Chapter Text
Excalibur’s golden blade slices through Caster’s monster like dawn’s rays, and Saber’s heart feels a little lighter.
Now, the Grail War can continue without children being murdered. Now, she can take up her sword against worthy opponents once more. And when the Grail is in my grasp at last, my fondest wish will finally be granted. My debt to the World will be cleared.
The stench of the monster’s slime wafts from her armor, and she winces in distaste. But before all of that, I shall have a long, hot bath.
Just as she thinks this, as the light begins to dissolve—something strange happens. Her body grows heavy, and her eyes threaten to flutter shut. She forces herself to focus, stay awake; but her vision is covered in white, flickering flecks, as if she's trapped in a blizzard. No—what is this? What’s happening…?!
On the riverbank, Lancer’s existence is fading in and out as well. And on the bridge, Archer is having similar troubles.
Some innate part of her suspects this to be the World’s doing; the Grail wouldn’t let itself go unclaimed…would it?
Before she can figure out the answer, her vision turns black.
---
Saber wakes with a start, instinctively shielding her eyes from the morning sun.
She sits up in bed and realizes that she slept in her suit last night. The slime from the monster seems to have vanished. When she lifts her sleeve to her nose to check, she smells only the usual scents of sweat and cotton. How odd.
Something else prickles at the back of her mind. It feels as though she returned here after many months of traveling. Yet what transpired? Faintly, she can recall entering a cave deep within a mountain, something like a gleaming convent, women all in white…and something smooth and gold returning to their hands.
Saber rubs her throbbing temples. It’s as if she read a book with minuscule print by sputtering candlelight. No matter. My contract with the World lets me flow through time in pursuit of my goal, so perhaps it’s a blessing my memories are faint.
The sunlight threatens to blind her again. She climbs out of bed, determined to shut the gauzy curtains and return to her rest. Her bare feet touch the floor, and a cold shock runs through them. It’s enough to make her want to burrow under the covers, but she keeps her eyes on her task.
Reaching the curtains, she shuts them firmly. There’s only a whisper of sound. The soft fabric ripples as she lets go, and its then that she notices something unexpected.
Trees. Fresh, spring-green oaks stand tall in the distance, and their branches wave as if to greet her. A lush meadow lies in the middle, stretching out in all directions. No matter which way she looks, Fuyuki’s gleaming metal buildings are nowhere to be found.
Surely, I’m seeing things. Saber rubs her eyes and looks again. The trees still stand.
She touches the windowpane and finds blown glass, warped slightly from the glassmaker’s breath. With a pounding heart, she looks around the room—and finds carved brownstone. The bed is of sturdy make, the mattress of cotton with blue bedding opulent by Saber’s tastes.
After searching some more, she finds her leather shoes with the socks folded neatly inside them at the foot of the bed. Good. Now her feet won’t turn to ice.
A simple fireplace is nestled in the center wall, in need of stoking if the faint wisps of smoke are any indication. Half in a daze, she tends it, watching the embers flicker back to life. Setting the fire poker down, she watches the flames’ bobbing shadows compete with the staid stillness of the morning light peering through the curtains.
It’s all so familiar, yet so different. Her past and future, melded together.
She could be in Avalon. But that feels…wrong, somehow. This place feels more akin to the mirror of Camlann she was summoned from, a peaceful rendition of it. Then this must be The World’s doing. Is this some sort of test…?
Her unease growing, she holds out a hand and waits for Excalibur to appear. Seconds pass: three, fifteen, thirty…and her fingers hold only air.
Something good occurs in that span of time: she senses two Heroic Spirits’ auras. The refreshing yet wild mana belongs to Lancer, without a doubt. The other, a lilting wave of ancient heat, can only belong to…
“…Archer,” she hisses, and storms to the oaken door.
She nearly shoves it off its hinges. No matter. All she wants right now is to retrieve Excalibur from Archer’s grasp.
She’s about to cross the threshold when she bumps into Lancer, bringing a wicker cart to her door.
Still in his armor, he’s dressed down, baring his muscled arms and a bit of his chest. The scent of apple scones, fresh from the oven, wafts through the air.
“It’s a pleasure to see you awake and unharmed, Saber,” Lancer says with an easygoing smile.
“I could say the same of you, Lancer,” she replies, and smiles back. Then concern prods at her mind. “Earlier, you seemed to fade…are you well?”
Lancer nods, though he’s quick to change the subject. “Are you hungry, by any chance?”
Saber remembers what she’s doing here in the first place and takes a hot scone. “I shall eat while I walk. Have you seen Archer?” She lets a growl seep into her voice.
Lancer frowns at her as she takes a huge, angry bite of sweet apple and thick, fluffy pastry. “…Alas, I have no idea.”
She swallows, nearly choking, and takes a smaller bite this time. Now she can appreciate the flavor better. “I sensed him just now.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, he did arrive here with us.” Lancer glances away for a moment, looking a little ashamed. “In truth, I only sensed your presence a short while ago.”
Saber opens her mouth to ask him why, a spark of annoyance threatening to flare in her chest. But Lancer is the only ally she has in this strange land, and she can’t risk losing him over something trivial. Her anger is directed inward in the first place. He came to my side—that’s all that matters.
Her shoes tap rhythmically against the stone floor. “Walk with me,” she says, the order coming easily to her lips. “This castle seems familiar, yet I can’t place it. Where is ‘here’, pray tell?”
Lancer’s boots barely make a sound as he meets her stride. The cart rolls leisurely behind him; the wheels are of good make, well greased and sturdy. He doesn’t answer her at first—she can almost feel the reluctance wafting off him.
He must know this place.
She lets him gather his thoughts and continues eating her scone. “You should eat as well, Lancer,” she says, in case he’s holding back.
“Oh, thank you, Saber—but there’s no need. I sated my hunger on the way here.”
Saber looks at him over her shoulder and smiles. “That is good.”
The morning sun pools through the windows, making dust motes glint in their path. There’s a strange scent in the air. It’s like an apple orchard but stronger, more lush. It’s somewhere between nostalgic and otherworldly, almost as if…
…As if we are in the Fair Folk's realm. The thought chills her to her bones.
“Saber, are you ill?” Lancer asks, stopping with one hand outstretched to comfort her.
Her feet slow to a stop. “No—well, perhaps. This place brings to mind the Fair Folk; on second thought this is too simple for them. In any event...I seem to have arrived here unannounced and without my knowledge.”
A soft chuckle. “Consider me the greeting party, then. I must say, seeing you without Excalibur is a strange sight.”
Saber’s hand clenches into a fist. “I plan to rectify that.” She notes Lancer’s hands are empty as well. “I take it you’re unable to summon your spears, either.” At Lancer’s nod, her heart sinks in her chest. “We will retrieve them, on my honor—”
Lancer rests his elbow on the cart handle, remarkably at ease for an unarmed knight. “—Forgive me, but that may not be necessary, Saber.”
Saber bristles at the suggestion. “So we should do nothing? Archer is still our enemy!”
But something deep inside of her objects to that. It doesn’t take long to find out why: whereas she entered the Grail War filled with the desire to kill the Servants in her way, now she feels nothing of the sort. It’s as if her heart’s a pitcher; stagnant anger has been dumped out and refilled with something cool and refreshing. The Grail War must have concluded—but who won?
Lancer sighs and stares out the window. The sun glints in his dark hair and makes his skin glow like the moon. “When I awoke here, I felt the bond Lord Kayneth and I shared wither away to nothing. The Grail War must have ended abruptly.”
Saber concentrates, searches inside herself for Kiritsugu’s flowing mana, and comes up short. “Yes, I feel the same. But I”—she nearly reveals her secret—“I wonder why the World would place us here?”
Lancer glances downwards and to the side, a gentle smile on his face. “Do you not recognize the Throne of Heroes? Hmm…you just awoke, so perhaps that’s to be expected.”
Her heart gives a sickening jolt. “The…Throne, you said?”
“Yes. To be more precise, it’s a ‘sub-section’ of it. Think of it as a place of healing; it will return our weapons to us in time.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but her silence has already given away too much. That’s impossible. My pact with the World must still remain. Unless…have I died?
Saber braces her hands on the cart. Her knees tremble. Her stomach churns and bobs in grotesque imitation of a sailboat in a storm. She’s so used to living on the verge of death—how could she have passed on without her knowledge?
Lancer is at her side in an instant, disquiet in his bronze eyes. “Saber, you’ve turned pale. Sit for a moment.”
“There has been a mistake,” she says in a hushed tone, acutely aware of her pounding heart, “a terrible mistake.”
A steady, gentle hand rests on her shoulder, eases her back down onto a nearby wooden bench. “I beg of you, sit. Allow me to aid you.”
Her vision still swimming, Saber nods and follows Lancer’s instructions as best she can. The bench dips beneath his weight as he sits next to her, rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles. His body heat seeps through the layers of clothing to warm her skin.
“Now,” Lancer murmurs, “You cannot claim this reaction comes from humility. As King of Knights—no, as King Arthur—you belong in the Throne of Heroes.”
She can’t bring herself to look at him. Not yet. Breathing slowly, fighting past the bile threatening to fill her throat, she struggles to find the words. How to explain her circumstances? How to comprehend this strange sensation inside her, this overwhelming storm of confusion?
There’s nothing else for it. She needs to tell him.
With a sigh, Saber forces her head to turn and look Lancer in the eyes. “On my final battlefield, moments before my death, I struck a bargain with the World.”
“I see. What was the bargain?”
Archer will hear of this one way or another. That doesn’t matter right now. She needs answers. And—though she hates to admit it—reassurance as well.
Pushing back memories of Rider’s banquet, she says “I would search for the Grail, redo my reign as Britain’s King, and in return I would eventually die and become an Heroic Spirit.”
Lancer tilts his head to one side and frowns. “And yet, something must have changed. Can you not sense that?”
“…I can.” She raises a hand to her heart. “At some moment in time, I must have found a different conclusion.”
Lancer listens without a word, his eyes dark with worry. Perhaps he’s comparing her experiences with his, searching for a connection.
Then comes a point when she stumbles. “…When I awoke, I felt as though I had arrived here after a long journey. Aside from the Fourth War, which is strangely clear, my memory is hazy.” She wracks her brain, trying to recall. “There was a cave…a glittering convent…and a crowd of veiled women…who took back something I returned to them.”
Lancer turns his head to gaze into the distance, his cowlick bouncing with his movements. “Did it feel as if you were reading a tale of another’s life?”
Saber’s taken aback. “—Yes, that’s it exactly.” She leans forward, her heart a little lighter. “Have you felt it as well?”
Lancer smiles. “Yes. It’s a common sensation among Heroic Spirits who have been summoned elsewhere. Or ‘else-when’.”
“…But that makes no sense.”
“True—that is, not in your usual circumstances. However, it’s possible that ‘your usual circumstances’ no longer apply.”
Saber begins to understand; she stays seated, still not trusting her body to hold her up. “Then, you mean…I truly became a Heroic Spirit?”
That makes sense. During her travels through time—perhaps in that convent—her regrets began to fade, and she returned to her deathbed peacefully. It’s likely she found the Grail and then returned it, as she no longer needed it. And the World considered the contract fulfilled.
Her heart slows back to a normal rhythm; her body reorients.
Lancer looks back to her, brimming with confidence. “Yes. You can rest easy.”
Saber chuckles softly. “…I’m afraid that will take some adjusting to.”
“Which must be why you’re here.” Lancer shrugs and pulls back his hand from her shoulders. “The same applies for Archer and I. The Fourth War must have strained us to the breaking point."
Saber wonders whether to ask why and decides against it. She was never good at soothing wounds, her own or others'. It's best to leave the Fourth War in the past where it belongs.
Suddenly Lancer smiles; it could light the darkest cave. "Regardless, the World has its reasons. I enjoy spending time with you too much to pry into them.”
They spend a while longer in companionable silence, the atmosphere regaining its previous calm. The sun warms Saber’s back, glints like topaz in Lancer’s hair. Saber’s mind begins to push her death into the farthest corners, where it should be. Besides, this castle is a more pressing curiosity.
“Thank you for listening,” Saber says, allowing fondness to enter her voice. “You have a kind heart, Lancer.”
Lancer blinks in surprise—is that a flush covering his face? He smiles in obvious relief. “Thank you, King of Knights!”
Saber smiles back and presses a hand over her heart. “It’s nothing. Now, I should like to explore this castle—will you guide me?”
“Gladly.”
---
It turns out that castles, even in different lands, have certain similarities.
A moat surrounds the castle, with pure and clear water visible from the battlements. The Keep still looms above the rest of the structure, like a round, squat old soldier overseeing his men. When Saber peers out from one of the windows, she can see the inner courtyard; with the green grass and flat ground, it’s the perfect place to train soldiers or hold a tournament. In the outer court, the animals graze and the orchards flourish. (To create a familiar illusion, one supposes.)
“There’s a library as well,” Lancer says, having left the breakfast cart by the Kitchens. “I’ve never seen one so well-stocked! Truly, this castle overflows with luxuries.”
But something bothers Saber. “Are there any servants about? A castle this luxurious needs constant upkeep…”
“Ah, yes, but things are different here. Everything simply…tends itself. That is, unless we wish otherwise.”
Saber slips her hands into her pockets and spies a candle’s wax spilling out of its iron holder. (Another oddity—torches were more common in her time.)
“That is too suspicious to ignore.” She looks back at Lancer. “We should investigate it.”
“If you wish,” Lancer says easily, resting his back against a sun-warmed wall. “I'm afraid the answer is simple. It isn’t the Fair Folk’s mischief—in fact, it’s a gift of the Throne of Heroes. Everything here is for our comfort.”
“But why?”
Lancer shrugs one shoulder and opens the window’s latch. Crisp morning air flows inside. “Because we spend our time ‘outside’ fighting the World’s battles until our mission is completed. We need a momentary rest.”
Saber supposes that makes sense, and can only nod in response. Lancer looks off into the distance, pondering something. The wind rustles his curls, making them tumble about his rosy face and neck. When not combed back, his hair could fall into his eyes, obscuring his vision in battle and costing him his life.
Guinevere would adore him in her quiet way. Morgan would praise him without shame.
Saber’s fingers twitch. Sudden, foolish yearning strikes her for something beyond her reach. Stop that. He may be a knight, but he is not mine.
“You needn’t accompany me everywhere,” Saber says after a long moment. “Especially if you have something else you wish to do…”
Lancer’s chuckle rolls across the hall like a ripple in a lake. “Very well, King of Knights! I shall take my leave of you…for the moment.”
Saber watches Lancer stride away with growing fondness. He is a great warrior, one she would’ve regretted killing on the battlefield. Now that the Grail War’s done…perhaps they can have truly honorable conduct. If she can keep selfish fancies at bay.
She walks down one hall, then another, and finds herself outside, on a stairway to the courtyard. Fascinating…there are scuffmarks from warriors past. Or are they from Lancer?
Just across from her lies what must be the wife’s quarters. It’s an odd duck among the rest of the castle: a two-story building of mud brick and a red-lacquered roof, almost a second Keep. Its location (where the bakehouse should be) is stranger still.
She pauses to admire it. The sight of the flowered vines twisting along the walls, crimson blossoms in full bloom, the balcony meant for excursions by moonlight, the fragrance of spring in the morning air…it brings back such bittersweet memories. Guinevere and I had our wedding night in similar quarters. She was so patient, even as I fumbled about in an un-kingly manner…
Guinevere was not much older than Saber when they wed. Saber remembers clearly the way her bride trembled in her arms, how Guinevere’s long red curls framed her flushed face and delicate shoulders as she unpinned her hair. The sky-blue stays took forever to loosen, and Saber’s fingers twitch at the memory.
Guinevere may have been unable to desire Saber as a husband, but she held no ill will toward her either. As for Saber, well…she knows desire well enough. In the end, she did her best to make Guinevere’s duty a pleasure. And Merlin's "wedding gift" was good for something.
Even after Lancelot…and Morgan…I still cherish that night.
Saber’s foolish reminiscing inevitably gets interrupted. Her mind seems to stutter at the sight before her.
Archer strolls onto the balcony, the white robe wrapped around him swaying as he walks. She can see a second, dark blue layer underneath, which she can’t see the point of—half of his bronzed chest is brazenly exposed. He doesn’t notice her.
…Which must be a lie. He wouldn’t last five seconds in a battle otherwise. She stays where she is.
Archer hums to himself, slicking his hair up with practiced fingers. Golden armbands and pendant earrings gleam brilliantly in the sun. (His gaudiness is eternal, it seems.) He still hasn’t acknowledged Saber.
Which isn't disturbing, necessarily. It merely brings to mind tales of romance. Of gallant knights spying maidens behind walled gardens, both pierced by love's arrow at first glance. As if this tyrant knew or cared about courtly love...
Just as suddenly as Archer arrived, he leaves without a backward glance. His hips sway and slink, drawing the eye like a finely-cut gem. Not unlike how Morgan moved...no. I mustn't think of such things.
In the depths of the wife's quarters, a door closes with a whisper.
She figures that that’s the end of it, and debates performing reconnaissance. She shoos the idea away. Knowing Archer, he has a trap there waiting for me. I will not fall for it!
Still, she can’t help but wonder where Archer’s off to.
---
The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Saber and Lancer enjoy a hearty dinner in the Great Hall by a huge roaring hearth, pressing close despite being the only ones there. (The lack of a dais provides an excuse.) She devours three helpings of glazed pheasant and sliced potatoes, and washes it down with some of the crispest apple cider she’s ever tasted.
(She’s not going to drink alcohol while Archer and his snide remarks are lurking about. He could turn wine to vinegar with his mere presence.)
Speaking of whom...
“I saw Archer today,” Saber says, pushing away her cleaned plate with a satisfied sigh. “For some reason, he was in the wife’s quarters.”
A discrete yet noticeable pause.
“As the sole occupant, he must have been disappointed,” Lancer replies dryly, his mug of cider halfway to his lips.
“Hm. That’s not quite it.” She watches the crackling fire. Sparks pop and hiss before fading away. “He seemed to be either making preparations for some event, or admiring his own body.” She grimaces. “Possibly both.”
There’s a faint clunk as Lancer sets his mug on the huge oak table. “Did he do anything else?”
Saber shakes her head. “No, he simply walked away. It’s possible he never sensed my presence.”
“But unlikely.” Lancer shifts his weight, and the bench they’re sitting on creaks softly. “If I may…perhaps it’s best to leave him be, for now.”
Saber pats her full belly with contentment. “Yes—I have nothing to say to him to begin with.”
Lancer raises an eyebrow and grins. “I see now. You want to keep this fine food for yourself!”
She smiles and extends a hand to him. “I will gladly share it with you. If Archer’s attitude were to improve…I’ll reconsider.”
“Heh. Duly noted.”
Time passes in more idle conversation. Outside, the first stars shyly glow to life. Even here, their positions remain the same.
Saber hides a yawn behind her hand. “Excuse me. I’d best return to my chambers, before I fall asleep at the hearth!”
Lancer places a hand over his heart and bows with a smile. “It was a pleasure to dine with you, Saber. Pleasant dreams.”
“And for you as well,” she replies, nodding in acknowledgement.
Before she leaves the Great Hall, she notices that Lancer is still sitting by the fireplace, drink in hand. As if he’s waiting for someone.