Knightly Ideals

The sight in front of him is so utterly bizarre that Shirou thinks he will remember it even in the depth of hell.

A person stands in front of him. They’re dressed in strange clothes- black jacket and grey pants, covered in many belts and pockets reminiscent of a rock climber’s harness. They wear black gloves and equally black boots, the entire thing seemingly fit to spend days trekking in the snow. In contrast to the modern look, a blade shines at their hip- a 6^th century medieval European broadsword, to be exact.

“I ask of you,” under the moonlight, their voice has something almost ethereal. “Are you the Master?”

Shirou does not reply. His voice does not find him.

The person turns around. The spearman clad in blue is just as dumbfounded as him. The person looks at him, looks at Shirou, and cringes.

“Aw, man.”

So. It seems that Shirou has unwittingly entered a ritual called the Holy Grail War.

It’s a lot of information to take in. At least Tohsaka is gracious enough to explain, and to heal the stranger (his servant?) enough for them to stop screaming.

Not. That Shirou is blaming them for screaming. Getting stabbed through the heart was… God. God. He couldn’t even do a thing.

“Are you okay?” He asks them once Tohsaka has taken her leave.

“I’ve… been better.” Their breathing has calmed down somewhat, so perhaps it’s not a lie? “What about you? You alright? That was, uh. A bit of a traumatic experience here.”

? What do they mean? Shirou was barely hurt in the skirmish. He didn’t even properly die. There’s no reason to worry about him. “I’m fine.”

The servant gives him a weird look he can’t quite read. “… Well, alright. You’ve got a name, Master?”

“I’m Emiya Shirou.” They frown at the mention of his last name, but they don’t comment on it. “And you are… Saber?”

They peer down at the sword at their waist. Earlier, when fighting lancer, it almost seemed like they were not so much a person wielding a sword as a sword itself forged in the experience of countless battles. Now though, they’re looking at their weapon with mild surprise. “… I suppose so.”

…

Shirou knows that sword. He- can’t really explains how, but he knows it. That blade… That handle… He knows that sword. He would recognize it anywhere.

That’s Excalibur. He has no explanation as to how he knows that, but he’s certain of it.

“You can call me Ritsuka, if you want.” Says- King Arthur? Maybe? Why King Arthur would be a Japanese man… woman? Is beyond him, but-

“I’m really sorry to ask, but are you a man or a woman?” He interrupts his own thoughts.

Weird as it sounds- he genuinely can’t tell. It’s not that the person in front of him is androgynous. But rather- anytime he tries to focus on their face, it feels blurred out. He can see they have eyes, but he can’t tell what color they are. He can see they have hair, but it fizzles between red and black in the span of a blink. Their physical appearance is just like their voice, perfectly perceptible yet impossible to define.

The servant stares at him. “Ah, I know it’s a bit of an insensitive question, but-“

“I don’t know.”

There is a beat. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t.” Saber looks down at themself. “I, uh. I can’t remember.”

… How does one… not remember their own gender? How does one not remember their own gender?

“That pig-tailed girl told you what heroic spirits are, right? We’re made as much of the real person as of the legend they left behind.” They bring their sword on their lap and sigh, rubbing the handle. “I suppose my gender was just not important enough to be remembered.”

“That seems like an important detail, though.”

They snort. “You’d be surprised. Though my summoning is a bit unconventional. The current [me] isn’t the result of my history. It’s more of one specific person’s memory of me.” They look down at their reflection on the blade. “Her culture didn’t care much for gender.”

Bit odd, but alright. Shirou knows better than to argue on the specifics of magic.

“I’m here on her behalf, actually.” They look at him again. “I don’t know what wish she wants granted by the holy grail, but I’ll do my best to help her. I trust that your wish won’t be to destroy the world or anything?”

“No? Who would even wish something like this??”

Saber starts cackling. Shirou decides to not read into it.

Initially, Shirou thinks their partnership will be smooth sailing. Saber is as averse to fighting as he is, and quite crafty in finding non-lethal ways to get out of a bad situation.

He’s wrong. Boy is he wrong.

“Why, Saber hisses, “Just why do you always have to needlessly throw yourself into danger?”

“There was no other way-“

“I can think of at least five other ways!”

Shirou snaps. “What about you, huh? You’re no better on the sacrifice front than I am.”

“I would think that after seeing me skewered five times you’d understand that I simply cannot be killed.”

“What I do understand is that regardless of mortality you can still feel pain!”

“I swear, you’re just like that girl-“

Saber shuts up suddenly, grabs him by the sleeve, and throws him on the side just in time to not have the roof crumble over his head.

“We’re kind of in the middle of something.” Saber hisses at the figure floating about the rubbles.

“Why, my apologies.” The hooded figure- Caster, Shirou presumes- responds sarcastically. “I’d say I will do better next time, but… there will be no next time.”

Saber moves just in time to dodge the magic she blasts their way.

Caster is good. Caster is very good. This does not look like any sort of magecraft Shirou has seen before. Saber is fast, but that’s all they are. A sword can do nothing against long-range combat. Shirou starts throwing whatever he has on hand at Caster. If he can gain them even just a second, if they can get just a little closer-

Saber does get closer. And closer. And closer. Surprisingly so. It almost feels like Caster is letting them get-

Oh fuck.

“Saber, don’t-!”

“Got you.” Caster takes out a dagger from the folds of her robe. Saber’s eyes widen. They rise their sword, ready to parry-

And then lowers it. Shirou almost thinks he’s dreamed it, but there’s no mistaking it. Saber is moving the sword away from the dagger.

The blade sinks into their chest.

Saber yells. It’s a horrible, horrible sound. It doesn’t even sound human. Their body is overtaken by violent spasms, their very shape glitching in and out of existence.

Caster steps back. “What…?”

Shirou means to reach out. To grab Saber, to hold them back into physical form- but Caster rushes towards him, grabbing his wrist.

“How.” She looks at the command spells on his hand with- confusion and terror. “I- this should have taken your contract. How?”

Shirou doesn’t know, and, frankly, doesn’t care. “Saber!”

He takes a step forward. Saber’s head snaps towards him, their neck in an angle that shouldn’t be possible, and-

They howl at him. It’s not quite a growl- there’s not enough anger and too much pain panic pain fear pain. But it’s a clear warning. Don’t come near me. Don’t come near me. I’ll bite, I’ll bite, I swear I will.

Saber hurriedly backs away from him. Their body is twisted beyond comprehension. One of their arm and one of their leg are clipping into each other. Sometimes their bones move before their skin catch up. Saber hurries back, eyes wide, struck by horror beyond comprehension.

They’re holding onto their sword tightly. So tightly their fingers melt into the handle. For a moment, Shirou is afraid they’ll strike, blinded by pain. But Saber does not bring the sword forward. They keep it close to their own body, keep it away from Caster, and him, as if, almost as if-

They were protecting it.

“… You’re not the servant. That’s why I couldn’t take your contract. That’s what Rule Breaker is reducing you to this.” Caster understands at the same time he does. “You’re not the servant. You’re the noble phantasm.”