Chapter Text
Lancelot du Lac’s heart nearly overflows with relief that he hasn’t been summoned as a Berserker. He wants to have his wits about him, to see whom he will serve in this Holy Grail War. He wants to have the presence of mind to bring his King glory.
It’s just a shame I can barely see in this helmet. If only the Holy Grail had chosen the one the Lady Gwe—ah, but perhaps not. That would bring back sad dreams.
“Saber,” calls a baritone voice, the sound a strange combination of hollow and full of quiet determination. “From this day forth, you will fight in the Holy Grail War as my Servant. Is that clear?”
Thank God he did not use my true name. That must be my burden alone.
Lancelot crouches down on one knee and focuses his vision as best he can from beneath his visor. There in front of him—yes, that Command Seal clearly deigns this man as his new Master. Looking a little closer, at the wild black hair, paper-skin stretched taut over sharp bones, and especially the lightless eyes as black as Lancelot’s armor, Lancelot comes to the conclusion that this isn’t just his Master, this is his King.
After all, who else could look so broken? Perhaps in private, he’ll manage to laugh about such a thought.
He realizes he hasn’t answered aloud yet. “Yes…my King.”
“Good.” His King’s expression doesn’t change. “If you obey me, victory is assured.”
Lancelot has heard that phrase before, and even after all this time his heart flinches at the half-buried memories those words invoke. He inwardly berates himself for his childishness and outwardly nods his assent.
“Good. Be ready for my orders.” With that, his King departs, his black coat swaying like folded wings behind him. The door slams shut with a sound eerily akin to a coffin lid closing.
Lancelot finally gets a good look at his surroundings. He was summoned in a church, it seems—not an ornate one, but no drab place of contemplation, either. The word I’m searching for is “cold”. The pews are as black as night, and the silver on the walls shines like the moon. Everything is black and white, and it’s enough to make even the most jovial person fall into despair. It feels like a place for the dead.
“Um…” A gentle voice interrupts his gloomy reverie. “Your helmet looks uncomfortable. Would you like to remove it?”
Lancelot sighs with relief and gladly does so, ignoring the way his dark hair tumbles wildly about as it falls against his shoulders. “You have my thanks.” He cranes his neck to see who granted him such a boon…and his heart lurches in his chest.
It’s uncanny, the similarity between this woman and the Lady of the Lake. They share the same ice-flow hair, gentle smile with a reservoir of strength behind it, and even her voice carries sweet, soft power. The only difference is in the eyes—the Lady of the Lake’s eyes were the blue-green of clean water, while this woman has eyes like wine, or blood.
Lancelot tries to get down on one knee—only to remember he’s already in that position. “M-My Lady, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The lady’s laugh warms the cold church. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Saber! My name is Irisviel von Einzbern, but you may call me Irisviel. There’s no need for the ‘Lady’ part—it’s a little redundant, don’t you think?”
“If you say so, L—Irisviel. Are you a holy woman?”
Irisviel frowns and taps her finger against her chin. “I suppose so. Oh! If you're asking ‘do I live in this church’, then ‘no’ is the answer. I’m Kiritsugu’s wife”—she giggles—“or rather, he’s my husband. This church is part of the Einzbern mansion, where we live.”
“…I see. Now I understand.”
Irisviel looks at him strangely. “Saber, you don’t have to kneel anymore. You look like you’ll fall over any moment.”
“Thank you, Irisviel. Forgive my…misunderstanding.” His bones creak with relief as he stands. “Is there anything I can do to help my King before the Grail War begins?”
“Not that I can think of, no. Kiritsugu will probably be spending time with our daughter Illya—would you like to meet her?”
“No thank you—well, I have no doubt she’s a wonderful child, but…wouldn’t it seem strange to meet a knight in this era?”
“Ah, I suppose you’re right. Oh well.” Irisviel looks him over thoughtfully. “We should get you some modern clothes, so that you can fit in better when we travel!”
“Your kindness is nearly overwhelming. I would be honored to wear my King’s colors.”
Irisviel smiles. “Yes, a black suit would look very good on you. Okay then! We’ll get the greatest tailors for the greatest knight!” Her enthusiasm is as overwhelming as her kindness, and Lancelot wonders idly if she’s what’s keeping his King standing.
“I am in your debt, Irisviel.”
A strange look crosses her face, something between sadness and amusement. “That’s not necessary, Saber. Really, we’re indebted to you.”
Lancelot considers debating that point, but opts not to. “As you say, Irisviel. If I may…can I explore the mansion grounds?”
“Of course. Follow me.”
---
Lancelot finds himself glad that they don’t encounter little Illya as Irisviel shows him the sights. Not that there’s much to see in this place. White is more a presence than a color here.
He notes as they walk under spiny-looking walnut trees that his King Kiritsugu’s temperament suits this place, but Irisviel seems the opposite. She’s breathlessly enthusiastic as she happily explains to him how old certain trees are, and how she can tell their age. She tells him how she and Kiritsugu met, the first time he brought her books to read, and…
“Here,” Irisviel suddenly says, as they stop by a huge ice-encrusted willow and a stream bursting with snowmelt. “This is where we decided to choose you as our Servant.”
“Truly? Why?”
Her voice is full of teasing mirth. “Why did we decide here, or why did we choose you?”
“…The second question, please.”
Irisviel nods and looks down at the gurgling stream. “When I was…young, Kiritsugu decided to show me his ideals instead of merely telling them. He gave me all sorts of books about heroic legends, but the ones I enjoyed the most were about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.”
Lancelot finds himself smiling. “Were they good yarns?”
Irisviel looks confused for a moment before nodding in understanding. “Oh, yes, they were never dull! In fact, I used to stay up until dawn reading about the tournaments and quests.” She laughs. “Kiritsugu was so surprised at first, I think he expected I’d like the love stories best!”
“Tales are remarkable things; the good ones touch the heart rather than one’s gender.” The word gender springs from his lips without pause, though the term was not in use during his time. Such a strange feeling, this knowing without knowing…
Irisviel looks pleasantly surprised. “Kiritsugu believes that too, but he doesn’t say it out loud. He’s too busy to really enjoy stories nowadays.”
Lancelot’s brows furrow. “Does my King have no time for leisure, to spend with you?” He inwardly braces himself for the answer.
Irisviel’s cheerful expression turns subtly strained. “Kiritsugu…he has a dream he wants fulfilled, and while I may be part of it, I’m not all of it—you see, Saber?”
The familiarity of her words gnaws at him. Once a maiden-Queen said something similar to me, in the quiet of a summer morning. Dawn’s light illuminated her too-bright eyes, but I could not see her tears.
“Saber? Do you understand?”
Irisviel has moved closer to him while he was lost in thought, and he tries to make his giving space between them look polite, not wary.
“…I’m afraid not, my La—Irisviel. If you could elaborate?”
“I can try. To put it another way…Kiritsugu enjoys being with me, but it seems to hurt him, too. He tries to keep it hidden, but I can see it in his eyes. He doesn’t like to grow attached to people; in the end I think he prefers his ideals.” Irisviel laughs softly and tosses her head, her hair flowing in the wind like a banner. “But that’s alright, since I like his ideals too! I’m more than willing to make them a reality, for his sake and Illya’s.”
Lancelot’s stomach twists, and he tries his best to make his smile seem legitimate and not sickly. “I can see why you enjoy tales of my King and fellow knights. Your words gladden my heart.” Well, it’s nearly true.
Thankfully, Irisviel takes his words at face-value and doesn’t question him.
---
They travel to Fuyuki by way of an airplane.
Irisviel is delighted to take the window seat, and tries to point out various landmarks to him, or exclaim about how far down and wide the ocean is. Lancelot takes the aisle seat for ease of getting to the bathroom when the barf bag can’t hold it. He doesn’t want to ruin this black suit.
His world narrows to a cramped metal container, screaming children and their negligent parents, and muggy, metal-tasting air.
Even the most foul-tempered, carbuncle-ridden dragon with no sense of direction would be a preferred method of travel. The hours move forward like frozen molasses, and at one point he wonders if he could forcibly change Servant classes from sheer tedium.
“Would you like some refreshments, sir?” the airline hostess asks, her brown eyes filled with concern.
“…If possible, may I have some beer? Whichever tastes best, please.”
“Of course, sir! I’ll be right back!” She bustles off with purpose and the enthusiasm of youth.
After his beer arrives, Irisviel halts her one-woman sightseeing to see what he thinks of modern day drink.
“Well? How is it?” Irisviel asks, as Lancelot takes a cautious sip.
He’s about to answer when the taste hits him: a foul combination of sugary butter that slides down his throat more solidly than it should. As tears burn his eyes and he starts coughing, he crafts a theory as to why so many passengers sound ill.
“Oh,” Irisviel croons, as though he’s her younger sibling, and gives him a hearty smack on the back to ease his pain.
You shouldn’t do that, Lancelot wants to say, but gives up as he has one final bombardment of dry coughs.
He takes a catnap after that fiasco, and when he awakes what feels like a moment later the fiasco of a beer is mysteriously gone. Clearly, it is searching for its next victim.
Lancelot spends the rest of the flight staring at the blue seat in front of him, and by the time they land he knows the pattern of the itchy fabric so well he can envision it when he closes his eyes.
When the airplane finally lands back on solid ground, Lancelot can’t get out of that fiendish contraption fast enough. Never has the ground felt so pleasant to stand upon…!
Irisviel promises to put him under a sleeping spell next time—though the likelihood of a next time is rather unlikely for multiple reasons. He thanks her anyway.
---
That night at the Einzbern Castle in Fuyuki, finally able to rest, Lancelot dreams of a memory:
It was the evening after the jousting tournament that Lancelot somehow managed to win. To his young eyes, Camelot appeared to be joy itself. The dining hall was filled to overflowing with the sounds of laughter and song, and the smell of delicious food and drink. He was given so many congratulations and introduced to so many of his fellow Knights of the Round that he would’ve been disoriented without the wine’s assistance. The stone walls practically glowed with warmth, and not just from the torches.
Eventually, Lancelot needed to take in some fresh air, so he politely excused himself and went out to the practice yard. Surely, no one will be there. Everyone is enjoying the feast, after all…
As he stepped into the moon-illuminated, dirt-flattened yard, with its straw targets still as stones and wooden practice swords casting long shadows on the ground, he realized he was wrong.
“Good evening,” said Camelot’s King, a small, surprised smile on his face. “I see you weary of social gatherings as well, Sir knight.”
Lancelot smiled in return and tried to quell the nervousness crawling across his flesh. This was the first time he was with King Arthur in private. He couldn’t allow himself a single misstep.
King Arthur threw a practice sword at him, shattering his thoughts. He caught it with ease, noting the name “Sir Kay” carved into the hilt.
“…Your Majesty, what…?”
“A sparring match will ease your mind,” King Arthur said, his smile tinged with challenge.
Lancelot couldn’t help but chuckle, and slid into his fighting stance with ease. “Very well—do not coddle me, my King!”
King Arthur laughed in return, his green eyes nearly as bright as the moon. “I expect the same of you, Sir Lancelot du Lac!”
—“Saber? Saber, wake up!” Irisviel’s concerned voice breaks through the memory like a stone through a window.
Lancelot lets out an undignified grunt and forces himself awake. He sits up in the large, soft bed provided for him, reorienting himself as quickly as he can.
“What is it, Irisviel?” Lancelot thinks of his King, seemingly alone and unprotected. He tries not to think of the worst. “Is something the matter?”
Irisviel’s expression is somewhere between concern and anger. “I suppose you could say that.” She rests her hand on the nightstand, as though to steady herself. “Due to Assassin’s unexpected death an hour ago, the Holy Grail War is starting early.”
“…I see. Is the castle secure?”
“Almost; there’s a few more fortifications to be done. Do you think—?”
Lancelot slides out of bed and summons his armor in a cloud of black and blue dust motes. “The person who killed Assassin has no regard for rules. We must suspect—no, expect—foul play.”
Irisviel nods, looking less worried now. “Kiritsugu will be safe. I’m counting on you to protect me.” It’s as though she read his mind.
Lancelot bows and, lifting her delicate hand in his calloused fingers, brushes his lips across her knuckles. “I shall do all that I can to protect you, my lady.”
The brightness in her eyes is a trick of the light.