pure emotion, rather than logic. A conclusion that Agravain knew would only breed insubordination, if this betrayal went unpunished. It was often logic that drove the king's actions, and that had proven a great boon for Camelot. But the king had become compromised by his emotions, thanks to the many tragedies that had taken place in the course of this War.
      That was why it fell to Agravain to do what his king could not. So firm was his belief that his cause was just that, even if it meant opposing the king's own will, Agravain would push onward, for the future of the kingdom.
      The plan was already formulating in his mind. The mind that his mother had hoped would bring about the fall of Camelot.

Chapter Text

      Artoria and Guinevere bade each other a good night before the queen departed for a rendezvous with Lancelot. With the greatest danger in which the king's forces had yet found themselves looming on the morrow, Artoria encouraged Guinevere to spend what may well be her last night with Lancelot together. Guinevere had observed that this may also be her final night with Artoria as well, but Artoria's faith in Shirou was unbreakable. She was certain she would make it through this battle with him.
      Thus, the two spouses chose to meet with their respective lovers: Guinevere and Lancelot in their new meeting place, while Artoria awaited Shirou's arrival in her own room. As she waited in the stillness of the room, the only sound to be heard being that of the occasionally tapping of her foot on the hard floor, Artoria felt oddly lonely. Even with Shirou on the way, she still felt strangely alone.
      Perhaps it was because Guinevere, through their recent reconciliation, had reinstated her place in Artoria's mind as a valued friend and not merely a part of the room's scenery, as she had effectively been to Artoria since preparations for the War began. She worried a little about what that said about her as a person. But that was in the past now. She had more than made up for that by allowing Guinevere and Lancelot to be together. Everything was okay between them now.
      But not everyone in the castle saw things the way she did.

      "Gawain," Agravain called through the door to his brother's quarters.
      "Enter," the other knight responded simply.
      Agravain entered to find Gawain enjoying a drink with Caster, who was serving the alcohol in what Agravain could only assume was the customary Japanese style. Her poise was almost certainly that taken by wives of her homeland, which made Agravain wonder if there had been yet another act of impropriety, and if he should be observing Sir Bedivere as well. For now, he set those thoughts aside. Suspecting his fellow knights of such an act so close to the pending battle would only serve Morgan's ends. 
      "This is unlike you, Agravain," Gawain observed, his Servant quickly crossing the room to busy herself with something while the two brothers talked. "Stopping by to pay a visit so late at night." There seemed to be no antagonistic intent in Gawain's words, despite how easily they could be interpreted as such. Rather, he seemed to simply be curious.
      "Indeed. The army will march out tomorrow, as you know. The Blue Faction has four Master/Servant duos; as did the Red. But with Lucius Tiberius and Archer one their way to Rome, Morgan has only herself and our siblings remaining."
      "I am aware. What of it?"
      "Morgan may bring her entire force to bear against the king's army, or she may set aside a battalion or two to attack Camelot while the Servants and Knights of the Round are away."
      "A fair concern. I imagine you have a proposal to counter this?"
      "I do. I will propose in the morning that we leave one of our own duos behind to defend Camelot in the event of an enemy attack, during the battle or in the event the battle is lost."
      "The king will never agree if we propose he stays behind."
      "It was not him I had in mind. Nor you, before you ask."
      "Then...?"
      "Sir Lancelot. He, Berserker and I will remain to hold down the fort, as it were. I may need your support to convince the king of this course."
      "Why? The king trusts your judgment, does he not? You have more than proven the value of your input."
      Agravain's lips curved an imperceptible amount. For Gawain, the favoured of the king's knights and nephews to appraise him so... "Be that as it may, Sir Lancelot must remain within Camelot while the king is away. Loathe as I am to admit it, I doubt I can convince the king otherwise."
      "Why so set on Sir Lancelot? What is it you are not telling me?"
      Agravain had already weighed up the potential consequences of telling Gawain of the affair. Gawain was the closest to the king of all the knights. This meant he would see the matter from Agravain's viewpoint, wanting only the best for their master. On the other hand, that closeness, when not tempered by total mastery over one's emotions as Agravain had long cultivated, was liable to lead Gawain to make a rash decision. Ultimately, he opted to inform him and temper his brother's outrage himself.
      "It is a matter of grave import, that must remain confidential. I can trust you to keep what I am about to tell you to yourself?"
      "Of course," the reliable knight responded, exactly as his brother had expected.
      Agravain laid out all he had heard and seen with regards to Lancelot's affair. He left out Arthur's own affair with Saber, lest that complicate matters. Agravain needed Gawain focused on Lancelot exclusively. Gawain's face dropped and grew pale as he heard how noble Sir Lancelot and kind Queen Guinevere had betrayed their king. He made no sound as he took everything in, while his Servant gasped every so often at the scandalous news she was overhearing.
      "This... cannot be true," Gawain mumbled once he was fully abreast of the situation.
      "It is," Agravain replied curtly. "And you see now why I need your support to convince our king that Lancelot must remain here. For all his skill, he can no longer be trusted. The king's view on the matter differs from my own, but what matters is that I do not believe any of you will be able to fight alongside him and rely on him to have your back in the battle, given this information."
      "Does Sir Bedivere know?"
      "Not as of yet, no. Only you and I and the involved parties are currently aware of the matter. I will speak with Sir Bedivere next so we can form a united front. Can I rely on you to play your part?"
      "Of course," the other knight responded with conviction as he rose to his feet. "I cannot fight alongside a man who would betray our king so severely. It would be akin to fighting alongside Mordred."
      "Good. Then I will take my leave for the night. Be sure you get some rest before the meeting in the morning."
      "You've no need to tell me twice," Gawain responded bitterly, holding up a hand to reject another drink from his Servant, his mood thoroughly soured.
      "And one last thing, Gawain," Agravain said, stopping at the threshold, keeping his back turned on his brother. "Should you meet Gaheris and Gareth on the field, save them if you can. But do not place their safety over that of the king. Do you understand?"
      "You think I need you to remind me?" his brother responded in an uncharacteristically grim tone. It was just about the only uncharacteristic thing Agravain had encountered in a while that he fully understood. After all, what man alive could avoid feeling such a way after being urged to let his siblings die? Or from being the one to urge it? "Would it kill you not to speak so coldly of those two on what could be their final night on Earth?"
      "So long as you understand," Agravain responded simply, taking his leave before his own emotion could become impossible to mask.

      Sir Lancelot marched through the halls of the castle, his destination clear in his mind. It was the rescue of Queen Guinevere. She had been imprisoned for her infidelity and was being held by Lancelot's fellow knights for treason.
      Even after Arthur had expressed a total lack of any sense of betrayal over the infidelity, instead allegedly feeling happy for the two. Truly, Arthur could no longer be considered a husband, nor a human.
      His mind was made up the second he learned of her arrest: he would free her, get her out of Camelot, and then confront Arthur.
      Right now, Arthur was away, marching towards the final battle with Morgan's forces. Sir Agravain had proposed leaving at least one Master/Servant duo behind to defend Camelot in the event of a surprise assault. He had proposed Lancelot. Sir Gawain had supported this decision. And Arthur had agreed. Only Sir Bedivere gave no input. No doubt, Arthur wanted Lancelot out of the way, left to miss out on the Grail and its wish-granting properties. It deepened Lancelot's frustration, but it mattered little, in the grand scheme. All that mattered was Guinevere.
      "Where are you off to in such a hurry?" Berserker inquired from spirit form.
      "To save Guinevere," Lancelot growled. He had no reason to keep his intentions secret. Berserker had known all along of the affair. He had never mentioned it to his Master, or anyone else, but Lancelot knew he knew. "Do not get in my way."
      "Why would I do that?" Berserker asked as he manifested beside his Master and marched alongside him. "You know what I did to Hector, don't you?"
      With this singular reference, Lancelot understood his Servant completely. Achilles' wrath was legendary. Enough so to qualify him for the Berserker class. It was a wrath born from the death of Patroclus at the hand of Hector. His dragging of Hector's body behind his chariot to mutilate his nemesis after the fact contributed to his legend and apparently helped to qualify him for the Rider class as well. It was a legend of wrath, begat by grief, born from love.
      "Will you join me then?" Lancelot asked as he continued his march unimpeded.
      "So long as you are sure this is what you believe is right. It would not be the first time a kingdom fell to a queen's infidelity."
      Helen. The cause of the war that made Achilles famous. The comparison insulted Lancelot, but he understood what Berserker was suggesting. Lancelot knew this was the correct path, however. Guinevere did not deserve to be held in contempt for mirroring the actions of her spouse, who remained unpunished. Lancelot had managed to convince himself for so long that the affairs, being mutual, were not morally objectionable. But if Arthur's court were to hold Guinevere's affair in contempt, then they must also hold Arthur's in such.
      Lancelot and Berserker marched towards the tower in which the queen was being held. Arriving at the base of the staircase, they found a retinue of knights guarding the way up. At their head stood Sir Agravain, one of the few Knights of the Round excluded from the Grail War. His talents always lay in administration, anyway, so leaving the War to any combination of his fellows was the first decision made regarding the roster, by his own suggestion.
      "I knew you would come, Sir Lancelot," Agravain declared upon the other knight's arrival. "After all, you are the queen's partner in her infidelity."
      "It was you. You were the one who found out."
      "I am," Agravain coldly, disinterestedly revealed. "I have also assumed responsibility for keeping the queen within the castle walls until he returns victorious. And then you will be held accountable for your crimes as she will."
      "The king betrayed her first!" Lancelot asserted fiercely. "He had an affair with his Servant-"
      "Whatever your excuses, you can save them for the king himself." Despite being a master at maintaining his composure, Agravain's growing contempt for Lancelot was quite evident. "Until then, you are free to walk the grounds, given your role as a Master in this War. But push me any further, and I will have you imprisoned as well."
      "You think a mere cell can hold my Berserker?" Lancelot threatened darkly.
      "Merlin and Caster put together a special cell to weaken the rage and power of the enemy Berserker, should the opportunity for capture arise. You were there when the plan was proposed, I recall. We have everything we need to keep you and your Servant under control. Now, return to your post on the battlements, or I will have you arrested for treason," Agravain growled, placing a hand on the pommel of his sword threateningly. This sign of aggression was the final straw for Lancelot. He held up his hand.
      "Berserker. By my Command Seal, I order you to save Guinevere. No matter the cost."
      Before the crimson light of the Command Spell had even subsided, Achilles roared into the fray, ensuring that the red tint now engulfing the room would never wash away.

      Artoria's column came to a halt on the field at Camlann. She stood at the head of her army, as she was wont to do, even before the Grail War. A king was more than a mere leader. He was an aspirational figure; an icon of hope. To hide behind one's army was to invite discontent among the people. It was to snuff out their faith in their ruler. It was to breed rebellion.
      Her fellow Masters of Blue - Sir Gawain and Sir Bedivere - were less concerned for her safety here than they typically were, trusting in the Saber by her side at the head of the column. Likewise, Rider stood by her own Master's side, while Caster remained nestled further in the back, guarded by a unit of tower knights personally-selected by her Master to keep the physically vulnerable Servant safe while she adorned Excalibur Galatine with sunlight and performed other tasks.
      Artoria lamented the absence of Sir Lancelot, but Agravain's suggestion to leave a Master/Servant duo behind had been a sound one. And for as powerful as Achilles was, a Berserker-class created an air of unpredictability. Artoria and Sir Agravain's plans required as much control over the situation as they could muster. It was better to leave him behind and rely upon Saber, Caster and Rider instead.
      And besides that, with Guinevere remaining at Camelot as well, it was better to have Lancelot remain home to protect and comfort her, than to be out here, distracted by his worry for her, and his unresolved feelings surrounding the apparent death of his son. Sir Agravain had agreed with her assessment of the situation, as did Shirou. Thus, Lancelot would remain as one last line of defence, in the event either her army was felled here, or Tiberius returned with his Archer before they could return home.
      The Red Faction Masters presented themselves in a similar manner to those of Blue, far across the field: Mordred stood as Artoria did, at the head of the entire army of turncoat knights, homunculi, druids, Picts and what remained of the Roman contingent Lucius Tiberius had originally brought with him, now assigned as Nero Claudius' personal unit. Mordred and Saber stood at the head of the army, flanked on either side by Gareth, Gaheris and their respective Servants. Mordred stood with Clarent's blade digging into the dirt at his feet, its wielder's hands upon the pommel - a direct mockery of Artoria's noble image. That was not what caused the flaring up of emotion within Artoria, however. Rather, it was the new reinforcements that had joined the Knight of Treachery.
      Among the enemy forces now flew the banners of seven clans and eight lords that had been turned to Morgan's side by the surprisingly charismatic Mordred. It seemed many of those outside of Artoria's everyday perception had grown disenfranchised by Artoria and her Grail War, and had been talked into joining a rebellion to end the War and their 'tyrannical' king. How much had been Morgan's magic egging them on and how much was Mordred feeding into their existing discontentment, Artoria could not say. She found both possibilities to be deeply unsettling. Was this what Shirou had meant when mention of her failing her people had slipped through his lips?
      Shirou himself seemed to notice her concern, as he placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder. She resisted the urge to place hers over his, lest their relationship be revealed to the army. That risked causing yet more defections, she believed. Thus, she simply nodded his way, affirming her confidence and thanking him for his support. He stepped back to allow her to stand closest to the army of traitors and monsters and invaders before them.
      Artoria drew Excalibur from its scabbard, as if drawing strength from the Servant who was eternally connected to her through it, and raised the glittering blade aloft. A small ray of sunlight beamed down from the overcast sky and struck the blade, no doubt incited by the highly theatrical fox woman serving her nephew. Said nephew led the war cry around her, the cacophony of conviction echoing across the field to where Morgan's army could only hope to match their belief in their leader.
      Even as parts of her kingdom began to sour on her rule, this roar reminded Artoria that there were still those who believed in her ability; who were willing to lay down their lives to aid her in stopping Morgan from obtaining the Grail.
      She lowered her blade and thrust it even higher in the air, threatening to pierce the very heavens above as she let out her own war cry - her declaration of intent to strike down Mordred, Morgan and any others who sought to bring ruin to Britain.
      Mordred, to his credit, met this battle cry with one of equal power. But it was not, would not ever be enough to shake Artoria's convictions. With Gawain, Tamamo, Bedivere, Boudica and Shirou by her side, she knew she had everything she needed to overcome this challenge and put down the traitors, and create a bright new era for her beloved Britain.

      On a hilltop overlooking the site that would become the final battleground of this Grail War, the Ruler-class Servant observed the two armies moving into position, preparing for the final battle at Camlann. Somehow, this location seemed appropriate for this conflict, though he was uncertain as to why. It likely related to the strange limitations placed upon Servants in this world. He wondered if this was always where the final battle of this era played out, but somehow differently. No Grail War, perhaps? For a such a significant conflict of men to be co-opted by the Grail...
      He cast those thoughts aside. They ill served his role as overseer of the War. Whatever the reasons, there was naught he could do to change anything. All he could do was observe the War and maintain the rules, as all Rulers did. Little had been done that went against the Grail's rules this time, unlike the previous War he oversaw. The closest was Berserker of Red's Master enchanting two of the Blue Faction's comrades into her service, but that occurred before the War began, and was thus beyond his jurisdiction, regardless of whether or not it was to be considered a violation. Something about these rules seemed...
      He again cast those thoughts aside. It was in his nature to ponder and contemplate, but it was not his duty. Plato sighed as he stood up from the rock on which he had perched. If any violations were to occur, this would be the time and place, despite his belief that both sides would continue to obey the rules. He was sure he would need only stand here until both sides noticed he was watching them, and he could then sit and watch as the Arthurian Era reached its conclusion.

Chapter Text

      As the pitched battle raged over the horizon, a lone horseman rode at full pelt to reach the field. The man, clad in purple armour, rode from his territory, personally assigned to him by Arthur to govern and maintain. It was ironic, then, that it was that very territory in which Lancelot had deposited Arthur's own unfaithful wife after they fled Camelot, leaving several dead knights in their wake, including Sir Agravain, the king's own nephew.
      There was certainly no hope of forgiveness for her now. But even so, he knew the fate of the nation was at stake just over this ridge, and he would never be able to call himself any sort of noble man were he to leave the defenders of Britain down a Master and Servant at so crucial a time. If nothing else, he and Berserker could face down some of the Red Faction's other Masters to ease the other Masters' struggle and give them a chance to strike down Morgan.
      He rode over the ridge, Berserker by his side in spirit form. He knew not for how long the battle had raged, nor the state of the other seven Masters and their Servants. All he knew was that it was time for him to turn the tide.
      With lance in hand, he thrust and slashed his way through many enemy troops as he drove deeper into the chaos. His horse was eventually felled by a stray arrow, throwing him to the ground; but a quick roll brought him back to his feet, sword drawn and ready to kill. He almost hoped that arrow had come from that bastard Archer of Red, presenting himself for Lancelot to take his vengeance, however unlikely that man's presence may be.
      The first warrior he recognised was actually Caster, stood on a slightly elevated position, surrounded by knights. From where she stood, Lancelot followed her gaze to the sole spot of sunlight piercing through the grey clouds above. Sir Gawain. Lancelot rushed towards his comrade's position, pushing through the enemy ranks to find him showing why he was considered one of the most skilled swordfighters among the Round Table.
      Rushing in, Lancelot impaled a Pict attempting to strike the white knight from behind, thrusting the attacker's body into the dirt. Gawain seemed shocked to see Lancelot, but the other man was out of the newcomer's sight instantly, as he turned to cut down more foes, Berserker materialising to assist in the slaughter. Before too long, the enemy unit was wiped out, giving the three some breathing room. From what Lancelot could see, this was a skirmish on the outskirts of the battle at large. Perhaps this was an enemy pincer attack that the two had just foiled, or Sir Gawain had come to stop a particular plot from being-
      "What are you doing here, Sir Lancelot?" Despite addressing him with proper honorifics, there was a clear disdain in Gawain's voice as he demanded the answer to this question. He doubted word had yet reached Gawain of what had transpired back at Camelot. If it had, Lancelot doubted Gawain would have bothered to even speak to him, instead letting his blade speak for him.
      "I come to join our cause in the battle, of course," Lancelot explained. His sins could be revealed and discussed later, once the battle was won. Once the kingdom no longer had need for this knight and Master.
      "You were to stay at the castle and await our return," Gawain reminded, his tone growing more agitated with each word. "That was your express command from the king. It seems disobedience is all you are good for anymore."
      "This battle could be the last of this War. I would be a fool to not join the fight!"
      "You are already a fool, Lancelot. Your affair with the queen is proof enough of that."
      So that was the reason for the hostility. As dishonourable as it could be seen as, Lancelot felt almost relieved for the confirmation that Gawain did not yet know that the man before him had cut down his brother mere hours ago.
      "Listen, Sir Gawain-"
      "There is nothing more for you to say, adulterer. Return to the castle now, while you still have some honour left to lose." Without another word, Gawain allowed Caster to land beside him and leap an impressive distance deeper into the fray to pursue some other target, their defensive knights bringing up the rear.
      Lancelot stood in silence, not at all surprised by the icy reception that had greeted him. Berserker, having finished looking out for any enemy advancing on them, stepped into view, his bloody visage reminding Lancelot of the aftermath of the confrontation with Sir Agravain. "Is that it? Are we going to just give up and go home?"
      On some level, Lancelot was tempted to do exactly that. To return home and await judgment once the king learned of his crime. But he knew that if he turned back now, the chances of survival for the king and her knights would surely diminish. Lancelot was already dishonoured several times over, even if his fellow knights knew not the full extent of his sins. Thus, disobedience in the name of helping to end the war was his only choice.
      "No. This battle's outcome is too important for us to worry about dishonour anymore."
      "Hm. That is what I like to hear," Achilles said with a satisfied nod. "Give the order, and your enemies will meet the same fate as the Trojans."
      "Go. Slaughter the enemy. But spare Sirs Gareth and Gaheris. They are enchanted by Morgan. It is akin to interference from the gods. They are innocents who do not deserve to be cut down for roles that were thrust upon them."
      The look Achilles gave him indicated that he knew what Lancelot was doing: utilising knowledge of his Servant's relationships and his disdain for how the gods had conducted themselves in his war to push his buttons. He recognised this attempt to manipulate him, but he nodded nonetheless. "As you wish. If you insist they are innocent, then I will do everything in my power to see them through this war. But the rest will die."
      "Thank you, my friend," Lancelot said with what felt like the first genuine smile he had mustered since being caught in the act. "Now, go."
      Without another word, Berserker leapt into the fray as Caster had done. Hopefully, Sir Gawain would at least allow Berserker to assist him in the fight. In the meantime, Lancelot clambered up the small hill on which he had spotted Caster earlier. From there, he was sure he could observe the battlefield and find a skirmish that would benefit from his assistance.
      He spotted a duel raging between the king and Sir Mordred, their respective Sabers imperceptibly battling as flashes of blade impacts all around their Masters. Lancelot now had his destination set. A destination that suddenly grew much farther away. It took Lancelot a moment to realise he had been grabbed around the throat and was being tackled off of the elevated position by a knight in dragon-themed armour.
      Vortigern, the late uncle of the two faction leaders; slain some years ago by the king and Sir Gawain, and now revived by Morgan as the Berserker of Red. Sir Gawain had identified him when he joined King Lot in the skirmish that cost Gawain's father his life. It had taken the king, armed with the holy lance, and Gawain together to topple this mythic figure. And now, he was a Servant; one fuelled by his hatred of Arthur and her followers.
      Lancelot's body came crashing down to the ground at the bottom of the hill. The dragon knight's burning white-hot eyes bore into him as he looked the fallen knight over, like a beast studying prey it had already killed. But Lancelot was not some carcass fit for consumption.
      He wound his arm around Vortigern's back and gripped the blade at the other side. He then pushed up his chest to wind his head back before headbutting the dragon knight. The impact had certainly done more damage to Lancelot's unprotected head than to his foe's, but the shock of the attack threw the Berserker off, while also managing to cut the back of his neck with Arondight's blade. This allowed Lancelot to get his foot under Vortigern's chest and finally push him off of him with a kick.
      But the Servant recovered quickly. He was inches away from having Lancelot's throat in his gauntleted hand once again, but Lancelot's upward thrust with his sword forced his foe to twist his body to evade. The next few strikes the two exchanged were quick, and Lancelot barely registered them consciously. But the Servant quickly gained the upper hand.
      It was only when Lancelot's own hand came up to punch Vortigern in the face to escape his grasp that he remembered the Command Spells. He had only used one thus far, leaving him the opportunity to use one more without risking losing Masterhood over his Servant.
      "Berserker! I command you to come to my side!" With the blood-red glow of the mark on his hand visibly fading, even beneath his purple gauntlet, even savage Vortigern seemed to understand the need for haste now. He wound his arm back and prepared to spike Lancelot head-first into the ground, only for Achilles' Pelian Spear to crash down into Vortigern's outstretched arm and impale it. The tip of Diatrekhōn Astēr Lonkhē dug deep into the earth, stopping that arm from being used to throw Lancelot.
      Instead, he released the knight and kicked him hard in the head, launching him several feet away, where he crashed into the dirt once more. Achilles struck Vortigern from above with a vicious kick to the top of the head. Vortigern tore his arm out of the spear's hold, and knocked Achilles out of the air with his limp, barely still attached limb. Achilles recovered quickly and reclaimed his weapon while Vortigern's arm quickly regenerated - a boon from Morgan, perhaps.
      The clash of the Berserkers was intense - likely the most intense matchup one was likely to see in any Grail War. But Lancelot barely witnessed any of it. That kick had knocked him senseless. He was barely clinging to consciousness at this point. He may actually have briefly fallen unconscious for a moment, so difficult was it to recognise his current state.
      By the time he recovered, Achilles was struggling. His heel had been struck and Vortigern was holding the Greek hero's own spear over his head. That was when Lancelot charged in, his own legendary weapon penetrating the dead king's flesh with ease from behind. The weapon fell from the dragon knight's hand, allowing Achilles to reclaim it from his position on the ground and thrust it right up into the other Berserker's skull. The fallen king returned to Hell from whence he had come, leaving Lancelot and his Servant to recover as best they could and re-join the battle.
      Lancelot already knew where the king was fighting, so he made his way there at full speed with Achilles' help. As they reached the site, they found the king standing over the dead Mordred, his blade poised to strike down the wounded enemy Saber. But as the defeated woman's eyes met his, Lancelot suddenly understood everything.
      Sir Mordred, now dead by his father's hand, and the woman that had fought by his side. These were the cipher by which this puzzle could be decoded. Sir Mordred had previous declared that Arthur was his father, born of Morgan, Arthur's sister. At the time, the accusation of incest had fallen upon deaf ears as a shallow attempt to sully the king's good name. None of the knights had believed it. But now...
      Guinevere had confided that Arthur's true gender was female. Her word was as trustworthy as they came. If Arthur was a woman, it was truly impossible for her to be Mordred's father. But there were two Arthurs. And looking at the two side-by-side, it was clear which of the two was female. It was as if she had been exposing her womanly figure without armour, putting her physical wellbeing at risk to reveal her gender to her enemies. But why would she do this?
      Guinevere had known of Arthur's true gender all along. She had kept his secret and received nothing but neglect and scorn for it. But even without a desire to be intimate with her wife, why would Arthur do this? The king he knew had been so much more noble than that before all this Grail War business began. And there were two of her now before him.
      The pieces finally fell into place for Lancelot. He cursed how blind he had been up to now. Guinevere may well have been trying to warn him in secret, for fear of being put to the sword for her 'betrayal'. But there was no betrayal in her words. Arthur was a woman. One Arthur flaunted her gender to show him which was the true Arthur.
      The Arthur in blue was not the real Arthur. He was a copy, a homunculus inserted into Camelot by Morgan at some point to disrupt the nation and the war effort. He was a man, the father of Mordred with his creator and alleged sister. He was the Arthur who had neglected and imprisoned his beloved Guinevere. He was the one throwing Britain into discord with this Grail War. He was the one who had sent Galahad and his comrades to their deaths at the hands of Morgan's Roman ally.
      Oh, how blind Lancelot had been! But no longer. He drew his sword and lunged for the fake, running his sword through their back and spraying the true king with the red life essence of her doppelganger. Before the fake could attempt any sort of escape or recovery, Berserker used his supreme strength to snap the faker's neck, putting an end to the fake Arthur.
      Lancelot bowed before the true Arthur, once more pledging his allegiance to the true king.
      Then he woke up. Lancelot found himself lying in the dirt, struggling to think as his entire understanding of this conflict changed. Achilles continued his battle with Vortigern. The numerous deep craters around them were proof of the ferocity with which the two Berserkers fought. All weapons were discarded as the two fought with fists and feet and foreheads.
      Lancelot pushed himself to his feet, using Arondight as a crutch. There was no time for this. "Berserker! To me!"
      Achilles spared only a quick glance back towards him before returning his attention to his opponent. One good punch to the jaw knocked Vortigern to the floor and opened a chance for Achilles to rush back to his Master's side. "I'm happy to see you back on your feet, Master," Achilles told him in as friendly a manner as he ever had.
      "We are wasting time fighting this relic. I now understand who the true enemy in this conflict is. The fake Arthur cavorting with that Saber."
      "...Do you mean Mordred?" Achilles asked, evidently not having had the same epiphany.
      "No, fool. Our Saber. It was all a plot to get Camelot under Morgan's control."
      "...And where exactly did you come by this revelation?"
      "While I was unconscious, my mind was finally able to piece everything together."
      "You got this important revelation... in a dream?" the Servant asked incredulously.
      "Yes! Don't you see? This whole conflict has been one of Morgan's plots to destabilise the nation! And we almost fell for it."
      "It sounds to me like this dream of yours is the plot-"
      "Stop questioning me!" Lancelot snapped defensively. "Yours is not to question why. Yours is to simply obey." Lancelot, for the third time, raised his right hand and the crimson glow flooded forth.
      "No, wait!" Achilles tried to stop his Master for using his final Command Spell. Partially, he felt that this was the only thing keeping him from completely losing his entire sense of self to the rage burning within him. But he also knew his Master was not in his right mind. If he used this spell now, he would surely come to regret it. But he was unable to stop Lancelot's action as a large rock was flung his way. Achilles managed to dodge it and push Lancelot back so that neither was struck, but Lancelot's form was barely affected. In fact, he didn't even seem to notice what had just happened.
      "By my Command Seal, I command you: unleash your fury. Let out every ounce of rage within you. Let the fake Arthur and all the enemies of Britain feel every bit of the vengeance your wrought upon Hector and Troy. Show them what it truly means to be deemed a Berserker!"
      Achilles' mind was washed away in the crimson tide. His entire self was erased, leaving only a burning red rage in the shape of history's most famous avenger. The only thing giving this rage named Achilles form was the command of his Master: to kill the fake Arthur and the enemies of Britain. With that command to guide him, Berserker leapt once more into the fray, cutting down the forces of both Morgan and the fake Arthur. It no longer mattered whether or not Berserker believed his Master's conclusion. All that mattered was that he was his Master, and the Servant was merely an extension of his will.
      Lancelot soon followed in his wake, doing much the same, on a slightly smaller scale. Vortigern watched him go, entirely forgotten by the knight as he fought his way towards the doppelganger.
      Vortigern made to follow, but the voice of his own Master echoed in his mind. "Let him go, Berserker," Morgan commanded. "You did well to bring him to this point. Now, return to the battle, but leave those two to their rage. They will give us our opportunity. Simply continue to bring ruin to Arthur's forces, and weaken Excalibur. Do this for your Master."
      Vortigern was not too dissimilar to Achilles. Through exclusive use of his Class name and expert application of Command Spells, Vortigern's sense of self had been whittled down until he no longer remembered who he once was. The White Dragon of Britain was long forgotten by his human incarnation. He was now only Berserker, a tool of his Master, Morgan le Fay.
      He remembered only enough to hate. He hated Excalibur, and the one who wielded it. And he knew he had the power to weaken that accursed blade. As usual, obeying his Master coincided with his own desires. And so, he would obey.

      Lancelot slaughtered all who came into his path. The once noble knight now served as a force of nature as he ravaged both sides. A few pockets of resistance banded together from both sides to survive the onslaught. But none of them did. Lancelot fell deeper and deeper into rage with each passing second, the notion that the fake Arthur yet lived to besmirch his king's good name disgusted him to no end.
      That was why the sight of two enemy Masters finally gave him pause. His path was blocked by Sirs Gaheris and Gareth, two traitors to the nation, despite their great resemblance to their uncle, Arthur. But then, from their great resemblance, it was entirely likely that the two were like Mordred - bastard homunculi born of Morgan and her perfect creation.
      The two barely registered that he was present by the time his blade came crashing down towards Gaheris. By chance, one of the fools aligned with them moved into the path of Arondight, being cut in twain by the mighty blade of the Avenging Knight of Camelot. Both former knights were taken aback by the abrupt appearance of their former compatriot.
      "L-L-Lord Lancelot," Gareth stammered out, eyes wide and lip quivering, as her grip on her lance loosened. This was not a confrontation she had ever wanted to take part in. Well, she should have thought of that before she turned traitor, he decided.
      The turncoats' shock almost led to their deaths as they only just managed to react in time to avoid the next swing of his blade. Gareth's Rider attempted to intervene, but was struck with a mighty kick from Berserker, sending both careening through the nearby crowd.
      Gaheris moved between his sister and Lancelot, managing to keep up with the enraged man for only a few seconds. Once Lancelot saw the man's face up close and was reminded of how similar he looked to his brother Gawain, Lancelot's mind was flooded with memories of Gawain's transgressions against him, and the identity of his mother.
      The knight's attacks became increasingly animalistic, striking again and again, never letting up for even a second. It was only a lance thrust of Gareth from his side glancing off his armour that drew his attention away from her brother. He grabbed the young woman by the collar and delivered a heavy headbutt that violently floored her. Gaheris' next attack was easily parried by Lancelot's wild swing, allowing him to tackle the young man to the ground and punch him repeatedly in the face.
      Gareth once again intervened to save her brother, grabbing Lancelot from behind and just about managing to throw the larger man off of her brother. He was back on his feet promptly, instantly closing the distance and lifting her over his shoulder as he ran several more paces, before slamming her onto the ground.
      Now that she was so vulnerable, Lancelot swung his sword in a wide, heavy, untrained arc toward tiny Gareth. Gaheris was not close enough to reach his sister in time. Nor was Assassin.
      The blade of the madman came to a stop, not within Gareth's flesh, but against the blade of another Knight of the Round. Excalibur Galatine held back the strike, but was unable to push back against it, leaving Gawain no choice but to push himself back, grabbing his sister and pulling her away with him. He maintained his position between Lancelot and Gareth, only now realising he had boxed himself in between three turncoat knights, each armed with a Servant of their own.
      "Gawain?" Gareth asked in a tiny voice.
      Gawain had not heard his sister's voice in such a long time. It almost felt like years since then. He smiled down at her, tousled her hair as he used to before all of this. "I'm here, little sister."
      He had little time to do anything but block as now Berserker came crashing into him. The strike pushed him back several feet, his boots digging into the ground to keep him steady. With all of his might, Gawain shoved Achilles back and swung his blade, not to strike him, but to force him to back off. Even with his legend of invulnerability, Achilles could still receive pain from enemy strikes.
      "You still with us, brother?" Gawain asked to his side, where Gaheris was recovering.
      "I am," the Master of the Red Assassin responded through grit teeth. Gareth quickly scrambled to the side of her brothers as well.
      "Can we put the War aside for now and deal with this problem first?" Gawain asked his siblings, silently praying for the answer he desired.
      "Yes!" Gareth exclaimed joyously, without the tiniest moment of hesitation. Her lance was already in hand before Gawain could even smile. She called for her Rider Servant, by name, rather than by class. So excitable and quick to make friends. Whatever Morgan had done to her, Gareth, ultimately, was still Gareth.
      "We follow your lead, Gawain," Gaheris stated, drawing his own weapon and performing some signal with his free hand, presumably commanding his Assassin to prepare herself.
      "BERSERKER!" Lancelot screamed.
      Achilles obediently, furiously lunged at the siblings.
      "Caster!" Gawain cried out to his Servant, who remained at a safe distance, and he threw himself into the fray. Excalibur Galatine shimmered brilliantly from the focused sunlight targeting its wielder like a laser beam from the heavens, ordaining the three siblings with divine purpose.

Chapter Text

      "An excellent strike, Beddy!"
      "Only because of your expert driving, Rider!"
      Having a Servant with a chariot was certainly beneficial for traversing the battlefield and weakening the enemy forces with hit-and-run tactics, but the larger demonic beasts Morgan employed were difficult to deal with that way without risking the chariot being toppled over or seriously damaged. This left Bedivere and Rider with a very specific role within the king's army: they thinned the herd, cutting down smaller enemies, helping allies that were outnumbered or facing sudden ambushes. Occasionally, this ally was a fellow Master or Servant, but usually a lesser knight.
      Every so often, the two became bold, riding up alongside a larger demonic beast to allow one of the two to strike or thrust with their swords. Rider showcased her impressive ability to command her vehicle, flying and spinning through the air with deftness. She even, just now, turned the entire chariot upside-down to allow her Master to strike out the eye of a cyclops from mere feet above its massive head.
      As their confidence grew, so too did the frequency of their risk-taking. Master and Servant managed to rescue dozens of allies this way for much of the battle. It was only with the arrival of an enemy Servant that the two had to put these successful tactics on hold to deal with this greater threat.
      Overhead, the dragon knight Berserker of Red flew across the field, utilising several large leaps that left craters and broken bodies from both sides with each successive leap. Following his trajectory, the two quickly identified his destination: up on one of the highest slopes of the field, King Arthur and Saber were engaged in a duel with Sir Mordred and Nero.
      The previous time Rider had encountered her nemesis in battle, she had rushed headlong into the enemy lines in a bid to strike down the enemy Saber. Bedivere had been forced to call her off with a Command Spell when he and Sir Percival were unable to break through the enemy lines to reinforce her. When faced with her Master's disappointment after the battle, she had promised to keep herself under control when next they faced Nero in battle.
      That time, it seemed, may well be now, if their intervention went poorly. Sir Gawain had explained to the Servants the significance of Vortigern's ability once he was identified as the secret identity of Morgan's Berserker. His ability to seal away the power of the holy sword and its sister blade would take away the Blue Faction's greatest non-Servant weapons - possibly the greatest overall - and this was surely for this exact reason Morgan that had summoned him.
      Bedivere and Rider had no need to voice their shared concern. A single nod exchanged between the two was all they needed to know they were both set on the same goal: to keep Vortigern away from their allies. The two were not entirely sure they could keep him busy for long alone. Hopefully, Caster might be able to provide support from wherever it was that she had ended up.
      They lamented Sir Lancelot's absence, knowing his own Berserker could certainly match Vortigern. Bedivere wondered if he had made the wrong choice by not opposing Sir Agravain's proposal to leave their fellow knight behind. Alas, it would be up to the two of them alone to buy Arthur time to put down the traitor and her Servant so that the four could face Berserker as one.
      Boudica brought her chariot directly below Vortigern as he commenced yet another destructive descent. She managed to catch him in the chariot early enough into his descent for his landing to be like that of any normal human, not the decimation of his explosive crashes. Once inside, Berserker found himself being flung this was and that as Rider began spinning her chariot, performing spins and rolls, flying upside-down for a time... Against all of it, Berserker held fast to the chariot.
      That was when Boudica drove her vehicle as high into the air as she could before their extra passenger was too much of a threat to her Master. She then looped the chariot back down towards the ground at top speed. Hopping away from the reigns she kicked Vortigern's grasping hand away from her Master and grabbed hold of him herself, leaping from the chariot with Bedivere held tightly in her arms while Berserker was pinned against the back of the plummeting chariot by the g-force. The chariot and the horses drawing it safely dissipated, but only once close enough to the ground that Berserker could not escape the confines of the vehicle until it was too late for him to recover.
      Vortigern hit the ground like a bomb, digging a massive crater into the ground and sending chucks of dislodged dirt and rock flying in all directions. Throughout their initial attempts to shake him free, Boudica had been driving the chariot away from the more populated areas to find a good spot for the two to keep him busy, far away from his original target.
      Of course, keeping him from his target - the very man that had struck him down with the holy spear - would only enrage the Berserker further, granting him yet more power with which to batter them. As Rider made a perfect landing with her Master in her arms, like a mother holding her child, Vortigern was already pushing himself to his feet again, his talon-like gauntlets bared and thirsty for their blood.
      "I need time to prepare my chariot again," Rider explained quietly to her Master as both combatants drew their swords into ready positions.
      "I doubt we can use the same trick on him again, even if we survive long enough to call upon it," Bedivere responded, mustering up the courage to face this beast that had once ravaged this nation even before becoming a spirit. Even Merlin had been unsure how Vortigern had been eligible for summoning, which only served as yet further cause for concern surrounding Morgan's personal pick.
      "If all else fails, we can just grab Arthur and keep out of his range until we have proper reinforcements."
      "Or lure him back to Camelot. The defences there and Sir Lancelot's Servant should be enough to keep him at bay, at least."
      "Not a bad idea, Beddy," Boudica smiled warmly. "We can settle on a plan once my chariot is ready. In the meantime, let's show this foolish beast what the defenders of Britain do to tyrants."
      The instant this declaration was made, the tyrant in question was already upon them. His slashes and swings were wild, untamed, undisciplined. It was one thing to face an opponent with little formal training in combat through which to predict their movements. It was another entirely to face one who could throw out such strikes with such frequency that one could barely register that one blow had concluded by the time the next was on its way.
      Fighting a Berserker between the two made them more grateful than ever that the other was by their side, knowing full well that the fight would have ended already were they fighting this monster alone. An uncharacteristically sudden, swift roll in the air caught the two off-guard and allowed Vortigern to kick Boudica and send her flying several feet away. The dragon knight then gripped Rider's Master tightly around the wrist, apply pressure enough to force the sword from his hand. He then swung Bedivere up over his head, and slammed him down into the dirt.
      Fortunately for the knight, the ground beneath him was mostly soft soil from Berserker's earlier crash landing. Still, that did little to remove the danger of the attack. Luckily, Boudica was as quick on her feet as she was in her chariot, propelling herself into Vortigern with her sword in hand, sliding the blade between the folds of his scale-like armour as her body collided with his and knocked both Servants off their feet.
      Before Rider could find her feet, Berserker had his large, armoured claw gripped tightly around her ankle. He began spinning with his arm outstretched, swinging his enemy in a wide arc, around and around like a top. Before he could release her into yet another short-lived flight, Bedivere threw himself into the larger man, staying low and dropkicking his right leg out from under him, killing his momentum almost instantly and allowing Rider to escape unharmed from his weakened grasp.
      Of course, the downside of Bedivere's attack was that, although it had both saved Rider and provided an opportunity to get his own blade under his foe's armour, it also left him lying beneath his foe, who had no trouble keeping him pinned to the ground, even as Boudica tried to shove him off. Even gripping the hilt of her sword, still embedded deep in Berserker's body, did little to weaken him. Rather, it only seemed to anger him further.
      He grabbed Boudica by her flowing red mane, dragged her over his head and slammed her into the ground as he had Bedivere, Rider landing right above her Master's head. But even this was not enough to stop her for long. By the time Bedivere had swiped enough of his Servant's hair out of his face to see, she was up on her knees, staring down the other Servant with an expression twisting her kind features that he had not seen her bear since her encounter with Nero. Hate did not come easy to Boudica. But when it did...
      Weaponless, she launched herself into the Berserker, her knee colliding with his face. She then grabbed her sword and yanked it out of his torso, preparing to thrust it directly into his exposed jaw. But he easily pushed the blade to the side, throwing her off-balance and catching her around the throat. With the ease of tossing an apple, he viciously threw Boudica clear across the crater and turned his attention back towards the pinned knight.
      Bedivere dug his own blade out of Vortigern's body, attempting the same strike his Servant had. He managed to push the tip of his blade directly into Vortigern's jaw through the inside of his mouth. It took some fenagling, but Bedivere managed to pop Vortigern's jaw out of one of its sockets. For the first time, the roar of fury typical of the Berserker class transformed into howls of pain. Berserkers could endure much and barely feel any of it, but it seemed there were some wounds that even that superhuman endurance could do little to numb.
      Perhaps it was something tied to Vortigern himself. After all, the mouth was an essential tool of all dragons, with many unleashing some form of magical breath attack from within, alongside the powerful jaws. Any such ability would likely cause a severe sting, at the very least, with each attempted use. Bedivere pulled back his blade and aimed the tip for the roof of his foe's mouth, hoping he could pierce his brain now, but Vortigern was having none of it.
      He slammed a mighty palm down over Bedivere's wrist, keeping his sword hand pinned as the jagged gauntlets dug into the ground beneath it. Bedivere's attempt to punch his foe in the weakened jaw instead resulted in both hands being pinned down. Berserker lowered his face towards that of the pinned knight, his glowing white eyes now shifting to an ashy black. While his mouth was too broken and his mind too consumed with hate to verbalise it, Bedivere immediately understood, from descriptions he had heard of Vortigern, that he was preparing his Noble Phantasm.
      Vortigern was the human personification of the White Dragon of Britain, set on destroying Britain in rejection of the Age of Man. He had transformed into a gigantic tunnel-like creature of shadow, only resembling the typical image of a dragon in the loosest possible sense. This blackness emanating from his eyes and mouth, and now forming into devilish black wings on his back, was surely a sign of that abyssal wyrm's power being prepared to be unleashed.
      A full retinue of elite knights had been massacred in an instant by one attack from Vortigern, and Bedivere sensed that the mythic status of this unholy power was surely the form that his Noble Phantasm would take. He feared Vortigern might transform into his dragon form and crush him to death before laying waste to the battlefield; but he instead raised a hand and brought it down viciously into Bedivere's shoulder, definitely dislocating and very likely breaking the bone entirely. Bedivere's scream almost drowned out the guttural, rage-filled roar of the man responsible for this agony.
      On freshly-sprouted wings of shadow, Vortigern launched himself high into the air and drew back his head, collecting that vile substance within his gaping maw. Perhaps he was limited by the form of his legend, his supporters unwittingly keeping the image of their human king from taking on his draconic form. Or perhaps it was under command from his Master to keep him controllable. Or even due his original divine power being too great to be contained within a mere Heroic Spirit. Whatever the case may be, it seemed this was the form that his ultimate power had taken in this incarnation.
      As Vortigern threw his head forward and wretched out this torrent of black death upon his foe, Rider, made her way back to the edge of the crater. Taking only a moment to assess the situation and recognise what was happening, Rider recognised the threat this deadly ability posed, having heard the stories of the White Dragon's wicked power from her Master's fellow knight. This was a power designed to wipe out large swathes of enemy combatants in a single blast, incinerating them to mere dust with evil, onyx flames.
      With only seconds with which to act, Rider recognised that her own Noble Phantasm's most powerful property lacked the coverage to affect both Bedivere and herself. Boudica thought of her home, her people, her daughters, and her Master. The Queen of Victory had faced much loss during her lifetime - far more than any one person should ever need to, many would say. And she would sooner cast her soul into oblivion than allow this monster to destroy her precious little brother. Her course, then, was obvious.
      "O' Britain, burn this sight into your eyes! This is the form of the Heroic Spirit, Boudica! Chariot of Boudica!"
      The Chariot of Boudica was not an offence-based Noble Phantasm, but one meant to defend, as she once had her nation. The true property of this ability was potent defensive magic. Bedivere was submerged in this manifestation of the Queen of Victory's desire to protect her people and her family. He felt that, for all of his weariness, every ache and pain and bruise and cut and fractured bone he had suffered in this battle thus far... none of it mattered in the moment, as this maternal blanket of protection was now wrapped around him, like a babe in his mother's arms.
      He felt his body push through the pain as he forced himself to sit up. Even as the dragon's torrent continued for what felt like an age, the smaller man's body was barely moved and only felt the heat enough to realise it was actually touching him. Even his armour remained unscathed against the enemy's powerful attack.
      From his sitting position, he could finally see the rim of the crater, where Rider now stood. Wreathed in shadow, her form was lit only by a single ray of sunlight shining down in the distance behind her, likely shining down upon Sir Gawain's own struggles elsewhere. But right now, Gawain and Caster, ever Arthur and Saber, had entirely vacated Bedivere's thoughts. He recalled the many dreams he had seen of Boudica's life: of her love, her struggles and her end. In this moment, staring up at the regal figure standing high above him, staring down with that warm, gentle smile, as he felt her comforting embrace given true, tangible form through the legend she had carved for herself, Bedivere found himself truly in awe of his Servant's abilities.
      He then felt the flames strike at his heart now that his body was protected, as they spread quickly from where he sat, outward to the other edge of the crater, over and beyond the rim. It took only seconds for that noble figure to disappear once more into the wind, unjustly passed from this land she so loved and protected once again. By the time the shadowy flames finally died down, they left only desolate, black ash all around the injured knight.
      Bedivere was devastated. He had truly meant every word when he had told her that she was an inspiration for all knights - himself in particular. He had so enjoyed their time together, even if most of that time had been spent engaging in battle with depraved reprobates that sought to undo all that Boudica and Arthur had achieved. He wished, now, that he had told her that she had left an indelible mark, in both of her lives, upon this nation; and upon him.
      But she would never know this now...
      Vortigern returned to the ground around a dozen feet from Bedivere. He seemed worn out, as if this despicable assault upon the very land and history of Britain had actually come at a well-deserved cost. Bedivere pushed himself to his feet and switched his sword into his left hand, his right hanging uselessly at his side now that the numbing effect of Boudica's final protection was wearing off.
      Berserker stared him down for a time, both men assessing the other's injuries and remaining capabilities. That the dragon knight did not immediately rush in to finish off the crippled Master - no, former Master, he supposed - indicated that even Vortigern could not be sure he could finish this battle in his current state. After some undisclosed time of simply deciding, Vortigern moved to finish what he had started with Rider. Bedivere readied his blade, pointing its tip towards the encroaching Servant.
      But Berserker stopped in his tracks before he came into the range of Bedivere's thrusts. He turned his head towards the larger battle and stood stock still for a moment. Just as Bedivere moved to take advantage of his foe's distraction, Vortigern once more leapt through the air and into the distant fray, no doubt heeding the call of his Master.
      After all, Rider of Blue was now neutralised. Her Master, skilled though he may be, was no longer enough of a threat to be worth the time to finish him off - not when there were two other Servants whose Masters could be depowered by his abilities. And as that thought passed through his mind, his body finally gave out, what little protection and strength his Servant had given him in her final moments finally running out.
      He lay in the hardened, blackened, desolated soil, staring up at the overcast sky. By now, that spotlight of nobility and perseverance he had seen behind his Servant had seemingly disappeared alongside her. Utterly deflated, his useless arm barely registering the pain anymore, Bedivere could do naught but let the tears flow.
      He rolled onto his left side to keep his right arm off the hard ground as he held it tight with his uninjured hand. He cautiously removed his right gauntlet from his hand; cautious to avoid hurting himself any further, and also reluctant to see what he knew he would. Once the iron came loose, his saw the back of his useless hand. Where there had previously been two crimson symbols of command over his Servant, now there were only smudges - as if they had been drawn in ink and were now in the process of being scrubbed away. This confirmed that he was no longer a Master, as his Servant was no longer alive.
      Bedivere dropped his gauntlet and let his useless arm flop down into the dirt. Only after doing so did he see the ground beneath where he had lain as Vortigern unleashed his full power against him. The dirt here remained soft and brown. He now looked upon such dirt in an entirely new light. This was no mere dirt, but proof of the life yet within this beautiful land he had dedicated his life to protecting. Life that Queen Boudica had empowered him to protect.
      That she had entrusted him to protect.
      "In life, I couldn't save my people or my daughters," he remembered her saying, a mere few hours before this battle that would claim her life. "But in this second chance, even one life saved is enough for me. Just one, and I would feel like this life was not wasted."
      Bedivere smiled, knowing he could never match the warmth of hers, but hoping she could see him now and know he was trying. Mustering up his remaining strength, Bedivere pushed himself to his feet, retrieved his weapon, and dragged himself out of the crater.
      The devastation stretched far, leaving decimated trees and rock-hard earth in the wake of the twisted power of Vortigern. As far as he could tell, however, Boudica had made sure she was the only casualty of it. She had flown them far enough away from the field to keep the human cost to a minimum. She had taken what should have been a war-ending attack and shielded her beloved defenders of Britain from the ruin it wrought. Bedivere almost wondered if she had known, or at least suspected, Vortigern held such power and planned each step of her plan around it.
      Whatever the case, though, she had saved him. And in so doing, she had passed her role on to him: Britain was now his to protect. Vortigern was nowhere to be seen from where he stood. This could mean any number of things, but for now, he forced himself to assume he was still out there, targeting the two remaining Masters of Blue in this battle: Sir Gawain and the king. This fresh drive pushed his feet forward.
      Boudica, the Queen of Victory, had saved his life for a reason. And that reason was to once more protect his king and his country. With the faith and trust of Britain's greatest king and her greatest queen placed in him, Sir Bedivere made his way back towards Camlann, ready to put this second chance to good use - just as the inspirational Queen Boudica had.

Chapter Text

      The battle was a struggle, despite their significant advantage in numbers. Morgan's monsters and allies stayed out of the fray, while any of Camelot's soldiers that attempted to assist the siblings were cut down quickly, aggressively, without hesitation or concern.
      Lancelot and Achilles, among the most exemplar men of their respective eras, were formidable foes, almost beyond compare. Just as Gawain was the clear superior in swordsmanship of all of his siblings, Lancelot equally towered over Gawain as a warrior. Without the power boost form Excalibur Galatine, he would surely have been killed very soon into their duel. Lancelot's fighting style now was... borderline unreadable. He was wild, berserk, unpredictable. If nothing else, Gawain doubted Lancelot could predict his moves while in this state.
      But that thought provided little comfort when he felt the warm strength of Caster's sunlight leave him, which even in his current state, Lancelot seemed to recognise. Gawain managed to block the oncoming strike, but the larger man put enough force into the blow to knock Gawain down the slope to where Gareth, Gaheris and their Servants were struggling against Berserker. Lancelot was stopped from pursuing by other knights rushing to hold him off, but they would be no match for the Knight of the Lake.
      Instead of clambering back up the slope, knowing that Berserker was Achilles of Greek myth, Gawain opted to join his siblings in battle with the Servant, strike his weak point and finish him off, then return to the fray above as a family. As he approached, sword in his ready position, Berserker was showing why the tide of the Trojan War had so often turned at the whims of this singular warrior.
      Rider swung his spear low, towards Achilles' ankle. He stomped on the polearm, digging its tip into the dirt and dragging Rider closer. A vicious headbutt then sent the centaur staggering. Assassin appeared from above, emerging from Presence Concealment, only to be grabbed by the throat and flung directly into the now recovering centaur, sending both skittering across the dirt.
      He then grabbed Gareth's lance as she thrust towards him, yanking it free from her grasp and launching it Gaheris' way. The brother managed to dodge in time for Gareth to be kicked clear across the crater. Gawain and Gaheris both attacked Berserker as one, shifting back into old habits naturally as they unleashed a furious flurry of slashes and thrusts and swipes and swings his way. Only a handful were not deflected by Achilles' own weapon or dodged to equal effectiveness.
      Even Gareth's return to the fray with her lance, all three siblings working as one as they once had under Arthur, did little to turn the tide. Gawain doubted the three would be able to match Berserker even were the three themselves Heroic Spirits bolstered by exaggerated legends.
      Before too long, Achilles sent a powerful thrust Gaheris' way. He dodged, letting the lance soar between his ribs and arm, clamping his arm down around it to keep it in place to create an opening for his siblings. This did little too help, however, as the demi-god's monstrous strength allowed him to lift Gaheris off of his feet and swing his lance towards Gareth, using Gaheris like the head of a war hammer to smack Gareth and send both once more crashing to the dirt, leaving Gawain alone to continue fighting.
      Gawain had no real idea what had happened to Caster that had put an end to her assistance. He sensed that she had not been struck down quite yet, but she was no longer able to support him and empower his legendary blade. As skilled a swordsman as he was, confident he could take Lancelot in a duel, he was no match for a Servant, least of all a furious Berserker. Doubly so with a nigh unkillable foe such as Achilles.
      Even in his class's titular state, driven by pure bloodlust and a warrior's instinct, Achilles never left his iconic weakness exposed for more than a second. He was powerful and smart, even now. Gawain lamented the absence of Sir Tristan and Sir Galahad and his Archer. He would even accept Archer of Red's aid, at this point.
      Gawain began to formulate a plan. If he could keep Achilles distracted long enough, then Gareth, Gaheris, Rider and Assassin might be able to recover from their wounds and strike down the mad knight commanding the Greek demi-god. It pained him to desire his former comrade's demise, but Lancelot had left them no choice.
      Berserker thrust his Pelian Spear towards Gawain, who just about managed to deflect the blow with his own blade. Then, Achilles spun on the ball of one foot and put all of his might into a fierce kick with the other, striking the flat of Gawain's blade, slamming the other side into him and knocking him clean off his feet, his weapon flying a few metres away and landing in the dirt.
      Gawain scrambled to reach his weapon in time as the legendarily swift Greek hero finished off two soldiers of Camelot that intervened to buy Gawain time. But they could not buy enough. Achilles was already within striking range as Gawain gripped the hilt of his blade. The best the Knight of Camelot could hope for was to swing his blade from below and rely on Achilles' proximity to keep him from evading, even if Gawain had to be struck down to do it.
      But Gawain was suddenly thrown off his feet, flying away from the spot where his blade had fallen, able to do naught but look on in horror as Gareth now occupied his former position. The spear erupted out of her back in seconds that felt like days to Gareth and Gaheris. By the time the world moved at its usual pace and Gawain hit the floor, Berserker had already discarded the younger knight and was once more advancing upon Gawain, intent on making her sacrifice meaningless.
      That was when Gaheris slashed Achilles in the back. The Greek warrior was staggered by this and Gaheris thrust the tip of his blade towards the Servant's back. The Berserker dodged this, now focusing his attention upon the other brother. Through their new positions, Gawain could now see Lancelot, cutting down scores of fellow defenders of Camelot, like he were a Berserker himself.
      Gaheris' eyes met Gawain's through a sideways glance, before darting towards Lancelot and back. This subtly told Gawain to make his move against Lancelot. It seemed that, whatever Morgan had done to him, Gaheris, ultimately, was still Gaheris. Gawain slowly repositioned himself, pretending to be prepping for a pincer attack. Once Achilles moved against Gaheris, his attention fully diverted for the moment, Gawain made a mad sprint up the slope towards Berserker's Master.
      Lancelot had another knight impaled upon Arondight, while another was held by the throat. Seeing Gawain charge up towards them, the two men gave up trying to free themselves, instead putting all of their remaining strength into holding their former comrade by the arms. With his arms held out at his sides, Lancelot's chest was left open.
      By the time Achilles had dropped Gaheris' dying body at his sister's side and noticed the threat to his Master, Gawain was smashing his blade through the other knight's purple armour, impaling him as his Servant had done to Gawain's siblings. The force of his charge sent all four men crashing to the ground.
      The choked man was the first to rise, scrambling for his own discarded blade to fend off the homunculi that made to move against Gawain. The man himself remained panting on the floor beside the man whose body was now impaled upon his blade.
      Their eyes met and the world seemed to vanish around them. Their minds filled with memories of fighting side-by-side in Camelot's defence. Of their friendly rivalry in games of tactics. Of sparring with each other and their fellow knights. Of the duelling tournament for the knights that Lancelot had proposed and ultimately won.
      Friends. That was what they had once been. But now, thanks to this vile War, they had become enemies. Lancelot had betrayed the king through his affair with the queen. Gawain had been unsure if he could ever forgive him for that, regardless of how much he had wanted to. But now, Lancelot had charged the Camelot forces, slaughtered God only knew how many of their comrades that had been fighting to defend their nation. And his Servant had murdered Gawain's siblings.
      Gareth and Gaheris lay dead or dying down the slope, and Gawain knew for a fact that Agravain would not have allowed Lancelot to leave Camelot. And with the state Lancelot had been in, Gawain very much doubted his other brother had lived long enough to let him go. Whatever Lancelot's reasons for this march of destruction, Gawain was sure he would never forgive his fellow knight.
      And yet, as he watched the tears form in the other man's eyes, his regret reaching deeper than any Gawain had ever seen before... he found that he could not truly hate him. Not like with Mordred. But he also felt no desire to ease Lancelot's burden. He simply lay there, watching him die, able to do little else while he recovered.
      Something in the man's demeanour had changed at the moment of impact. Gawain wondered if, perhaps, Morgan had gotten to him as she had Gareth and Gaheris. But it hardly mattered, at this point. Willingly or otherwise, Lancelot had become a threat to the throne, to the war effort. And that threat was now neutralised. There would be time later for regrets. For now, the Knight of the Sun knew he must make all of these deaths mean something. And to decide what to tell Galahad of his father's rampage, should he ever return to them...
      It was as Gawain began to gather up his willpower to force himself to his feet and continue on that one of the Servants of Blue approached their fallen comrade: Berserker. Achilles looked over the three fallen knights, piecing together what exactly had transpired, the still-dripping blood soaking much of his lance confirming for Gawain what had become of his brother.
      The look Achilles bore in his eyes as he glared down upon the man who had killed his Master was what Gawain imagined Hector had seen in his final duel. Fuelled by vengeance for his fallen master as he had been for his fallen lover back then, Achilles raised his weapon, poised to pierce the heart of the fallen knight, as accurately as the arrow that took his own life. He was then lifted off the ground by the massive centaur Servant of Gareth and held high above the centaur's head. Stuck in the air as he was, Achilles was powerless to resist as the Assassin of Red appeared from her Presence Concealment and unleashed her Noble Phantasm, Uraeus Astrape, summoning a massive ethereal serpent that devastated the surrounding area, but deal severe damage to Achilles, bypassing the protection of his Andreias Amarantos though her Divinity.
      It was something Merlin had warned Lancelot about earlier in the War, upon discovering the enemy Assassin possessed this trait. Divinity surpassed Achilles' invulnerability to varying degrees. It seemed to be somewhat limited, as Achilles wound up in better condition than the foe that had held him in place. But even so, he had been weakened by the attack. Just not enough to be unable to precisely launch his lance towards Assassin, forcing her to flee to avoid being skewered.
      Not ready to stop quite yet, Rider pushed himself to his hooves and grabbed Achilles by the leg, swinging him over his head and down into the ground. Achilles then kicked Rider in the face with his free foot and easily escaped the centaur's grip. He then managed to retrieve his weapon and prepare for the next round.
      The next exchange of blows went entirely in Achilles' favour, likely from his experience training with his centaur mentor Chiron. Each attempt to strike Achilles was met with a punch, a slash or a headbutt.
      "Apologies for the delay, Master!" Caster's voice came in loud and clear via telepathy. "I was distracted by that troublesome dragon knight, but I am ready to assist once more."
      Forcing himself to his feet, Gawain gripped Excalibur Galatine's hilt harder than he ever had before. He felt Tamamo's warm sunlight before he saw it. His body felt a little lighter. Just enough so to push himself into a short sprint. "ACHILLES!" he exclaimed, catching the turncoat Servant's attention. Seeing him coming, and perhaps only now knowing Berserker's True Name, Rider grabbed the momentarily distracted Servant and lifted him off his feet, just high enough for Gawain to slide through the mud and slash at the Greek's exposed heel.
      Gawain could practically feel the change his Berserker's power as his weak point was struck. It was not enough to outright kill him without a seriously powerful Noble Phantasm, but this strike was certainly enough to leave him as vulnerable to lethal wounds as any other demi-god. And that was where Rider came in. Throwing Achilles clear into the air, he loaded his spear onto a massive bow, like an enormous, god-killing arrow.
      "Among men, Lu Bu!" the centaur declared proudly. "Among horses, Red Hare! Among women, Sir Gareth! Imitation God Force!"
      The spear was launched from the bowstring at high speed, rocketing through the air and striking Achilles through the chest. The green-haired Greek plummeted to the earth with a wound that he could surely not survive now, his protection bypassed by Divinity and then shattered with Excalibur Galatine. Granted, if Gawain were to choose Servants he expected could survive two Noble Phantasms, Achilles would certainly be at the very top of that list. But from where he sat, Achilles seemed to be as still as a rock. It was only when his body began to disappear in a cloud of golden energy that Gawain could let out the breath he was holding.
      "Master of Blue," Rider spoke, surprising Gawain. He had heard the horse-faced Servant speak a moment ago, but actually seeing his mouth form the words was truly surreal. "My Master is not long for this world."
      Suddenly remembering the state his siblings had been left in now that there were no more distractions, Gawain began to rush toward them, but his sore, tired body was not in the mood for such exertion. But he quickly found himself lifted under Rider's arm, the centaur galloping down the slope to where Gareth and Gaheris lay. Somehow, his siblings were still holding on, even long after Lancelot had passed. But it was clear that there was no way to save them now.
      Rider slowly lowered Gawain to his knees between his two siblings. Assassin joined the four soon after, as Gawain reached for one of each of his siblings' hands.
      "Guh-Gawain?" Gareth asked in that same tiny voice she had earlier.
      "I'm here," he assured her, squeezing both their hands tighter.
      "I-I'm s-sorry... We... We betrayed-"
      "You stop that." Gawain would hear none of this. "Morgan, that witch, did this. You two have naught to be ashamed, nor guilty for. Had you the chance, you would have fought with us against her. I know it. Only Mordred deserves such scorn."
      "P-Please," Gaheris sputtered through the blood pooling in the dirt from his mouth. "S-Save... Arthur... From Mordred."
      "I-I will! I will keep our uncle safe. I promise."
      Gareth smiled through her pain, both physical and emotional. "I kn-know... y-you..."
      The light faded from Gareth's eyes one final time. Gawain looked over to his brother and saw that he had passed on before their sister. Gawain held their hands tight as he lowered his head and wept.
      Rider stepped closer to Gawain and place a massive hand upon his shoulder, comfortingly. "It has been a long time since my Master truly smiled. I have trained myself to recognise a truly happy smile when I see one. You brought back her true smile in her final moments, Master Gawain. For that, you have my eternal gratitude."
      "No, I-"
      "You saved her from eternal despair, where I could not. You have earned my respect and my loyalty. I will fight with you, for as long as I have mana left to maintain my existence in this era. I will fight for Gareth."
      Gawain tried to fight the smile that formed on his lips as he nodded his appreciation for his former foe's words. He stood and addressed the centaur. "I'm sure she loved having you for a Servant, Rider. Thank you for making her final days somewhat happy."
      "You honour me, Sir."
      "As for me, I am feeling rather spent," Assassin sighed from beside them, her form already aglow with the golden sign of a Servant ready to depart this world. "Mine is not a Noble Phantasm used lightly. And with my own Master passing on, I will be going on ahead, Rider."
      "Thank you for your support, Queen of Egypt." Rider bowed deeply. "We could not have stopped Berserker without you."
      Cleopatra smiled. "Hm. Naturally." Her body then faded away into nothing.
      Rider offered Gawain a hand, but he found fresh resolve, even without Caster's aid. He raised high Excalibur Galatine, its brilliance becoming a beacon of challenge for all of Morgan's vile minions. The first such fool was a large troll of some sort. Its head hit the ground mere seconds after it accepted his challenge. And it would not be the last to meet such a fate. Such was the determination of Gawain and Red Hare.

      Ruler observed this development from his hilltop perch. There was no specific rule against Servants changing allegiances, which Plato believed was a sign that the rules of the Wars were actually rather fickle for such a grand affair as this pseudo-centennial event. The only proviso was that a formal contract was required for the allowance of such a turn. And Sir Gawain was no mage. Rider of Red could not formally become his Servant.
      Plato almost lamented this being so. He could only imagine how different this battle would play out if Rider were able to continue running riot on the side of Blue. But it was not to be. Rider had only the mana provided him by the Grail during his Master's life with which to continue engaging in this battle. That was not an insignificant amount, but he felt it would last a short enough time that intervention was unwarranted. Rider would return to the Throne in short order. That was unavoidable. But Ruler saw no reason to deny the Blue Faction this small boon after Morgan le Fay had used her witchcraft to tip the scales so far against them.
      He doubted he would be called upon to officiate again after this bending of the rules, flexible though they may be. He doubted he would ever again be allowed to be summoned as a competitor in this world, either. But he was okay with that. This entire system was far too open for manipulation, and he would sooner avoid dancing to this Grail's whims any further.
      And so he did nothing. He allowed Red Hare to avenge his Master in the way he saw fit, for as long as he was able to persist in this world. It would certainly make for a memorable conclusion, Plato imagined.

Chapter Text

      Recognising her role in the battle had been the easiest part for Artoria. Whether she liked it or not, was prepared for it or not, her role had been chosen for her by her greatest rival in this conflict. Sir Mordred had wasted no time in making his way over to her with his own Saber Servant, now clad in his full white and red battle dress.
      Knowing this duel was inevitable, Artoria ordered her men to hang back; to hold off any enemy that might try to tip the scales in Mordred's favour, but to otherwise stay out of it. After all, armed with both Clarent and a Servant, Mordred would reach her eventually. And Artoria would rather face her fate head-on than postpone it with the lives of those most dedicated to her cause.
      Artoria stood with her sword planted firmly in the dirt at her feet, awaiting the arrival of her opponent, who at the very least chose not to keep her waiting. Sir Mordred was punctual, if nothing else. Artoria expected him to approach with his typical cocky swagger, taunting her, insulting her rule, imitating her stance in mockery up close as he had at range. But he was instead focused, reserved. She wondered if it was the influence of Morgan, or perhaps the Saber of Red, that tempered his usual brashness.
      Indeed, the Servant in question appeared exactly as Sirs Percival and Bedivere had described her: a dead ringer for Artoria, but more openly feminine - softer features and larger chest on full display. And her regal authority was undeniable. Artoria felt truly blessed that none that had laid eyes upon this Saber seemed to have pieced together that Artoria herself was also a woman.
      "Ah, at last we meet, King of Knights," the woman said, summoning her sword and planting it into the ground as Artoria's was. But Artoria sensed no mockery in this action. In fact, her doppelgänger seemed to be assessing their similarities as Artoria was. "Umu! I see you are as beautiful as I was led to believe! It is truly an honour that your son mistook me for you the moment he laid eyes on me."
      Artoria cocked an eyebrow. She believed that nonsense as well?
      A short while before the Grail War began, Mordred had approached Artoria with this claim - that he was the bastard offspring of some incestuous union of Artoria and Morgan. In truth, there was a brief time during Artoria's consummation of her marriage with Guinevere that she could not remember. Her mind was a total blank. Given her... situation at that time, it was possible her blankness of mind had come from some enchantment cast by Morgan to extract her... well...
      Anyway, that was not something Artoria liked to dwell upon. She always tried to keep that disconcerting loss of awareness out of her mind. So, when Mordred came to her and claimed to be the result of a disturbing union held during that time - one that made a sickening amount of sense, despite the clear age difference... Artoria had known all the details lined up, given that Morgan must surely have used some form of witchcraft to make it work, which could explain just about any discrepancy in Mordred's claims.
      But this constant reminder of that traumatic violation of her mind and body made Artoria reject the very notion of parentage. She convinced herself that Mordred was another child of Morgan and King Lot, or perhaps a homunculus with no true connection to Artoria. And that was partly why she rejected Mordred that day. She knew she could have- should have handled the matter in a more logical, dispassionate manner. But she did not.
      Mordred had clearly been hurt by Artoria's rejection. Whether his claim of parentage was true or not, it was clear that he believed it. The young man who looked up to Artoria, as all his siblings did, learning (presumably from his mother) that Artoria was his father... Artoria could easily imagine how excited such news had made him. In fact, she recalled now how child-like his tone had been as he approached her that day.
      And the contrast with the vile hatred with which his green-eyed gaze now captured her own was haunting.
      "Hm? Were you not aware?" Nero Claudius asked, seeming to misunderstand the reason for Artoria response. "...I see. It appears I have gotten a little ahead of myself. My apologies."
      "He already knows," Mordred snapped. He let out a deep sigh, sliding his sword off of its resting spot on his shoulder and swinging it around to point Clarent's tip towards Artoria. "I already told him once before. And he rejected me. His own son and rightful heir to the throne."
      Artoria waited, took a breath, and observed Shirou's lack of surprise. He avoided eye contact, but made no objection. It seemed there may actually be some truth to this claim if Shirou, a man from a time when her story was known all around the world, was not surprised by the allegation of an incestuous union.
      Rather, his expression suggested he was forming new questions in his mind - as if he had long known all the individual details, but never put them together to form the full picture. Mordred seemed to pick up on this internal struggle as well.
      "Surprised, Saber of Blue?" he chuckled. "That's right. I don't know all the details, but Mother says she used magic to make it happen."
      Now, Shirou showed surprise. Had he not known, then, that Morgan was Mordred's mother? Admittedly, Artoria had explained less of the current state of affairs to him than her knights had to their Servants, as she had assumed he already had all the answers once she learned he was from a future time. A miscalculation, it seemed. Inaccurate or incomplete records should have been something she had considered. Alas.
      "Sir Mordred-"
      "Quite the time to be treating me with respect, isn't it, Father?"
      It was not the potency of the venom with which Mordred referred to Artoria that struck her like a dagger to the heart. She had never considered this man her child for even a moment. But his tone made clear exactly how much Artoria had hurt him. Once again, the validity of his claimed mattered not at all here. It was his belief in the assertion that did. And Artoria's rejection of him had led him right back to Morgan, submitting to her as the spearhead of her war against Artoria. Had she only tried to ease him into a rational discussion back then, this War would have gone very differently.
      Perhaps, he would be fighting by her side at this very moment, helping her to dispatch some alternative Master of Saber. Perhaps, he could have helped to keep Sir Percival, Sir Galahad, Semiramis, Arash or Longinus alive. Perhaps, he could have rallied these disenfranchised lords back to her side. Perhaps, the War would have been won by now...
      Sir Tristan was correct. Artoria truly did not understand the hearts of men. And it had cost her kingdom greatly.
      "Why are you bringing all this up now?" Shirou asked calmly, surprising Artoria. "Surely, you don't expect the king to make you his heir now, even if you really are his son."
      "Huh?" Mordred responded, sheer disgust on his face as he eyed his father's Servant. "You got somethin' to say, lapdog?"
      "I must also ask the same, Master," the other Saber admitted. "You are rash, but not stupid. You are Morgan le Fay's bastard son and a traitor to this nation. I know for a fact, you are not so dim as to believe your father would accept you as his heir now. So, then, why are we truly having this discussion right now?"
      "I just want him to know exactly why he's going to die to my blade," Mordred huffed cockily. "Frankly, it doesn't matter whether he accepts me or not. After I eliminate him, Mother will take over the kingdom, and-"
      "And what, Sir Mordred?" Artoria demanded, her shaken resolve now once more steadied. "Do you imagine Morgan will place you upon the throne? You are a mere tool for her, you must see this. Were she to take over this nation, at best, she would have planned to install King Lot in my place. And that is assuming he was more to her than a mere tool."
      "No. You're wrong! Mother loves her children, unlike you!"
      "You think she loves Gaheris and Gareth?"
      It was now Artoria's turn to stun Mordred with her words. It seemed that, for all his faults, Sir Mordred did care for his siblings. Perhaps Artoria could leverage that.
      "Is that why she would strip her children of their free will, force them to fight against their friends and idols? Out of love? Imagine, before you came to me with news of our relation, had Morgan sent you to kill me then, I imagine it is similar to how Gareth would feel fighting Sir Lancelot, or Gaheris against Gawain. Can you truly say you had no problem fighting your brother at those ruins?"
      "I... I won't..."
      "I see no love from Morgan. I see only an opportunistic, manipulative, spiteful woman who creates life solely so she can control it for her own ends. The circumstances of your birth may differ from Gawain, Agravain, Gareth and Gaheris, but I assure you, your mother sees you as no different from the rest."
      "No! Shut up! You're just trying to manipulate me!"
      "No. I see now how Morgan has controlled you all your life. How she has forged you into a weapon with which to strike me down. You deserve better. You deserve a real family." Artoria held out a hand. "Return to our side, Sir Morded. Help us defeat Morgan and save Gareth and Gaheris. Even if you are not my heir, I can still be your family, along with Gawain and the others."
      Mordred stared at Artoria's open hand for a while, seeming to consider the offer. Then, he lowered his head. "I don't want your pity," Mordred spat, bringing his sword into a ready position. "I want nothing more to do with you. You had your chance to be my father and you tossed it aside. Just as I will to your lifeless remains."
      Artoria sighed mournfully. "And you had yours to be my knight." Artoria brought her own blade to bear. "It appears there is no room in Britain for both of us."
      "No. I guess there isn't. Saber, kill that other Servant."
      Saber of Red sighed regretfully. "I am sorry it has come to this, King of Knights, Saber of Blue. But I am duty-bound to obey my Master." She drew her sword and entered her ready stance. "If he commands me to fight, then I must."
      "You do what you have to, Saber," Shirou said with a smile as he drew his own blades. "And I will do the same."
      "Umu!" Nero responded, re-inflated by Shirou's determination. "Then let us make this a battle for the ages, Saber of Blue!"
      The two Sabers were gone in a flash, the only signs of their continued presence being the cacophony of clashing steel cascading all around the two Pendragons as their own mighty blades became locked in a fierce struggle.

      "There!" Rider called out, pointing towards the dragon knight making his way towards the centre of the battlefield from the outskirts, where Caster had managed to send him during their brief encounter while Gawain was busy dealing with Lancelot and Achilles. Gawain had asked Rider to keep an eye out for enemy Servants. To their knowledge, the Blue Faction still had Caster, Saber, Rider, and now the enemy Rider fighting for them, while the Red Faction had only its own Saber and Berserker remaining. So long as Archer failed to return in time, the Blue Faction had the advantage.
      Of course, the advantage in numbers did little to counter the enemy Berserker being Vortigern, who was now single-mindedly advancing upon the duel between Arthur and Mordred. That was why Gawain issued his command: "We must not allow him to reach the king! He has the power to drain the power from Excalibur."
      "And from your blade as well," Rider noted, showcasing the knowledge the Red Faction had been granted by Morgan.
      "So long as the king has Rhongomyniad, Vortigern can be slain again. But we need to hold him here, until the king's business with Mordred is complete."
      "Leave that to me, Master!" Caster chirped through telepathy from her nearby hiding spot. "I have gotten rather good at redirecting that brute."
      A large stream of flame rocketed across the sky above them from wherever she was currently hiding, no doubt erupting from a circle of paper talismans as Gawain had witnessed during her last clash with Saber of Red. The blaze caught the airborne Vortigern by surprise, but did little to slow him down. Fortunately, Rider had already been preparing his own anti-air attack, picking up a large rock and nailing his foe centre mass with it while he was blinded by the flames.
      The impact of the rock shattering across his chest caused Berserker to drop from the air and crash into the ground a short distance from the two. Given the driving animalistic instinct that had been observed of Vortigern, Gawain and his companions hoped he was a Berserker of rage and not of obsession, lest he ignore them and continue on his way towards the king. Fortunately, it was rage. Unfortunately, that rage was now redirected towards the two Servants that had just knocked him out of the sky, and the knight that had once helped to slay him.
      Vortigern was quick to focus his aggression against his great nephew, but his swift lunge towards him was not fast enough that Rider could not intercept him with a savage tackle. From sheer size and muscle alone, Gawain almost thought that Red Hare just might be the only Servant aside from Achilles that may actually be able to keep pace with this monster.
      This hope was dashed, however, as Vortigern quickly turned the grapple to his favour and had Rider firmly in his own grasp, shoving his opponent's equine head into the dirt at an angle that looked like it would break the centaur's neck in mere moments. But Gawain refused to allow the one that had brightened his sister's final days to die here. Not like this. Not to him.
      As if Tamamo sensed his resolve, she once again supported her Master's blade with her command over sunlight. Gawain felt as light as air as he lunged towards his late relative and swung for him. He wondered if Tamamo's reinforcement might be able to safeguard his blade's power against even the White Dragon's shadowing power. It seemed to be able to for a short time, at least, as Gawain slashed Vortigern across his back, just below his shoulder blades. He was fairly certain he cut deep enough to sever Vortigern's spine, but him being a highly durable dragon made it difficult to know for sure.
      Regardless, Rider was out of Vortigern's grasp and the two warriors could now attack him from both sides. Aside from the few instances where his body shifted unexpectedly and one of their weapons went wide, the two were able to keep laying into him quickly and furiously enough to keep him from properly retaliating.
      From her hiding spot by some now burnt out trees, Tamamo prepared a few offensive spells to support her Master and the centaur who cast a surprisingly noble silhouette.
      A rustling behind her drew her attention away from the battle as she whirled around and levelled her talisman circle towards the approaching figure. She gasped when she recognised him.
      "Sir Bedivere!"
      The beautiful knight was in bad shape. Covered in mud and blood, his right arm hung limply at his side, his left struggling to use his sword for support as he slowly staggered his way closer. Tamamo rushed over to him and took him in her arms to support her Master's friend. Fortunately, his body was much slenderer and lighter than her Master's. She liked Bedivere. He was always polite when speaking with her, treating her more as a friend than a mere comrade like the other Masters of Blue did. She wondered if that was the influence of-
      "What happened? Where is Boudica?"
      Sir Bedivere averted his eyes. That immediately explained everything.
      "Well, you are still here," she said, putting on her brightest smile. "Here, let me fix you up." A warm glow emanated from her hands, spreading through the knight's sore, tired body.
      He shook his head, tried to push himself out of her embrace. But he was unable to muster the strength. "Never mind me. Keep your focus on Sir Gawain."
      "Hush now," the fox woman cooed like a loving wife towards her sick husband. "Master will be fine for a few moments without me. He has that Rider with him."
      "R-Rider?" Bedivere sputtered. Had she somehow managed to escape? No, the remaining Command Seals had vanished from his hand. She was definitively gone. Then, had Caster somehow summoned another Servant to assist them? Was that even possible?
      "I-I did not mean to give you false hope, Sir. Rider of Red. Red Hare. He has switched sides."
      "Why?" Bedivere asked, shocked. His eyes widened yet further as a thought crossed his mind. Tamamo then squashed that idea before he could even finish asking "Does-"
      "No. I am sorry. Rider and Assassin's Masters..."
      Just as she understood where his mind was going instantly, Bedivere understood Tamamo's meaning, even without the words being uttered.
      "Who is left?" Bedivere asked, the strain in his voice now purely emotional, as his body mended itself as best it could under Tamamo's magical influence.
      "My Master and me. Yourself. Rider of Red. The two Sabers and their Masters. And Berserker of Red is engaged with my Master and Rider-"
      Bedivere now had the strength to pry himself free of Tamamo's grip and move into a spot to better witness the clash. Sir Gawain's astounding skill with a blade never ceased to amaze his comrade. But it was clear that his sword was generally ineffective. Whether it was due to the fact that he was facing a Servant, a Berserker specifically, an armoured knight, or one with the power to dull his blade, Bedivere could not say.
      All that he could say was, "Strengthen Gawain. I will protect him." With that, he cast off his cloak, drew his sword with his (mostly) healed right hand, and leapt gallantly into the fray.
      Tamamo was left to wonder if perhaps Sir Bedivere might make for rather spectacular husband material.

      Despite their visual similarities and their shared class and weapon type, Nero Claudius did not fight like Artoria. Her style favoured one-handed swings and thrusts, compared to Artoria's firm two-handed style. Shirou had spent so much time under both Artoria and Fuji-nee's tutelage practicing against two-handed styles that he struggled to contend with this type of style being used to wield such a lengthy and heavy blade. He had faced many swordsmen with this type of style, but those had been normal humans with much smaller blades - machetes or rapiers - not such an oddly-shaped broadsword.
      The only thing keeping him from being hopelessly outclasses was that his opponent seemed to have her own uneven sparring history, as she seemed to struggle to counter Shirou's two-bladed style. Generally, whoever was currently on the offensive was the one with the advantage. But Shirou was sure his own style was far less unorthodox than his foe's. This meant she would likely adjust to his before he did to hers. He needed to end this soon.
      Before he knew it, the two Sabers had managed to clash their way a short distance away from their Masters, leaving the two of them to their own duel in relative privacy. Shirou was the one standing with his back to the clash of Masters, leaving him unable to observe Artoria's own duel without leaving himself open to attack. The anxiety this induced was almost overwhelming.
      "You are concerned from your Master's wellbeing," Nero observed, as if reading Shirou's mind. "Mm-hm, do not look so surprised. Any Servant worth their salt must worry for their Master's safety, seeing as they act as their Servant's tether to this world."
      The pride on display over her correct deduction that adorned Nero's features smoothly gave way for a softer, more contemplative tone.
      "But your concern is different from most. Indeed, it is a concern I have seldom seen among my own camp in this War. He- Hmph, why pretend anymore? - She is special to you."
      Shirou's eyes grew the widest they had yet. As far as he was aware, no one in all of Artoria's lives - the original, her life as a Servant, or this one - had ever managed to work out that she was a woman. Only those closest to her and to him had ever found out, to his knowledge. And those all fell under very specific circumstances. But this woman... who looked almost exactly like her... Oh...
      Nero Claudius chuckled behind her soft, pale hand at Shirou's mental struggle. It was only now that he noticed the other Saber's hands were somewhat smaller than Artoria's, making her mastery of her blade all the more impressive.
      "Surprised? I am the Emperor of Roses! Roses that sprang forth wherever Venus, the goddess of love, set foot. I recognise love in all its forms, Saber of Blue. And your allegiance may be blue, but your love is as red hot as it comes."
      Shirou cringed a little.
      "Not my finest work," she admitted, her cheeks slightly reddening, "but my point is no less valid. You love your king, your Master, more than a Servant typically does - not merely as your Master, but as a woman. The circumstances remain yours and yours alone, but their consequences are clear to see. That is why I tell you now that if your Master is even half the warrior my own has asserted her to be, then she can hold her own against her son. Trust her to be the warrior you fell in love with and focus on your own opponent. Focus on defeating me to get back to her."
      Shirou chuckled quietly at this. He really was still that same teenage boy that had fallen for Artoria all those years from now. Still so protective of her that he continued to underestimate her. He knew she could protect herself. This was the era that defined her legend. She may not be a demigod-level Servant with an A++-ranked Anti-Fortress Noble Phantasm, but she was King Arthur - Artoria Pendragon; the hero whose ideals he aspired to, and whose dream he had long ago decided was one worth dying for.
      "I can see why your people loved you, Emperor Nero."
      Nero beamed. "Umu! Would you believe you are not the first person in this era to have said so?"
      Shirou grinned and took a firm battle stance. "Absolutely."
      "Well then, Saber of Blue-"
      "Shirou. My name is Shirou Emiya. Even if it doesn't help you figure out my abilities, you should at least know the name of your opponent before we duel."
      Nero nodded happily and gave out her loudest "Umu!" yet. "I have found myself a noble opponent indeed. I hope your skill can live up to your character, Shirou Emiya!"
      "If it didn't, I wouldn't have been summoned here to protect her."
      "Yes! Let your love drive your blades and show me how high Cupid's wings will let you soar!"

Chapter Text

     Artoria was more than a match for Mordred, in terms of skill. For as adept with a blade as he was, Artoria remained the superior swordsman, having over a decade of experience over the younger warrior. Mordred's strength instead lay in... well, his strength. While Artoria had little issue deflecting or blocking her foe's attacks, each impact that did land across her own blade shook her, physically and emotionally.
     Even now, Artoria did not view Mordred as her son. But the sheer hatred with which he now fought her - not mystically induced as it was with his siblings - when contrasted with the way he used to idolise her... it haunted her. To a point, this dramatic shift was her own doing, born from her rejecting his earnest desire to be her son. It had all been part of Morgan's plot, she was sure, and she was certain he knew this. But to Mordred, that detail was insignificant, compared to the fact that the king he had adored and sought to emulate for so long had rejected him outright at a time when surely (in his mind), 'Arthur' should have rejoiced and embraced him.
     But Mordred had proven himself an ill fit for the throne in his subsequent petulance, far beyond her prior assessment of him that had suggested the same. So now, all that remained was to put him down, like a rabid dog. A rabid dog that had once been her loyal companion... Picturing this comparison - a once loyal, adorable puppy that wagged his tail as he followed her around, now grown into a bloodthirsty hound - only made her decision stab at her chest all the more.
     But she was determined to go through with it, all the same. Mordred had willingly joined the anti-Camelot faction, manipulated or not. He had had many chances to repent after the atrocities committed by his mother and their comrades. Yet, he persisted, all the way up to staging a rebellion and levelling his sword at his king's throat. For the sake of her nation, Artoria determined that she must put an end to her 'son', lest she allow her history in Shirou's future to repeat itself...
     Mordred ducked low and swung up in a shockingly swift motion that caught Artoria off-guard. She managed to block the blow with her sword, but the sheer force of the attack knocked her off-balance, her left hand losing its grip on Excalibur's hilt, while the right just barely managed to hold on for dear life. Mordred spun around to retain some momentum, before bringing Clarent down towards Artoria's head. She managed to avoid the strike through a combination of a deflection with her left gauntlet and a backwards hop.
     Mordred grinned as both combatants regained their footing. "Almost had you there, huh, Father? But I'm glad you're as good as I always knew you were. It wouldn't be as fun to take you down, otherwise."
     Artoria shook her head, disappointedly. Mordred seemed to pick up on her intent.
     "What? What's with that look?"
     "You want to know why I rejected you, Sir Mordred? It was more than how you represent the violation of my mind and body by Morgan. You hoped I would embrace you not only as my son, but as my heir as well. But you are a poor fit for the throne - for the responsibility of being king."
     "What?" Mordred growled, gripping Clarent's hilt tighter.
     "You are reckless, entirely devoid of maturity, driven purely by emotion and an intense need for validation. You have charisma in spades - as much is evident from this alliance you have amassed - but you have no concept of the responsibility of ruling a nation. Were you to take the throne, Britain would fall in but a matter of years; no doubt to some pointless war you petulantly instigated. Such as this one."
     "You-"
     "-are correct? I am also to blame for this conflict, I admit. I failed you as a father and a leader, Sir Mordred. But I, at least, am able to recognise my faults. Are you?"
     With his head lowered, Artoria could not readily identify the emotion driving the sickening shaking of Mordred's body, the pieces of his ivory armour clattering and scraping with each emotional jut and jitter. Perhaps it was rage, perhaps sorrow. Perhaps both, she decided, as his furious, tear-sodden green eyes came into view, follow by his bared teeth screaming her name, marking the recommencement of their duel.

     Shirou had contemplated utilising Projection to catch his foe off-guard. But he knew this trick would only work the one time. An imitation of Nero's sword would be ineffective, even with that momentary surprise, given its unusual shape and weight distribution, and the fact that it was up against the real thing. But Clarent could be an effective option. As could Caliburn. Until the time was right, though, he stuck with Kanshou and Bakuya. Well, that and another skill of his.
     He launched Kanshou towards his opponent's face, forcing her to bat it aside as she closed the gap between the two. But this was all a diversion to allow him to reach for the bow of a fallen knight and zero in with several quickfire shots. Nero deftly deflected each, showcasing the skill that had earned her her class. It was evidently only when Bakuya was fired from the bow that she became concerned. Firing a melee weapon as an arrow was unusual in and of itself, but Shirou discarding his remaining blade was also a gambit that she clearly had not considered.
     Nero jumped back, keeping her blade in a defensive position in front of herself to guard from a subsequent volley that never came. Once she saw that he had re-summoned his daggers, she relaxed some. "A clever trick, dear Saber. I wonder what our clash would have been had you been summoned as an Archer instead."
     "As skilled as I am with a bow, the sword is where my passion lies."
     "I see," Nero grinned knowingly. "I hope I can one day face you again in another class. But I can settle for just your impressive Saber form for now."
     "I'm really nothing special."
     "Is that so? A shame, then. You will need to be something special to contend with this. Behold my glory! Hear the thunderous applause! Sit down and praise! My Golden Theatre! Kingdom of Heaven and Hell... My heaven, reconstructed! This is where the limelight shines! Aestus Domus Aurea!"
     Shirou had been careless. He was now inside a large Roman theatre that could only be Saber of Red's Noble Phantasm. And a Reality Marble, at that. Shirou had no idea how the emperor's theatre might translate into a combat technique, but he had little interest in finding out. He would need to counter this before he made his next move. And he had just the technique for it.
     "Well? Are you not impressed by my Golden Theatre's magnificence?" Nero asked pompously. "Surely, this is a preferable place for the end to our duel than some blood-soaked hilltop. You have earned such a noble site for your final stand, dear Saber of Blue." There was an unexpected harshness to her tone, but she was not unrecognisable for it. There was still a softness to her tone - a friendliness that lamented her need to strike him down. And for all her arrogance, Shirou could not deny preferring a world where he and she could have met as allies.
     But that was not the world into which he had been summoned. His was a world where this woman was an enemy of Artoria, the woman he loved. As cruel a fate as it was that he must strike down this kind woman who so resembled his beloved Master, he would not run from it. He knew he must use every trick in his arsenal to win this battle and return to Artoria's side. And oh, what an arsenal it was...
     "I am the bone of my sword. Steel is my body and fire is my blood. I have created over a thousand blades. Unknown to death, nor known to life. I have withstood pain to create weapons, waiting for one’s arrival. I have no regrets; this is the only path. So, as I pray... Unlimited Blade Works!"
     Shirou felt fire course through his veins as his Noble Phantasm activated. The sunlight beaming into the space through the high windows behind Nero dimmed and vanished, overtaken by the sandy, overcast sky of Shirou's inner world. Even inside his foe's Reality Marble, his own was able to activate! But no blades emerged from the theatre floor. The foundations of the theatre remained sturdy and firm. The terror gripping Shirou's heart must have been clear on his face, as Nero sighed in pity.
     "You assumed my Golden Theatre was a mere Reality Marble, I take it?" Nero asked in a tone that was at once smug and mournful. "You thought to challenge my Reality Marble with one of your own; to shatter my authority and assert yours in its place? Perhaps, I overestimated you, Shirou Emiya. To not recognise that this is no mere materialization of my inner world, but a much greater magecraft... Alas...
     "But worry not, you have already earned a most beautiful end. Yours will be a truly magical show, performed here tonight, for your eyes only. With this, let the curtain fall on our duel."
     While he (somewhat) appreciated the sentiment, Shirou cast aside his twin blades. He refused to let it end this way. Even without a usable Noble Phantasm, he could fight with his Projection magic. He might be able to leverage her surprise at his use of a particular blade to get the upper hand.
     Nero cocked an intrigued eyebrow at this, likely expecting him to attempt to engage her in fisticuffs - a tactic that would surprise most opponents and buy him an opening, but not one he could utilise to defeat such a powerful foe. But he held out his hand which, while not intended to make Nero halt in her tracks, certainly did so.
     "Trace. On!"
     The glittering form of Excalibur's sister blade manifested once more in Shirou's hand. His knuckles were white and his body tense, which Nero noticed for only a second before her opponent was within striking distance with his new, longer, heavier blade.
     Shirou now had the edge, knowing exactly how Nero fought with her own blade, while his style with a two-handed sword remained a mystery to her. This advantage would only last a short time, he was sure, as analysis was just as much a part of a Saber's skillset as one's ability to utilise that insight.
      He managed to use that advantage to get her on the back foot as she struggled to keep up with this new style, drilled into him by Fuji-nee and Artoria and decades of practice since. Of course, she had an advantage in learning how his style worked, given how it derived from Artoria's, as did that of the Master Nero had fought alongside for the duration of this War. It took only a few minutes for Nero to look unconcerned as she deftly blocked and parried each of his strikes.
      Not only that, but her power in this place was far too great for Shirou to be able to match. She blocked his strikes with more and more ease with each passing second, and came mere inches away from cutting him down several times. He struggled to keep up his defence as her hypnotic dance of thrusts and swings become fiercer and more powerful, staggering and shaking his body a little more each time. Eventually, she managed to rend the blade free of his grip. He backed off, trying to recentre himself, only for Nero to come rocketing his way with her blade ready to swing.
      "Trace on!" He just about managed to project a replication of Nero's own Aestus Estus and move it into position to block the oncoming strike.
     "Laus St. Claudius!" Nero exclaimed, her blazing blade slamming into his with force enough to knock him fully off his feet, while the Roman emperor soared over his prone form, coming to a stop far enough away for him to get to his feet and take up his stance again. Only to then realise that his projection of Aestus Estus had been sliced cleanly in two, molten steel coating the stump like a gory wound as it began disintegrating in his hands.
     "Your technique is impressive," Nero offered. "You have skill in your two-handed style; albeit not as much as your usual style.
But that first sword," she indicated towards the fallen blade with her own sword, "from its intricate beauty, it must surely be a recreation of the Sword of Selection I have heard so much about. Truly impressive.
      "And forging a replica of my own blade as I came in to strike... It was a noble gambit to catch me off-guard, Saber, truly. Alas, you have lost your edge, quite literally. I applaud your determination; but I believe I have now seen all that you are capable of, and must bring this battle to an end. I sincerely hope you will have a firmer resolve when next you are summoned to compete in a Grail War."
     Nero raised her sword above her head with both hands and rotated it in a perfect circle before her, leaving ephemeral afterimages of the blade in its wake, resembling the minute hand on a clock, ticking down to Shirou's end. He sensed that this next technique would be enough to finish him off and remove him from this War.
     He thought of Artoria. He was sure she could deal with Mordred by herself, at least for now. But if Nero cut him down now and joined her Master in his duel with his father... If Artoria faced the two together, she would not survive. He questioned if even her Servant self could survive against two such opponents. And if that happened, all of his efforts would be in vain. All of his struggles to make himself eligible to return here to change her fate would have amounted to nothing. She would continue to lament her failure in her final moments, and become a Servant to join the Twenty-First Grail War. And the cycle would continue on into infinity.
     "No," he growled in defiance of destiny. He tossed aside what remained of the broken blade.
     Everything he had attempted thus far had been an ineffectual replica of something greater. Dual daggers. Caliburn. Unlimited Blade Works. These were weapons and abilities he had claimed from others. As effective as they were, they were not enough to match the unbridled self-assurance of Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus.
      Nero was Nero, and that gave her strength. She exuded her self through her every word and action. She qualified as a Saber through her own skill and abilities. Her own self was expressed with such loud charisma that the world was forced to remember her, and allow her to return to this land she had once conquered as its enemy once more, empowered by the legend she had forged for herself. All this was due to Nero's own strength of will; to who Nero Claudius was and who she knew herself to be.
      But Shirou had never truly defined himself before. He had taken ideas and abilities from others and never truly managed to achieve anything by himself. His acceptance in the war was thanks to Kiritsugu making all the preparations but never getting the chance to take part himself, leaving Shirou to take his place. His survival was down to Tohsaka taking pity on him and teaching him what he should have already known. He had failed to destroy the Grail, or to make a big enough impact to truly become a Heroic Spirit the way Artoria or Nero or the rest had, relying instead upon the Counter Force. In a sense, he had constantly cheated his way to this point.
      Every technique, every skill, every weapon in his arsenal was someone else's, plucked from their toolkits for his own survival. But it was not a scavenger that Artoria needed right now. If he was truly to fight against fate, to save Artoria from her cycle of loss and regret, he needed something more. He needed to be something more than a collection of crystallised concepts of personhood he had taken from others. He needed to show the world and the Counter Force and the Grail and the Throne exactly who Shirou Emiya, at the very core of his being, truly was. Only then could even hope to defeat such a self-defined individual, or protect the woman he loved and sever her fate.
      Should he succeed, we would likely never know Artoria as a result, as taking her destined failure from her would erase her need to become a Servant. Perhaps they would still meet by chance; perhaps not. Losing her again, and so totally so, would surely crush him. But that was a price he had been willing to pay from the very beginning, he had told himself. Only now, though, did he accept that it was not simply a possibility, but an inevitability. He knew he would once have wished upon the Grail for her to be saved. But the Grail could not help him. He doubted even its uncorrupted form in this era could do it for him.
      Only he could do this. Only he could sever the ties that bound Artoria's destiny and allow her to create a new, better one. That was the purpose he had chosen for himself, long before becoming a Counter Guardian. But he could not do so by becoming a hero of justice through following the will of the Counter Force. Such an ideal was always somewhat intangible in his mind, no matter how firmly he had once believed he had grasped it. Being a hero was not this simple, black and white concept; as Archer had taught him.
      There was no set-in-stone concept that could easily be followed. The idea of a hero was one every individual needed to create for himself. Shirou knew that. He had thought he was being a hero by saving as many faceless individuals as he could. But heroism was, perhaps, not entirely altruistic. Maybe being driven by a broad desire to do what was supposedly right was not enough. Maybe a firmer goal and motive were required. And he had that: Artoria.
      Ultimately, what had truly driven him all those years was the need to save her, not them. Loathe as he was to admit it to himself, they were a mere means to an end - a statistic to build a legend that he could one day cash in to reach his true goal. And perhaps what truly drove Gilgamesh and Nero and so many others was a more selfish desire than he believed a hero should hold. And perhaps that was okay. Perhaps it was okay for him to acknowledge that what he truly wanted - had wanted for so, so long now but always tried to deny was his true motivator - was just to save this one person who meant more than anything in the world to him. And perhaps, that singular desire was strong enough to define his existence; to define Shirou Emiya.
      Shirou was not a hero of justice. He was not a man set on changing his own destiny. He was Sir Shirou, the Knight of Fate, summoned and sworn to fight in the service of Artoria Pendragon and her dream; to give the woman he loved the bright future she had suffered so greatly in vain to achieve. He was not the bone of his sword. He was...
     "I am... the sword of my king. Duty forged my body and conviction is my blood. I have journeyed over a thousand years. Unknown to death, nor known to life. I have withstood fate to become a weapon, waiting for her hand. I have no regrets. Through me, she will cut a new path. My whole life was Avalon Blade Works!"
     A mighty rumbling shook the foundations of the Golden Theatre. First fell dust. Then tapestries. Then balconies and pillars and walls. All around them, the legendary Golden Theatre crumbled and collapsed, giving way to an idyllic, grassy field under a bright blue sky. A gentle breeze caused the blades of grass to swish and sway around the blades of steel that lay embedded in the earth all around them.
     Both Sabers knew several of the weapons: Excalibur, Rhongomyniad, Clarent, Excalibur Galatine, Arondight, Longinus, Ira Lupus and all the other weapons of the Round Table knights - Shirou's fellows. Each weapon was arranged in a wide, uneven circle around a central point in the garden: the grave of Artoria Pendragon, upon which lay Avalon, a bouquet of roses held within.
     Shirou's eyes remained closed. He had no need to look upon these artefacts, for he felt them in his very bones. He held his hand over his chest, pressed it firmly against his flesh, and then pushed deeper. His hand entered his chest, guided by an inherent sense of understanding of who and what Shirou Emiya, at his core, truly was. He had long known, but now he understood. He gripped his heart tighter than any dread or sorrow or longing had ever dared squeeze. And then, he pulled.
     His hand emerged from his chest, now holding the hilt of a sword. This sword was predominantly Japanese in design, albeit with some European flourishes, such as the hilt's crossguard. The hilt itself was tiger-striped in red and blue, representing Shirou, this conflict in which he fought, and the woman for whom he did. The curved blade was half glimmering platinum, half light-rejecting blackness. The steel was forged thicker, longer and heavier than a typical katana, more akin to a European broadsword.
     The sword was nameless. What need had it for one? It simply was Shirou, the fate-cutting sword of the king. He planted the blade firmly in the dirt at his feet, placing his hands upon the pommel, as his beloved Master often did. A regal cape formed around his shoulders and flowed in the breeze that now existed solely to perform this task.
     Nero stood in awe of this display, her view of this fool that had failed to understand her, who lacked the power to defend the one he loved, now fully self-actualised in all his glory - this blade finally reforged by a master's hand.
     "UMU!" Nero exclaimed, louder than ever. "This is the man I have waited for! Victory is not as far from your grasp as I had thought. Then, I shall give this next strike my all, Shirou Emiya!"
     Shirou opened his eyes for the first time since forging the Garden of Artoria, his determination finally matching his foe's. "So will I, Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus!"
     "Fax Caelestis!"
     "Unmei no Danzetsu!"

     At some point during her duel with Mordred, a large spherical egg-shaped object had appeared in the space where the two Sabers had ended up over the course of their own duel. As far as Artoria could tell, this was one of those Reality Marbles, but it was difficult to tell as she had never witnessed the outer boundary of one before. She worried for Shirou's safety, but she trusted him to survive at least long enough for her to defeat Mordred.
     Mordred was consumed with rage from Artoria's earlier accusations, making for a ferocious, unpredictable opponent, but an undisciplined one. Ector had once taught Artoria and Kay that unleashing a foe's aggression could be a valuable, if dangerous tactic. It made defence more difficult, but in return, offence was granted more opportunities to bring a decisive end to the duel. A swing going wider than intended here, an overstep there; each stroke was packed with greater speed and power, but left unwitting openings for Artoria to exploit.
     And at several points, she did. She was able to get in several glancing blows against her former comrade. His armour was powerful, and Artoria briefly glanced some of the surviving Masters of Blue engaged with the Red Faction's Berserker and Rider nearby, suggesting that Vortigern's reach was great.
     It was clear that something more decisive was needed. Full strength, centre mass; or perhaps a swing at the relatively unguarded neck. These were her only options. And with her sword weakening by the minute as the dragon knight's battle inched closer and closer, Artoria knew she would need an opportunity to change tactic. She had her backup plan already in play; she just needed to retrieve it.
     Waiting for just the right type of mistake, from the right direction, Artoria caught Mordred's two-handed downward swing at an angle with her own sword, forcing the blow into a slant. This allowed her to push Mordred's arms out entirely and punch the turncoat in his helmed face with her sword hand, denting it slightly. With a quick shoulder shove, Artoria had knocked Mordred off-balance enough that she could likely have finished him here, were it not for his wide, desperate swing that would surely have struck her across the chest if she had attempted to end it.
     Instead, she moved for the nearby knights, still engaging Morgan's forces to keep their king's duel with his foe a private affair. She called for the knight holding onto her backup weapon to toss it to her. Before he could, however, Mordred was upon her, swinging at her with force and ferocity enough to knock Excalibur from Artoria's distracted grip and to knock her onto her back. The legendary blade landed tip-first into the dirt, far out of reach. Mordred's blade was soon raised high, coming down directly onto Artoria's skull.
     She was saved by the impeccable timing of the Reality Marble behind Mordred exploding with force enough to knock him off-balance. The sound of blade piercing flesh drowned out the cacophonous orchestra of war around them. Clanging steel, roars of exertion and agony, screeches of inhuman creatures, magic-driven explosions; all of it simply faded away as if imagined, leaving the two Sabers and their Masters to bask in the most immediate sound of death around them.
     Both Pendragons turned to look upon the result of the clash of the two Sabers, which had no doubt been the epic cause of the blast that had just saved Artoria's life. The Sabers stood motionless, frozen in that single moment of finality. Shirou wielded a blade Artoria had never seen before. It was neither his twin blades, nor his copy of Caliburn. Even in the many visions of his life she had seen, she had never laid eyes upon this blade that she somehow knew instinctually to be Japanese in construction. The hilt was red and blue, like a symbol of Shirou's unity with his Master, even as it turned redder and redder with the blood of the woman now impaled upon the blade.
     Nero Claudius' own fiery blade was resting by Shirou's leg, still clenched in two hands, suggesting a very near miss had bought Shirou the victory. But even with his face obscured by the dying woman between them, the flames on her blade dissipating like a symbol of her own internal fire likewise dying out, Artoria could tell that Shirou took no pleasure in any of this. Not that he was the type who revelled in the act of killing, of course, but even the relief of victory seemed to elude him now.
     He slowly, gently, pulled the blade out of his rival's flesh, the grievous wound in her chest evidently mortal, even for a Servant. Shirou planted his blade in the dirt and promptly forgot about it, slowly lowering Nero to the ground. Only then did Artoria see his tears, and the image struck her harder than any blow Mordred had yet unleashed upon her.
     "Magnificent," Nero sputtered in awe as she looked up at Shirou's face. "I know not why you cry, but hold your head up high, Shirou Emiya, for you have shown me your resolve in a most resplendent manner."
     These words did have their intended effect upon Shirou, bolstering his resolve, even as he found himself back in the most agonising moment of his entire existence. But then, all that reinforcement gave way as Nero gave her final words:
     "Forgive me, Master. It seems this foolish emperor was not strong enough to match this man's love for your hated father... I am sorry I could not.... usher in your era..."
     As Nero Claudius disappeared into heavenly golden sparkles, Shirou sobbed openly. He knew she was not Artoria. He knew defeating her - killing her - was vital to secure the real Artoria's victory... But the two were so alike, in more ways than mere looks. Their nobility, their skills, their falls from grace and regrets, and their mandated battles with him. And, of course, that he had been forced to kill them both by these damn Grail Wars.
     Artoria, even seeing this event from an entirely different perspective, understood exactly the thoughts and feelings plaguing Shirou's heart. She wanted to reach out to him, to hold him, to tell him he had done what was necessary to protect her kingdom and herself. But she was too far away for that. And if she moved now, she risked Mordred remembering she existed and cutting the unarmed king down.
     While Artoria silently, subtly indicated for the stunned knight just below her elevated position to hand her her other weapon, Mordred's devilish form shook and jittered in its most violent, bloodthirsty manner yet. He raised his blade and charged heavily, powerfully, towards the heartbroken Servant. His bloodcurdling cry of "SAABEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRR!" shook Artoria's sense of self-preservation loose. She snatched up her lance from her subordinate and scrambled to her feet, charging after the other Saber's Master, Rhongomyniad's tip aimed squarely for his spine as she closed the distance between herself and him, just about as swiftly as he closed that between himself and Shirou.
      And then the world exploded.
      By the time Artoria recovered from her prone position and realised what was happening, Vortigern had Shirou by the throat. Even the barrage of magic attacks from Caster did little to deter him. Mordred had been knocked back as well, and was now distracted by the approaching forces of Blue. Sir Gawain was quickly upon his brother, keeping him busy so that Artoria could recover and try to help Shirou. Sir Bedivere, notably Servant-less, reached Artoria's side and helped her to her feet while the glowing Rider of Red launched himself at his own ally. It seemed there was discontent within the ranks of Red.
      Vortigern let out a powerful howl as the centaur struck his back. What the two Servants of Red did next, Artoria was unsure, as her vision was quickly overtaken by Shirou being launched full-force into her by her evil uncle. Bedivere attempted to shield her from the impact, only for all three to be sent sprawling across the dirt. Shirou was the first of the three to recover, finally snapped out of his delirium over her doppelänger's death. He resummoned his new blade to his hand and pulled Artoria to her feet. "Get up!" he urged her, and she obeyed.
      She was once again weaponless, her eyes darting all around her to find her holy lance to strike down Vortigern for the second time. "Is that a new sword?" she asked as she searched.
      For a moment, her eyes lingered on Shirou's reddening cheeks. "It is," he affirmed.
      "You did the right thing, Shirou," she assured him.
      He nodded with an uneasy smile. "I know. Well, my brain does. But my heart-" He shook his head to purge it of such thoughts. "Where's your weapon?"
      "There!" As if his asking had made it materialise nearby, there it was, closer to her than Excalibur, but far enough to need time to obtain it.
      "Go!" Shirou commanded.
      She nodded and set off to obtain her weapon.
      Vortigern spotted her moving and let out his loudest roar yet. The ground shook beneath her feet from the sheer hatred of her once conquered foe. But Shirou moved in to join the glowing Rider, the distant Caster, and the recovered Bedivere in the fight with the White Dragon.

      "Get out of the way!" Mordred demanded as Gawain's assault continued unabated.
      "You made your bed, Mordred," Gawain spat between swings. "If you want to retain any honour, you should lie in before I make you."
      "That Saber killed my Servant!"
      "Give me a reason to care!"
      "BASTARD!" Mordred's strike was powerful; even Gawain was caught off-guard by how much weight Mordred managed to put behind it. And with his Servant distracted by Vortigern, his special sword was no more impressive than a simple broadsword. Mordred swung again, but Gawain was better prepared now, dodging back and following up with a counter thrust. Mordred blocked with the flat of her blade, finding herself being pushed back a little. She threw all of her weight into shoving her blade against Gawain's body, regaining the advantage as her brother staggered back.
      Mordred swung for Gawain's head, but he ducked under her blade and brought his fist up towards her chin, launching her back and leaving her open to a follow-up. Except that she was able to bring her blade down across his path, forcing him to back off while she recovered. Typically, she would have taunted him here for his unknight-like behaviour with that suckerpunch. But she no longer cared enough to bother. She just wanted to finally cut this stuck-up knight down. And to do the same to Arthur's Servant for what he did to Nero.
      Gawain, likewise, had nothing further to say to his turncoat sibling. That is, save for one thing: "I would urge you to beg forgiveness from Gareth and Gaheris, but you are not bound for the same place they have gone."
      These words gave Mordred pause; snuffed out some of the anger that had dominated her until now. "...W-What?"
      "They are dead," Gawain confirmed. "Killed by another traitor, Lancelot. And I doubt Agravain survived Lancelot's departure from the castle..."
      That was three now. Three of her siblings... dead? Mordred had never gotten along with Agravain, but she would not have wished death upon him. And Gareth and Gaheris were kind, especially Gareth. And things had actually gotten better between them since they had joined Morgan's side. They had actually been able to live as siblings during the Grail War - their mother had granted them that. The thought that those two, and even Agravain, were now dead shook Mordred. But it did not break her.
      Instead, it gave her fresh resolve that she must stop Arthur and his loyalists to bring this conflict to an end. And Gawain was at the top of that list. She knew he wanted to compere her to that stuffy old bastard, Lancelot, but she was done listening to Arthur and his sycophants. Her mother had given her a family, and Arthur and his followers had taken it from her. At least, that was what she forced herself to believe, to make any of this worthwhile.
      She thrust forward with Clarent. Gawain deflected with Excalibur Galatine. Mordred kept her forward momentum and shoulder tackled her brother. He kicked her back and stumbled further away from her. He readied his sword again, held in its usual position beneath his other arm. This kept it out of sight from him as the sunlight shining down left it. He seemed oblivious to this, so focused on his opponent as he was. Mordred dared not spare a glance towards her brother's Servant to confirm that she had come under attack, lest Gawain seize the opportunity. Instead, she steadied herself to capitalise upon his confusion once he finally did notice.
      He lunged at her and unleashed a flurry of powerful slashes upon her. Mordred's confident anticipation allowed her patience to guide her blade, guarding against each strike, knowing the advantage was no longer his. She worried slightly that he might not let up by the time his Caster was able to support him again, but she chose to trust in her allies to keep the fox woman at bay for just a little longer.
      This trust bore fruit, as Gawain finally seemed to realise what had happened as his eyes widened slightly in horror and shifted slightly to where he could perhaps see the state of his Servant behind Mordred. And that was her chance.
      She let out her own underarm swing into his blade as it came at her from above, and put all of her might into forcing it back and into the ground, twisting her brother's wrist with force enough for him to cry out. She then punched his face with her free hand, kicked his gut to push him back, then managed to grab his injured arm with both hands and throw him over her shoulder with her full might. As planned, Gawain hit the ground at the edge of their elevated position and tumbled down the hill where he seemed to hit his head on a small rock.
      Mordred stared down for only a moment as her unmoving brother's blonde hair turned red. A part of her hoped that was it - that he had fallen to his head wound and that, in some way, it was not her fault. But another part hoped she would not be the only sibling to survive this long, hellish day.
      For now, both sides of her were forced to shift their focus to her own situation. She still had a king to slay and a Servant to avenge. And maybe, even if he could never forgive or agree with her, Gawain could at least understand.

      Artoria was now within spitting distance of the clash between Vortigern, Shirou, Rider and Sir Bedivere, holy lance in hand. She needed to coordinate an opening to strike, unlike the last time. For as powerful and imposing as Vortigern had been when last Artoria had faced him down with Rhongomyniad aimed squarely at his black heart, he had been massive and slow. The difficulty had been in getting close enough to strike before his black flames washed her away. But now, in his humanoid form, he was much more agile, with seemingly little cost to his power. She may require Shirou and Rider to hold his arms for her while she ran him through.
      Vortigern expertly displayed his current speed as he delivered a sickening kick to Bedivere's gut and sent him reeling before turning his attention towards his niece, who was returning to her Servant's side with Rhongomyniad in hand. Rider took note of this and exchanged a quick nod with Shirou. It seemed there was a bond between Servants of even opposing sides that allowed them to coordinate as efficiently as lifelong comrades. Shirou pulled Artoria slightly to the side, so that the Rider ahead of them was directly in between the Master and Servant and their quarry.
      Rider intentionally blocked Vortigern's view of the two, before charging in with his weapon raised. He threw it with great force at the Berserker, who batted it aside like an ineffectual twig before launching himself through the air towards the other powerhouse. But Rider had planned for this exact outcome. He gathered all of his might into his fist for one great punch that would stagger Vortigern to allow his body to be pierced once ag
      Rider disappeared into golden sparkles before his fist could connect, the last of his mana finally spent. Vortigern flew right through the space Rider had just occupied, his eyes fixed squarely upon Artoria, as if Rider's very existence was already forgotten by his rage-driven mind. His speed was such that Artoria barely had time to register that the body between her attacker and herself was gone, let alone react to it.
      But Shirou was fast enough. He shoved Artoria aside, knowing full well that Vortigern would smash them both like a train if he tried to intercept. Instead, he aimed his sword for the beast's armour, observing a few existing spots where blades had evidently already pierced his body. He aimed for one of them and thrust his own blade towards it in that brief window he was granted.
      Both Servants were quickly impaled upon the weapon of the other - Vortigern on Shirou's sword and Shirou on Vortigern's jagged gauntlet. Shirou's wound was surely the more grievous of the two, but he did not care. All that mattered was that he do some serious damage to make Artoria's job easier. If Vortigern was off the board, Artoria's only opposition then would be Mordred, who was already fated to die by her hand here, and Morgan. She could handle this, if he played his part here.
      Artoria, meanwhile, was still reeling from the rapid-fire change in the situation. From her sitting position, she willed her wobbly legs to steady themselves and help her get to her feet. She steeled her heart and tried not to focus on Shirou's current state. If she did, she would have no hope of making his sacrifice mean something. So she rose to her feet, gripped her lance until her knuckles turned white, and thrust with all her might to penetrate deeper into her foe's flesh than Shirou's blade had. And once he was skewered by two blades, she put her hands on Shirou's and nodded.
      Understanding her intent, he nodded back. And then the two put all of their might into pushing the new blade deeper into Vortigern's flesh, until it erupted out of his back as no weapon but Rhongomyniad had done before. And then, they pulled the blade up, tearing through his flesh and his armour with far greater ease than either could have expected. Eventually, with great effort, the two tore the blade out through Vortigern's shoulder, damn near splitting the fiend in two. An intense jet of red stained their armour as Vortigern howled in agony.
      With Shirou still impaled upon his hand, Vortigern spun, aiming his arm to throw Shirou away, but Artoria held on tight. Being dragged along with him, she managed to dig her heels deep enough into the dirt to keep Vortigern from finding the momentum needed to discard the Saber. And once he came to a stop, Artoria guided Shirou's sword up, and then down into Vortigern's arm. It took two such strikes to sever the thing entirely and release Shirou from the dragon knight's grasp. Artoria took the blade and swung at Vortigern once again, digging into his neck, but getting stuck around halfway through. And Vortigern raised his remaining hand to plunge it into his relative's flesh as he had her Servant's.
      That was where Sir Bedivere came in, leaping into the fray from behind the dragon knight and thrusting his blade up through the monster's upper arm. He grabbed the blade on the other side and twisted Vortigern's arm to keep him from harming this British monarch as he had the other in this war.
      "Now, mine king!" he cried, determined to hold this creature in place, even as it tried to turn its head to face him, and likely obliterate him as it had tried to do earlier.
      Artoria nodded to show her determination, right as Shirou pushed himself to his feet and placed his hands over hers. They exchanged the briefest of glances that spoke a thousand words before, with one final heave, the two warriors dragged the sword the rest of the way through Vortigern's neck with surprising ease. Artoria could only speculate as to why that final push was so easy as she watched her uncle's head slip from his shoulders and hit the ground with a sick thud. His mangled body soon followed suit before every inch of him, the blood soaking them included, vanished in ethereal golden light. Vortigern had been slain once again.
      But there was little time to revel in this major victory, for Shirou's body swayed, staggered and fell into hers. Without the severed arm stuck inside him, his wounds were now open, and quite evidently... fatal. Bedivere helped Artoria to lower Shirou to the ground. Against her better judgement, she chose not to lay him down fully, nor to cradle his head in her arm, but instead to kneel and rest his head on her lap. Somehow, she felt that this was something that would help him find some comfort in his final moments here with her.
      "Sir Bedivere," Artoria said, her voice only as stable as she could manage. "Please retrieve Excalibur for me. With Vortigern slain, I can use its full power again."
      "At once, mine king," Bedivere responded with as much reassurance as he could manage. "I will return as soon as I can."
      Once Bedivere was out of earshot, Artoria just about managed to hear Shirou whisper, "I'm sorry..."
      Artoria shook her head sternly. "None of that now. You did everything you could to get me this far, Shirou. I truly could not have made it this far without you."
      It was now Shirou's turn to shake his head and force a smile. "You could. You always could. You created your legend long before you met me. You don't need me here."
      Despite wanting to disagree, to assert that yes, she did need him here, Artoria instead chose to honour Shirou's words and agree with his assessment. "You can leave the rest to me then, Shirou. I will use this chance you have given me to achieve what we both wished for. You can rest now. I will deal with the rest."
      She leaned down and kissed Shirou on the forehead. He, in turn, took her gauntleted hand in his and kissed her fingers. "I love you, Artoria."
      Artoria smiled warmly. "I love you too, Shirou. I hope to see you in Avalon someday."
      "You'd wait for me?" he asked, seemingly in disbelief.
      "Of course. For you, I would wait a thousand years."
      "I can't say I expected that," Shirou said with a smile, his body now aglow with golden light. "Maybe my life did have meaning after all..."
      "It did," Artoria responded, tears falling freely from her eyes. "More than I could ever say. You are a hero, Shirou Emiya. My hero."
      Shirou's smiled grew wider; so wide that he almost looked like he had died from happiness, as his body departed in a shower of golden sparkles. Artoria's lap felt cold now that Shirou was no longer resting his head upon it, not to block the tears that now stained her battle dress. But where she expected to find dreadful agony, she instead found renewed resolve. Shirou had helped her to get this far, and now it was time for her to complete her legend and save her nation. She vowed to make Shirou proud.

      "I suppose you know how it feels now," Mordred taunted as she approached Arthur. She did not understand all of it, but it was clear that, in some way, Arthur had deeply loved his Servant; and not in the same way that Mordred had cared for her own Saber. A twinge of shame clung to her heart as she taunted her father, knowing full well she would mourn her fallen siblings the same way once this battle was finally over.
      "Will you ever stop being so petty?" Arthur chided, rising to his feet with his lance gripped tightly in his hand. "I used to believe you had so much potential, Sir Mordred. That you only needed time to mature, perhaps with your fellow knights as examples. Perhaps you could have been a worthy king one day. But that chance has long passed. You are a vindictive and emotionally-stunted child. I would not taunt you for the loss of your Servant. I respect her servitude and her fealty. That such unshakable loyalty was wasted upon one who would besmirch that memory is a disgrace, to both her legacy and the Round Table's!"
      "SHUT UP!" Mordred lunged at her father, wishing she could rip him in two with her bare hands, but having just enough of her logic remaining to keep her deadly implement in her hands to ensure she could actually finish the job.
      Despite its unwieldy design, Arthur's skill with his lance was quickly made evident as he struck her sword from the side and forced it into the ground with the very same technique Mordred has used against Gawian; that Arthur had taught her all those years ago. He then performed an almost imperceptibly fast spin, striking Mordred in the side with his lance's heft. Even with her sturdy armour, the blow managed to knock the wind out of Mordred and send her staggering. Arthur followed up with a swift thrust for Mordred's midsection, which Mordred just about managed to counter with a back step and a downward thrust into the longer weapon's stock, forcing the tip into the dirt.
      As Arthur pulled his weapon from the earth, Mordred finally got a good look at his face. She was first blinded by the realisation of just how similar he and Nero appeared. She had gotten so used to seeing Nero's face that she had managed to train herself to spot the minute differences that made the two rulers unique. But even now, Mordred could feel her grasp on those differences slipping away, her memory of Nero's face slowly fading from her mind with each passing second that the Red Saber was no longer in this world.
      As she felt the terror or Arthur's visage replacing Nero's in her memories, Mordred finally noticed the glistening tear marks running down her father's face, and the contrasting determination in his sparkling eyes. It was determination to put an end to this, to strike Mordred down - determination to avenge his fallen Saber. Mordred could only hope her own eyes appeared that determined through Arthur's eyes.
      And then, Mordred noticed a third thing: off in the background, far behind the king's mighty gaze, Sir Bedivere was retrieving the fallen Excalibur. Facing Arthur with the holy lance was one thing, but if he manged to get his hands on his primary weapon and have his most loyal knight by his side, even if Arthur chose an honourable duel with Mordred, her chances of victory would diminish dramatically. There was no time to think; she needed to end this now.
      And so, she lunged, Clarent gripped tightly in both hands, moving with a speed she barely recognised as her own, as if Saber were granting her the power of her class to close the gap before Arthur's lance crashed into Mordred's stomach, breaking its way through her armour and shredding it to pieces. Chunks of fractured steel flew this way and that, accompanied by spurts and sprays of sticky crimson lifeforce that stained the king's silver armour and blue battle dress. Her cuirass and helm both fractured and broke apart as her entire body was rocked savagely by this mortal blow.
      Mordred's sword slipped slightly from her grasp, as much from the shock as it was from the agony and the rapid escape of her energy. She had only enough wherewithal left to grab hold of her falling sword on the way own and bring it crashing into the skull of the man running her through. Though not as outwardly visceral, the impact was no less devastating. Both combatants were shaken by the twin blows that left them both disorientated, in agony and collapsing into the dirt.
      As Mordred lay on the ground beside the king, the holy lancer still running through her abdomen but no longer hurting, she spied the blood oozing out of Arthur's head, staining his blonde hair red. She remembered Gawain at the bottom of the hill, and found herself hoping beyond hope that he would be okay. Despite everything, enemy or no, he was her brother - her family.
      His hatred for her complicity in Morgan's actions was... understandable, at least. Had Gawain or Gaheris or Gareth been under Merlin's influence on Arthur's behalf, or some other such equivalent, Mordred would have murdered every soul even tangentially involved. She now wondered, if she had likewise been bewitched - had shown the conviction to oppose her mother and force her hand - would Gawain have displayed such emotions for her as well?
      While she had pushed him away, Gawain was exactly the kind of family that Mordred truly wanted: family that fought doggedly to protect its own, not to manipulate it as their mother did. Only now did Mordred truly accept that Morgan le Fay was responsible for all of this death and misery - that she had sent her children out to die. She had sacrificed kind Gareth, noble Gaheris and dutiful Agravain, all to spite Arthur. Oh, how like her mother Mordred truly was.
      She had wanted so badly to be accepted by her mother and father that, after Arthur had rejected her, Mordred had willingly turned a blind eye to Morgan's wickedness and obeyed her mother without question. It was the same kind of blind obedience that had led Nero, the other Saber, and all the other Servants to their deaths. But theirs was a loyalty bound by a contract and a dream. Hers was bound by weakness and fear. Arthur was right; Mordred was an ill fit for the throne. She wondered for a moment if she might have one day been worthy of it by staying by the king's side. Perhaps he would have come around eventually after seeing her mature and grow.
      But the time for regrets was long passed. Now, Mordred lay by the king's side, bloody and dying, unable to muster up the energy to look away from the king's dazed, confused gaze. His eyes were glazed and unfocused. She wondered if Arthur could even see her anymore, was even aware of what had just transpired. Mordred reached out and placed a cold, bloodied gauntlet that she could barely control against her father's cheek. Arthur's muscles tightened at her touch, but relaxed soon after. What this meant, Mordred could only imagine. But she could take some small amount of solace in the fact that she could face her end by her hero's side. Even after all that had happened between the two, Mordred's wish remained the same. Right up until the end.

      It took Artoria some time to come back to the present. Her head throbbed and pounded harder and hotter than any of the wounds that marked her body to this day. She felt sick, close to vomiting several times in the span of perhaps one single minute. Her body refused to obey, even to so much as curl one finger or wiggle a single toe. She was a prisoner in her own body, able to do little but stare vacantly into the eyes of the man who had done this to her. Rarely had she ever felt so powerless, so devoid of agency. She imagined it was not too dissimilar to what Morgan had done to her the night Mordred was conceived, were she able to recall those events...
      Sir Mordred lay in a heap by her side, Rhongomyniad's ivory-white structure stained red to an extent she had not seen since the original slaying of Vortigern. His similarly-coloured armour also bore this new palette. Enough armour around the wound had broken away to expose a sizeable portion of Mordred's torso. Including a sight more shocking than any of Mordred actions up to now: a petite pair of breasts, just barely visible in the shadow of hid armour. Mordred, like Artoria, was secretly a woman all along. That her 'son' had carried this same burden as her gave Artoria a strange sense of connection with the traitorous knight.
      It seemed Sir Mordred truly was her father's son. Or, had been. The rebellious knight's body was still and growing paler and colder by the second. There was light yet in Mordred's eyes, but it was fading. It remained there just long enough for the two to recognise the understanding in the other's gaze. Artoria could not know whether or not Mordred knew her own identical secret, but she almost hoped she did. As if that sense of understanding might somehow ease the knight's passing. And perhaps also her own.
      Artoria found herself compelled to drag her heavy body closer to her fallen foe, only now finding the strength to move her arm to pull herself closer. What she planned to do once she reached Mordred's body, she had no idea. To hold her? To apply pressure to her wound? To forgive her? To yank out the lance and try to keep fighting? 
      It hardly mattered in the end; by the time she was close enough to touch Mordred, the knight's eyes were looking up at the reddening sky but seeing nothing.
      Artoria's body completely gave out. She lay in the dirt with one arm draped over Mordred's corpse. As she tried to lift her head and ascertain some idea of the current state of the battle, her vision was filled with phantoms. Sir Mordred stood with Lancelot, Tristan, Gareth and Gaheris, Galahad and Percival; friends and comrades all taken from her by this damned war. And by her own failings as a king.
      Then appeared Saber, along with Archer, Lancer, Rider and Assassin. While the other three remained stoic, Shirou and Boudica smiled and held out their hands to her. Where they here to bring her into the afterlife? Were they waiting for her in Avalon? Or were they here to pull her to her feet and tell her to keep fighting? Or, perhaps, her fight was over, and they were simply here to bring her peace in her final moments. Perhaps, they wanted her to know she had done all she could in this fight; all she could for her nation. Were they truly here, she was certain that the fallen queen and the time-crossing knight would tell her such.
      For all her failings, she would stand as an example of chivalry - a symbol of British heroism. Just as Boudica did for Artoria and her knights... and as Shirou served as an example of noble determination for her alone.
      As the sound of frantic armoured feet rushing towards her reached her ears, despite the pain coating every inch of her body, filling the space that had once contained the energy to move and fight, the corners of Artoria's lips twitched and rose into a tiny smile.

Chapter Text

      Dark.
      Red.
      Hurt.
      Death.
      It was concepts, more than real thoughts, that passed through Artoria’s fogging mind as she lay beside her final opponent atop the hill, awaiting the return of... that person.
      Even with her darkening vision and the crimson shroud pouring down from her gushing head wound, she could see the devastation left in the wake of her final battle. The soil of the hill on which she'd had her last duel would likely remain red for generations.
      Beside her, Sir Mordred's perforated armour was now more red than white. Further down the hill, Gareth and Gaheris lay motionless, side-by-side, together in their final moments. Lancelot lay nearby, his rampage at an end. So many knights lost - to war, to manipulation, to madness...
      And the Servants that had fought for them... Save for Caster, who was helping her bloodied Master to his feet, they were all gone from this world entirely, not a single trace left behind, as if they had never been here at all, never pledged their allegiance to Artoria and the realm, and never fought and died for them. So much needless suffering brought about by the vile witch and her fool of a sibling.
      To Artoria, it felt like an eternity since these noble and ignoble souls had met their ends. In reality, it was only moments ago that she had been looking out over this horrific devastation, lamenting the massive loss of life in spite of her rekindled hope for a brighter future. Rather than to change this outcome, it was instead a desire to move forward and help to build the world Shirou would one day be born into that lead to the Counter Force agreeing to make Artoria into one of its servants in future conflicts.
      Her chance to build this future came quickly, as she immediately found herself fighting in the World War that Shirou had described to her, acting as a Servant of Team Britain. There, she had been reunited with Boudica, who served as Britain's Rider, alongside Artoria as its Lancer. Several other reunions occurred in this conflict, such as Nero Claudius serving as an enemy Saber for Team Italy, and even Sir Lancelot, corrupted into a mindless Berserker to serve as her ally in Team France. Although, Artoria and Nero were later forced to work together to survive his insane rampage.
      In the end, Artoria and the other surviving Servants had made a move to destroy the Grail, now once again corrupted by the needless slaughter of that unprecedented conflict and its influence over the Servant summoned as Ruler.
      And the genocide... Shirou's devastating description had been far softer than the horrendous reality deserved. But the War was already over when she and her fellows made their move, and the Grail seemed to take their aggression as cause for dismissal, departing the world and returning the Servants to the Throne of Heroes.
      Her inability to destroy the Grail was her only regret in this, as she found herself feeling as if the Allied victory in the war would create the better world for Shirou and the descendants of her subjects, even with the Grail continuing to exist, than that sought by the ruinous designs of the Axis. It was ironic, given that it was within one of those very Axis nations that Shirou would eventually be born.
      Artoria, rather than ascending to the Throne, returned to the aftermath of Camlann. She had been a living Servant, taken by the Counter Force to help lead her people to victory in the greatest of the Grail Wars, rather than leaving it to some Heroic Spirit copy of herself. She wondered if Shirou had been a living Servant as well and not a mere copy infused with his will to save her.
      Looking out over the broken remains of the two armies - over Mordred's still fresh impalement - it was as if no time at all had passed since Artoria had been summoned; as if the years she had spent in the Twentieth Century had all been but a transient fantasy in the broken mind of a dying king who was beyond desperate to believe that her reign had amounted to something positive in the end.
      Sir Bedivere found Artoria, battered and bloody, and managed to drag his king off of the battlefield, leaving the rest of the fighting to Sir Gawain and Caster. Seeing his face, a particular moment from the other Grail War came to mind.
      Boudica, Rider of Britain now in two separate Grail Wars, had been ecstatic to see Artoria again, more able to act as an older sister now that the two were equals. Upon learning that Artoria had not yet ascended to the Throne of Heroes and would be returning to Camlann upon the War's conclusion, Boudica had asked her to deliver a message to her former Master.
      Artoria recalled most of it. A few words escaped her, but she was certain she could get the general gist across. But she was broken. Morded had inflicted a severe wound on Artoria's skull. She had faculties enough to realise that this was what was killing her, but not enough to control much of her body. Her energy came only in short bursts, leaving her borderline vegetative for most of the time she had left.
      Bedivere carried her into the nearby woods, fending off the remnants of Morgan's army as he did so. Eventually, no more foes came their way, and Bedivere was able to rest his king against a tree by a river. He washed away her blood as best he could, but they both recognised the futility of his actions.
      Artoria, weakly, gripped the hilt of her legendary sword and slid the blade across her lap in a feeble attempt to pass it to Bedivere. "Return it," she muttered impotently, "to the Lady of... the Lake. Then, I can... rest..."
      Bedivere was reluctant, despite his claims of obedience. Twice he departed and claimed to have obeyed, but she knew he had not. She was still alive, after all; they both understood that returning the sword would result in Artoria's death. From a certain perspective, Bedivere would be killing his own king. She raised her hands as best she could, her motor functions shattered by Mordred's final strike. Bedivere took his king's hand in his and held it tight. His embrace was warm, kind.
      Oh... That was it.
      "You are... a knight of un...paralleled devotion, Bedivere."
      Bedivere was taken aback by these words. He was unaware of Artoria's journey into the future, of course. To him, his king was simply babbling nonsense in his final moments. But she continued, simply hoping he would understand eventually.
      "Few can claim to have... served two of Britain's greatest monarchs. If I was a defender of Britain that... those who came after me should aspire to... then you are one that I aspired to. I was unable to protect you or your king in my second life... but I hope I was able to help give you... a chance to live the long life you... deserve... my precious... Beddy..."
      Artoria struggled to get those last few words out, her delirium on the verge of fully taking hold. Her head lolled to the side to give her a view of Bedivere's tear-soaked cheeks. Ah. He must have understood then. Good. Loyal Bedivere deserved to know how valued he had always been, to both his king and his Servant. At least, she had not failed in that duty...
       Bedivere knelt by his king's side, brushing a few strands of sticky, rigid red hairs out of her face. "You have done more for this nation and for me than we could ever deserve, mine king. I will bring the holy sword to the Lady of the Lake, as you commanded. Rest now, Arthur Pendragon. Your battle is over. We that remain will continue the fight. We will win this War and save Britain on your behalf. Watch over us from Avalon, mine king. We will see your duty through to the end."
      As Sir Bedivere's form grew smaller and smaller in Artoria's eyes, disappearing into an overwhelming, heavenly brightness, her tears flowed freely. But it was not the pain of her wounds, nor the fear of her pending demise that brought them forth. It was her knowledge of what was to come.
      By the Twentieth Century, several magi organisation had formed, cataloguing, researching and obscuring the Grail and its conflicts. Much of what had transpired in past Grail Wars had become known. Artoria now knew what was to become of Britain, of the Grail, and of her loyal knights in the days to come.
      For all she, her knights and their Servants had done to prevent it, Britain would fall. The War would come to an end when Morgan disappeared soon after this very battle, leaving her Red Faction consisting solely of the soon-returned Lucius Tiberius, his Archer, their Roman reinforcements, and a handful of Masterless Servants. Sir Bedivere would lead the remaining Knights, Masters or not, in a campaign to eliminate Tiberius and the Servants that remained by his side. Even Sir Galahad would re-emerge and join his fellows in the final push of the struggle for the Grail. Once the head of the final Master of Red was rent from his shoulders by Sir Gawain, the Blue Faction would be declared the winner by Ruler.
      Despite Morgan's disappearance and Tiberius’ death, however, Archer of Red had remained an almighty threat to the remnants of the Blue Faction, angered by his absence from the final battle of the war. With Excalibur returned to Vivian, Rhongomyniad lost at Camlann after Artoria was dragged away, and but one Servant remaining with them, the Knights of the Round Table had rallied to reach the Grail to put a stop to Archer’s rain of Noble Phantasms.
      Sir Galahad, as a surviving representative of the victorious Blue Faction, had been forced to use the Grail's power to wish Archer and the other Servants back to the Throne of Heroes, removing them from the Earth before Archer could overturn the War’s result and claim the Grail for himself for at least the second time. In the end, their victory in the War could be considered a total waste of time and effort by the magic community at large.
      But Artoria did not think it so. The War's true purpose, in her increasingly dim and glazed eyes, was to wipe the slate clean. If Britain could not escape the coming fall entirely, it could at least be given the chance to rise again without any of those who would do it harm: Morgan, King Lot, Mordred, Tiberius, Klingsor, Arthur... With them gone, joined by Merlin and most of the magical creatures remaining on the isle, the nation could truly enter the Age of Man, divorced from this dispassionate magic that had caused her people to suffer so greatly.
      She told herself that was enough, lest Shirou's sacrifice be in vain...
      Her thoughts found purchase once again as the sound of footsteps approached from beyond the bounds of her peripheral vision. It was not that of heavy armoured sabatons, but rather that of high-heeled leather boots softly pressing into the grass.
      There was a tension in the air as Morgan le Fay entered Artoria’s limited scope and came to a halt before her. Artoria wished she could move her foot enough to kick her sister into the river to derive some sense of victory over her before the two sisters departed this world.
      But Morgan lowered her stance to a crouch and placed a gentle hand under Artoria’s lolling head, lifting her by the cheek to see the world properly. Whatever emotion it was that decorated Morgan’s face as she stared into her dying sister’s eyes, Artoria could not fathom. She doubted even Mordred or King Lot could have read the witch’s emotions accurately.
      But it was certainly not hate - she recognised that much. She wondered if Morgan might actually feel guilty for what she had done; to Britain, to her sister, to her children. Did she mourn the loss of three, likely four of her children? Did she even know she had led them to their deaths?
      Yes, Artoria decided. The softness in Morgan’s features could be borne of nothing but grief. She wondered how many of the four might forgive their mother, were they witness to this uncharacteristic display. Perhaps not even kind-hearted Gareth would be capable of such at this point. And Artoria felt certain that Morgan knew this.
      In some versions of the legend, she now knew, Morgan was among the fairies that would carry Artoria’s body to Avalon once Sir Bedivere’s task was complete. Was this that version of the tale, then? Artoria wondered if she would even be aware of the goings on surrounding her lifeless form. The thought of Morgan holding sway over her body in her absence once again made her skin crawl, but Artoria’s mind was more occupied with another unnerving sensation: that she almost felt sympathy for her sister’s losses.
      Several of those losses were shared by the two: Gaheris, Gareth, Mordred, likely Agravain, very nearly Gawain. While she bore no sympathy for the loss of King Lot, these wonderful children had deserved far better than their king and their mother had offered them.
      Morgan noticed Artoria’s attempt to lift her hand and took it in hers. There was certainly no love between the sisters - never had been – but there was grief between them. And so, Artoria had little issue mourning the four alongside their mother before the end.
      But before death could finally claim her and rid Britain of the Arthurian Age, it seemed the Counter Force had one final task for this living Servant.

      The first thing she took note of was that the workshop in which she now found herself was small. It was, at most, large enough to house a single automobile and some shelves to house tools for maintaining said vehicle. Many mages preferred such relatively confined spaces in which to conduct their rituals; the intimacy helped ease their minds to prevent mistakes. Or so she had been told during the Holy Grail World War.
      Said War had been a mess of chaotic, often disconnected battles from start to finish. That War had occurred in the Twentieth Century, she recalled. Many details of the War had been denied her upon her return to Camlann, beyond the broad strokes and a few specifics that were essentially unimportant in the grand scheme of world history. She wondered if that had been a result of her fatal head wound, or the Grail or Counter Force preventing her from recalling specific future events to maintain history in some odd, ultimately irrelevant fashion.
      But now, she remembered it all: her comrades, her battles, her Master. Her head was clear once again. Once more, she pondered if this clarity came from her body being restored to peak performance, or because she was now past the... Twentieth Century!
      Her gaze moved from her surroundings to the boy at her feet. He was sat on his rear end, staring up at Artoria with a face full of surprise, fear and awe. The pale moonlight streaming into the workshop from behind her cast her gallant shadow large over the young man before her. Despite the maelstrom of emotion raging within her, Artoria managed to maintain her composure.
      "Tell me, are you worthy to be my Master?"
      Only after the words had left her lips did Artoria recognise how familiar they felt. As she stared into the brown eyes of young Shirou Emiya, she realised why: he had said those exact words to her when their positions were reversed. And recalling that slight smirk of his as he said it made another thing quite clear: he had gotten those words from her in his own timeline. From whose lips, then, had they first sprung forth? This time travel thing was going to remain complicated, she realised.
      But there was time for contemplating such concepts later. For now, she sensed the presence of another Servant nearby. From the blood staining Shirou’s clothes, it seemed he had called upon her not a moment too soon. Her eyes drifted from the three crimson Command Seals adorning the back of his left hand, up to his face. The tenseness of his features seemed to relax a little as their eyes met again. She suspected, even hoped that, on some level deep down, he recognised her as an ally, not another foe.
      Either way, she would soon prove herself the former. She held out her hand and willed Excalibur into existence, shrouded in a field of invisible air to keep her identity as such a legendary figure hidden from her enemies, and from Shirou.
      "My sword will henceforth be at your side. Your fate is now my fate. Our pact is now sealed."
      Before he could respond, Saber spun on her heel and rocketed out into the chill, azure night, colliding with the twin spears of this War’s Lancer, determined to put this purple-haired fiend to the sword for daring to harm her beloved Shirou - her beloved Master.

Chapter Text

      She was underwater. She was unsure how exactly she had come to be underwater, however. The last few... some measurement of time... were hazy and immaterial. Her thoughts were jumbled, disorganised. She felt that something had hit her. Not a Servant. Something else.
      But here she was. Underwater. Sinking deeper into a black abyss. The light above falling farther and farther out of reach. Her body was being weighed down. Not by the armour she wore. Something else. Her body was limp, her muscles languid as she tried in vain to push herself back towards the surface.
      She was underwater, but breathing was not a problem. This water was not real, she felt. But knowing this did little to help her escape it, save for briefly clearing her mind, before the murkiness set in once again. She could do naught but look around at the infinite blackness surrounding her on all sides. There was only one way to the light, and it was slipping further away with each passing second.
      A horrid, icy fear gripped her wholly as she thought of Shirou. He was alone right now. Who knew what dark forces might be descending upon him while his Servant drowned in infinite blackness?
      Shirou.
      He was like a beacon of light in her darkening mind, keeping her focused. She threw her arm up with all her might and pulled at her liquid prison, willing herself to rise; to return to her Master's side. She attempted to do the same with her other hand, only to find it caught on something below her. Looking down, she found a sight that her groggy mind struggled to comprehend.
      The was another woman there. A woman in a black dress. Pale skin. Whiteish-blonde hair. Piercing golden eyes that stared directly into her own.
      Morgan?
      No.
      Not Morgan.
      "Who... are you?" Artoria asked before she had a chance to think about the dark water surrounding her. But it knew its place and stayed out of her body when she posed her question.
      "I am you," the other woman said in a voice that was at once her own and completely alien. "Another side of you. An alternate side. An Alternate Artoria, of sorts."
      "Alt...ria?" Artoria struggled through the haze.
      "Yes. Stay a while, Artoria. Listen to what I have to say."
      "N-No..." Artoria shook her tired head, struggling to do so thanks to the water resistance and her lacking energy. "Shirou... Shirou needs me."
      "He does," Altria agree. "That is why you must heed my words. Shirou dreams of becoming a hero of justice. But he will not fulfil that dream in this life. You know this as well as I. You are me, as I am you."
      "You are..."
      "I am. Our wills are one. We love Shirou. We want him to achieve his dream, as we never did."
      "That's... right..."
      "It is. Shirou will waste his life trying to be a hero to the people that will never accept his efforts. It is a tragic, pointless existence. We cannot let him suffer through that again, can we?"
      "No... Not again..."
      "He can become a hero if he is summoned to our era, however. As our Servant. He was so happy to be with us, even if we had no idea who he was at first. You remember how fondly he looked upon us. How fiercely he defended us. It was only a short time, but he was happy. We made him happy."
      "We did..."
      "It is of paramount importance that he become a Servant and serve us."
      "It is."
      "But he will not become a Heroic Spirit by his actions alone. We must also play our part."
      "Our... part...?"
      "He needs an excuse to serve the Counter Force. He needs us to motivate him; to help him fulfil the role he always did."
      "His role..."
      "You remember the dreams of his life. His battle with Archer. The Magic Circuit transfer. We have lived both of them now. There is but one scene remaining that we must make come true. Do you remember it?"
      "Y-Yes."
      Altria smiled. "Yes, you do. We must birth his reason to become a Saber. So that we can meet him in our time..."
      "And fall in love with him."
      "Very good. It is a cycle of love and rebirth. A cycle that makes us both stronger."
      "Makes us complete."
      "It is our fate. His and ours. We must go and meet it."
      "Yes. We must meet our fate."
      Altria wrapped her arms around Artoria in a gentle, warm embrace. Artoria could not recall when last she had felt so warm and safe. In her time with Shirou in Camelot, perhaps? 
      Altria began to melt, her form wrapping around Artoria, becoming one with her. Piece-by-piece, the silver armour of the king began to dissolve from her body. Her gauntlets, her greaves, her cuirass. Her body was draped only in her blue dress now, her bare fingers and toes flexing instinctually, feeling at once liberated and heavier than before. Then, her dress began to darken. New armour formed in place of the old. A stronger, yet lighter set that made her feel like she was lighter than air.
      Artoria opened her golden eyes and felt the hilt of Excalibur Morgan at her side. Her body began to rise back to the surface of the dark ocean, finally breathing air once again.
      She pushed herself to her feet with her night-black gauntlets and prepared to play her role as the Grail's protector. Shirou would be here soon. She would do as she had in that premonition she had witnessed fourteen centuries ago. She would make Shirou the hero he had always wanted to be, even if he never realised she was. She would perpetuate the cycle of their love, of Grail Wars, of Masters and Servants. He would be hers and she would be his. Forever and ever.
      And the Grail would help her do it. She would protect the Grail. She would fight for it, die for it. Shirou would begin his path towards heroism by striking her down again and again, and he would fight to defend Britain again and again.
      Forever.

      Artoria felt as if she had awoken from a long dream. A long dream she could remember vividly. A long dream in which she had been a slave of the Grail. A dark knight, defending the very entity that had made her so. Defending it against her beloved Shirou Emiya.
      Shirou was by her side, on his knees, his hands tightly clutching the hilt of a blade he had crafted. A blade whose steel had reached the earth beneath her body, passing through her chest to get there. Each tiny movement of her body made the blade inside her feel that little bit more tangible.
      Warm droplets of water began cascading down upon her cheek. It took her a moment to realise that Shirou was the one who was crying. She struggled to lift her armoured hand, but she eventually managed it, and she wiped away one of her Master's tears. She smiled through the pain, feeling the warmth of blood at the corner of her mouth as she did so.
      He begged her forgiveness.
      She tried to tell him it was okay. That her regrets were dwarfed by her desire to see him happy. That she loved him. But the words refuse to leave her throat. Her inability to verbalise her thoughts crushed her heart. Shirou was right here, and she could to nothing to comfort him - comfort him over what she had once again forced him to do to her. She knew how protective he was of her. She had known since centuries before he had ever met her. And yet, she had still crushed his heart.
      Why had she allowed herself to believe the Grail’s words when it appeared before her? She knew where this path would lead, yet she had allowed herself to be consumed and controlled by the Grail. Her own tears flowed freely as she mourned the Servant Shirou deserved. The Saber that had died when Artoria had fallen to the Grail's temptation.
      She had failed him, as his Servant and as his lover. Just as she had failed her people, centuries ago. She had given up on changing her own fate long ago, but she had hoped that she might have learned enough from her time with Shirou in her own era to change his. Evidently, this had all been too much for her to achieve as well...
      Artoria tried to look Shirou in the eye, but her shame kept her from doing so. She had failed and failed and failed again. She was unworthy of the legend of King Arthur. She was unworthy of the crown, of the throne, of the holy sword... and of Shirou.
      He had fought so hard as her Saber to safeguard her dream; to ensure she would never find herself in this exact situation, lying at death's door with naught in her heart but lamentation and a dagger. The one thing Shirou had desired to change when his own dreams came crashing down around him was this, and she had dismantled it all in her ineptitude.
      Even now, as Shirou pulled the blade out of her chest and pressed himself against her in grief, she could not even muster the strength anymore to lift her hand to comfort him. She could do naught but lie still as the life drained from her deathly pale body, until Shirou was left alone once again.
      She could only take solace in the fact that, while manipulative in nature, Altria's words did ring true. Shirou would become a Servant. Her Servant. He would fight alongside her and be the hero he always wanted to be, fighting for her dream as her knight.
      They would fail in the end. Britain would fall. But they would always find their way back to each other in the end. She would become his Servant again, and he would then become hers again. Together, they had forged a loop of history that would keep them together, eternally meeting and falling in love and fighting for one another's dreams, doomed though they may be. In that way, both may achieve at least a small portion of their dreams.
      And maybe, that was good enough. Maybe that could be considered a great victory, transcending death and the Grail Wars to never truly be parted. Master and Servant. Servant and Master. Artoria and Shirou. Forever.
      Artoria closed her eyes one final time, held tight in Shirou's indescribably warm embrace, hoping that when it once again came time for their roles to be reversed, he would see their circumstance as she now did. Even as her physical form dissipated in a burst of golden light, his warmth never left her. Not even when she opened her eyes and found herself lying against that tree, bloodied, beaten, dying, in the dying days of Camelot. Both of her Grail Wars were over.
      It was time for this King Arthur to rest, and leave the rest up to the next one.

Chapter Text

      Artoria lay against her favourite cedar tree, basking in the warm sunlight. It was one of the few trees in this endless field of grass. No matter how much she might reposition herself in the grass, her snow-white dress never lost its lustre to soil or grass stains. Such was the nature of the Garden of Avalon.
      Artoria wondered how long she had been here now. Time was difficult to track when Merlin was away. She could have been here for centuries, or a mere few weeks, for all she knew. She stretched out her legs and allowed the gentle, always-pleasant breeze to make the fine blades of grass dance across her bare legs and feet. No matter how long she remained here, every pleasant sensation managed to feel like a wonderful relief after a lifetime of gruelling battle.
      The only sounds for miles around were the gentle rustling of the grass around her and the leaves above her, and her own calm breathing. The Garden was truly everything Heaven promised to be. Except that so many people she knew in life could not be here with her. Even with how things had turned out between them, Artoria lamented that Mordred and Lancelot were not here with her. Regardless of their later actions, they had fought for the nation for years. They deserved to be here.
      As did the Servants that had fought alongside her and her knights. Boudica, Achilles, Tamamo, Semiramis, Longinus, Arash. Shirou...
      Oh, how she missed him. Even with their eternal cycle of Grail Wars, Artoria was alone now. She wondered where Shirou would end up when his time came. Was there only one afterlife, or would he experience one of Japan’s? The thought made her sad, but if he could find himself in a place as wonderful as this one, even apart from her, she could be happy with that.
      The soft crunching of grass underfoot slowly approached from behind the tree. She wondered if Merlin had word of another of her knights making their way here. A number of them already had, but she could not be truly satisfied until every hero of the realm had joined her in the paradise they had earned a hundred times over.
      Using the tree for leverage, she pushed herself to her feet. She instinctively dusted herself off, even though her dress would never be anything but pure white. She rounded the tree to greet the wizard as his footsteps were no more than a few metres from her.
      It was not Merlin that greeted her.
      It was another man. He was seemingly in his early thirties. He was exactly how she remembered him from the night she first met him, but dressed closer to how she knew him when he first met her. His sincere brown eyes almost distracted her from his red hair and Eastern features. He seemed surprised to see her emerge so suddenly, but this expression quickly gave way to that warm smile she had longed to bask in for so, so very long.
      They had been apart for such a long time now, but it almost felt like no time at all had passed since he held her on that dark night in Japan. And she was certain that, to him, it seemed like only moments ago that she had held him on that dark night in Britain.
      But both of those horrible nights were long past them now. And they were now finally on the same wavelength, the full history of their relationship as fresh in their minds as the days their respective times as Servants came to an end. They could finally stop looking back on the past and focus instead on the present. And the future.
      Of course, some light reminiscing couldn't hurt. He opened his mouth and said the words she had grown so accustomed to hearing during their time in Japan.
      "I'm back, Saber."
      He wiped the tears from her eyes, neglecting those streaming down his own cheeks.
      "Welcome home, Saber."
      Artoria brought her sleeve up to his face and wiped the tears, which stained the white fabric.
      "We... We can't keep calling each other that," he said with a grin.
      She chuckled. "I suppose you're right. Welcome home... Shirou."
      "I'm glad to be home, Artoria."

Chapter Text

      Ruler was not the person she once was.
      The Grail Wars and human history at large had taken their toll on the Grail, at whose command she now served. Where once the Grail had been benevolent, to a point, its corruption two centuries prior as a result of the World Wars had left it with its own dark desires that even Ruler did not fully understand.
      In truth, this world was not the original human history, and yet it was no less legitimate than the one that spawned it. In that sense, it was not unlike Ruler herself, now transformed into an Alter Servant to make her more pliable for the Grail's will. Her other self was not the sort to bow to such a wicked force, but as she was now, she revelled in the destruction caused by the Wars.
      It was ironic, given that she had been one of the Servants active at the time of the Grail's corruption and had joined Lancer of Britain's taskforce in their failed attempt to destroy the Grail. And now, she understood the Grail intimately, hidden knowledge of the truth of the world poured into her mind as the Grail's mud took hold of her.
      Another world had existed before this one. Another Grail. Another War system. Another Fuyuki. Another World War II.
      There, a man-made Grail War had been enacted by powerful mage families to expand their knowledge of magecraft. But it was not one of the three families that had succeeded in claiming the Grail in the Third Holy Grail War. Rather, it was an unaffiliated Chinese mage. Spurred on by the unspeakable atrocities committed against the Chinese people by the occupying Japanese military - atrocities that would once have made Ruler wretch and sob for the senselessness but now entertained her - this mage had summoned the Berserker Zhang Fei to crush the competition.
      Once Hassan of Intoxicated Smoke fell lifeless and headless to the hard floor of the Matou Manor, the mage commanded Berserker to 'reunite with his brothers', ending the Third Holy Grail War and completing the ritual.
      From the doorway of the hilltop manor, the mage saw the light of the starry sky blotted out by smoke and outmatched by the roaring flames devastating the city below, resulting from both the Grail War's Servant clashes and the American bombers fighting in the World War that waged on, its combatants forever oblivious to the contest for the Grail.
      Whether magi or mundane, humanity always managed to find a way to destroy the world around them. And one another. Thus, the mage made his wish upon the corrupted Grail:
      "I wish for a world where the Grail was taken out of human hands. Where human cruelty can no longer control the Grail or its power."
      And thus, it was so.
      The power of the Greater Grail of Fuyuki, rather than change the world as the mage had no doubt intended, instead created a new world - one where a new Holy Grail controlled the Wars. A Grail untainted by the depths of human depravity. That is, until history repeated itself, as if the manifestation of mankind's evils were some unbreakable cycle of inevitability.
      What became of the mage who was unwittingly the god of this world where Ruler was summoned, even the Grail of this world knew not. It was understood that he was 'consumed', but by what, it could not be said.
      But such a long-dead man no longer mattered. His world, whether it continued or ended after his wish, no longer mattered to this Grail, which had formed fresh, untouched by the sins of the old world. Nietzsche had been more literally correct than he could ever have known when he had coined his famous phrase, Ruler mused with sadistic satisfaction.
      Or perhaps the new Grail could be considered God here. It controlled human history and inspired worship in equal measure through the Grail Wars. Certainly, it was only for this entity that Ruler's former piety (now better described as zealotry) had remained a part of her character.
      For the Grail, corrupt and bitter as she was, Jeanne d'Arc would oversee this War, and revel in the carnage wrought by the wicked magi and their destructive Servants. And perhaps she might run into some 'old friends' along the way…

      Despite how much control over her emotions her parents had always insisted upon, the anticipation was almost overwhelming for Rin as she locked the workshop door behind her and stared out over the spot where her destiny would be decided.
      She was not the first Rin Tohsaka to compete in a Holy Grail War. That honour belonged to her great grandmother, who had fought in the twenty-first as the Master of that War's Archer-class Servant. This had been a point of pride for the younger Rin for her entire life. She even resembled the older Rin to an almost uncanny degree.
      The only noteworthy distinction came in the form her sandy-blonde curls not being that gorgeous raven black she had seen in so many photographs of her namesake. And with her birth coming at just the right time to ensure she would have a chance at competing in the Twenty-Second Holy Grail War, she had always felt a sense of predestination surrounding her very existence. Her namesake had failed to obtain the Grail, so this felt like a second chance to achieve her dream.
      Rin had made all the necessary preparations, dutifully followed the instructions left behind by the original Rin in her journals. Rin Tohsaka I had spent her post-War life furthering the study of magecraft and had become a leading figure at the Clocktower, even before reaching middle age. A prodigy, many had labelled her. And her descendant was seen by some as a second coming, due to her own incredible aptitude for the craft. And she was determined to prove them right.
      She compared the summoning circle she had drawn up in the family workshop - the very same one in which her ancestor had drawn hers - to the one drawn in the journal. Her aqua eyes darted back and forth, comparing every tiny detail to ensure nothing was out of place. After what must have been a full half hour of comparing the tiniest of details, her eyes were growing tired of the exertion, and she finally decided she wasn't going to find any substantial faults in her work.
      "Good." She snapped the journal closed and set it aside on a nearby workbench. She knew the next part of the process by heart, having had it drilled into her by her parents from a young age. By now, she could recite in entire incantation in her sleep. She could finish this by herself.
      She took in the faint glow of the summoning circle as it illuminated the candlelit workshop in which she had spent untold hours preparing for this very moment these last sixteen years. Normally, she would be accompanied by one of her parents, ensuring her education was proceeding smoothly. But now, she was alone, having asserted her desire to work on this in isolation as her orphaned namesake once had. Her parents had reluctantly acquiesced.
      The only substantial difference was that this Rin had a catalyst prepared for her summoning, while the prior Rin had not. This had been the greatest regret of the original Rin, who had not been granted the Saber-class Servant she had desired. Her writings had asserted the elegant nobility of the Saber that was later summoned, and she had even worked with the Master of that Saber for a time, allowing her to allay some of the regret.
      For this Rin, Saber was the class she was aiming for as well, in both slots, but not the one she personally desired. She had always found the image of a gallant spearman far more enticing than a simple sword-wielder, regardless of the many benefits of the Saber class.
      Ultimately, this had been a compromise insisted upon by her parents to allow her the freedom to conduct the ritual by herself. A fair trade, she supposed, and she could take comfort in the knowledge that this meant she was adhering to her ancestor's path all the more for this stipulation. Besides, she might luck out and snag one of each, making everyone happy. Of course, she wouldn't say no to an Archer or a Caster either.
      Reciting the incantation proved to be the simplest part of the process, so deeply ingrained into her mind as the words were. Controlling the flow of mana was a little trickier, but nothing a prodigy like herself couldn't handle with relative ease. This was the part that her lifetime of training could not completely prepare her for; nor could her ancestor's notes.
      The previous Grail War had been of the common 'seven Masters and seven Servants' variety. Based on the Grail's vision this time, this was to be a War where each Master would summon a pair of Servants, for a total of fourteen - two of each class. In theory, drawing up two summoning circles and preparing individual but simultaneous rituals would have been the most efficient choice; but Rin daren't risk making a mistake on one of the circles and disrupting the entire ritual.
      Instead, she opted to use a single circle twice consecutively, choosing the catalyst for the second based on the result of the first. If she managed to summon a Servant the first time, her position as a Master in this War would be secured and she could prepare for the second with greater freedom.
      As the last of the words departed her lips, she opened her eyes to find the room aglow with the blood-red light of the magic circle.
      This was really happening - she was summoning her very own Servant! She had to force herself to remain composed, lest she somehow mess up any part of the process that had yet to complete.
      A crackle of crimson lightning burst forth from the circle; as did a strong gust of unnatural wind. Truly, Rin had never felt more powerful than she did in this moment. That is, until the wind kicked up enough dust to send her into a coughing fit. Between the ritual completing and the wind extinguishing the candles, the room fell into near total darkness, illuminated only by the pale moonlight streaming in through the nearby window.
      Although limited, the moon provided enough light for Rin to see the spot on her bench where she had left her smartphone. With its flashlight function activated, she now stared in disbelief at the set of blood-red Command Seals had now adorned the back of her right hand. Her eyes grew wide as she realised that she recognised the shape the symbols had formed: it was exactly like the one her namesake's seals had formed on her own hand: two arches, one smaller and positioned inside the other to form a rough circle, with a small vertical line beneath. She then noticed the other three parts of the shape.
      "Six?" Weren't there supposed to be three? Was she recognised as a Master of two Servants despite only summoning one? And speaking of that, where was her Servant? The circle was dull and lifeless, her seals clear as day. She had performed the ritual correctly. Hadn't she? She looked over the scabbard at the centre of the circle, wondering if that had-
      An almighty crash shook the entire building. Rin's head snapped in the direction of the door as her mother shrieked, likely from the location of the crash's source. Rin was out the door and dashing for where the sounds of the ongoing commotion originated: the sitting room. Rin bashed the door open and had her hands up to fire off her magic if she needed to defend her parents who, while accomplished mages in their own rights, had long since been surpassed by their prodigious progeny. But there didn't seem to be any sort of attack.
      At least not right now. The ceiling had an enormous hole blasted into it and the room was awash with dust and debris from whatever had caused that. It was only when she observed the two individuals sat on the broken sofa on the other side of the room that she realised the cause of the localised earthquake that had drawn her here.
      The first she took note of was a woman, clad in a blue dress and steel armour, resembling a romanticised depiction of a female European knight. Were it not for the legendary scabbard she herself had placed as the catalyst, Rin likely would have assumed this was Jeanne d'Arc. Could she instead be the Lady of the Lake?
      The man beside her seemed almost specifically chosen to contrast his companion. His short hair was a fiery orange against her luxurious, tied-up gold. His attire was a deep crimson coat over some black clothing or other. His features suggested an eastern origin to oppose her western origin. And yet, despite these differences, Rin got the sense that the two were perfectly at ease with one another. As if they, in spite of their vastly different origins, bore a strange sense of familiarity. In fact, the two seemed to exchange a knowing look of some sort after they observed Rin's entrance. What this look could mean, she had no idea.
      "Who are you?" Rin demanded, her finger gun poised to dish out some serious damage.
      A shared grin spread across both intruders' lips. The woman's was slightly smaller, more reserved than the man's. "I'd have thought that was obvious," the man replied, pushing himself to his feet. He held out a hand to pull his companion to her own feet, but she opted to rise by her own power. Only then did she take his hand, before turning to face Rin.
      "I am your Saber-class Servant," the woman declared.
      "And I'm Archer," the man added before he bowed in a way that confirmed he was Japanese.
      "My... Servants? Plural?" 'Surprise' wasn't quite the correct word to describe what Rin was feeling as these two strangers made their declarations, but she couldn't find a word that did fit. "Th-That's right. I, Rin Tohsaka, am your Master for this, the Twenty-Second Holy Grail War! I hope you won't disappoint me."
      "She looks just like her," Rin could swear Archer whispered to Saber in their secret conference.
      "She acts like her as well," Saber responded, to which Archer seemed to agree.
      "And the way she's glaring at us… Uncanny."
      "Perhaps, she has what it takes to get it right this time."
      Unbeknownst to her, the two Servants were just as excited by these circumstances as she was - only for much loftier reasons than their Master was. These two warriors of bygone eras were, ironically, done looking backwards, and had their eyes set firmly on the future. They would do what both had failed to in the previous two Grail Wars, with this familiar prodigy by their side. The Grail Wars would finally come to an end.
      With that, both Servants faced Rin and gave a respectful bow. She sensed that the two were satisfied, or perhaps outright please with this result. They soon stood tall, striking mighty, imposing figures that made Rin feel oddly at ease, despite the wreckage surrounding them. They fixed her with a pair of steely gazes that could truly be better described as one.
      "Tell us, Rin Tohsaka..."
      "Are you worthy to be our Master?"

Chapter Text

6th Holy Grail War

20th Holy Grail War

21st Holy Grail War

22nd Holy Grail War