To Sharpen A Blade

“I can’t believe she let you do this.” Artoria sits cross-legged on the floor, staring at you with a baffled look on your face. “I don’t think she’s let anyone touch her noble phantasm… ever. Even Kay wasn’t allowed to.”

She casts no shadows. Caster, she who chants, former child of prophecy. Your kindred spirit, in every way that matters.

“Don’t ask me. I don’t know how I did it either!” You lay your prize across your lap with a care normally reserved for newborn babies. “I guess even like this, I could convey that I want to be her ally?”

“You do have that effect on people.” Artoria nods to herself. Meanwhile, you take out the polishing oil and glance down. You can still barely believe that this is real; that Saber’s noble phantasm, half of her legend, what makes her a servant- that Excalibur is here, with you.

Her skin is as warm as you remember. You wrap your hand around that handle, and you can feel her fingers intertwining with yours- The iron feels dreadfully cold even to your necrosed fingers. What would it take to warm her up? What must you give to warm her up-

“Ritsuka. Ritsuka.” She snaps her fingers. “Focus.”

Ah. Right. “Sorry.” You give her a sheepish smile. “Madness Enhancement is a bitch, you have no idea.” You don’t mean to get distracted. But you were never meant to hold three trains of thoughts at once, so paying attention to the present is… difficult.

“Eh, that’s why I’m here. To snap you back to reality.” Artoria tilts her chin towards the sword. “For now though, get polishing. You promised to make me sharper and sturdier than ever. The king will get mad if she thinks you lied.”

“I would never lie to her. I can barely keep track of my truths, you think I can lie coherently on top of that?”

You mean that as a joke, but Artoria does not laugh. She only stares at you with that blank look she wears when she doesn’t want people to know what she thinks. You guess it wasn’t as funny as you thought it was. You look back down so you don’t have to see her face anymore.

You’ve never held a sword yourself, but you’ve spent so long around warriors that you know the steps to polish a sword regardless. First, you drop some oil on the sandpaper, and then, gently, you dab it on the blade. At least, you intend for it to be gentle; your fine motor functions being what they are however, you probably go rougher than intended, because you hear Artoria inhale to your left.

“Sorry,” you look up to peer at her. She’s sitting on your right. “Did I hurt you?”

“I don’t have nerves. You cannot hurt me.” She responds rashly. You take it as a hint to leave her alone, but as you’re about to go back to your work- “It’s just- no one has ever touched me like this before.”

You pause. “No one?”

“Excalibur hardly need to be polished to cut effectively.”

“So I’m the first to touch you,” you give her blade a long stroke “like this?” and Artoria-

shudders.

Not the girl. Not just the girl. The sword. You- you felt it, you saw it, you’re sure, you’re sure,

Was that real? Your fingers can barely tell the difference between skin and iron these days. Was that real? Your visions are plagued by ghosts ever since you became a servant. Was that real? Was that real? Was that real? Is that madness or is it just grief? Hamlet, O Hamlet- is there any difference at all?

“Ritsuka.” She calls out your name, half whine and half pout, and fuck if that doesn’t do things to you. “If you dissociate on me right now I am going to legitimately kill you.”

“Sorry, sorry! I was just… you know. Thinking.”

She does know (she knows everything about you) because she frowns at that “You shouldn’t think about these sort of things.” Slowly, she crawls towards you on all four, then raises a hand as if to cup your cheek- she doesn’t touch you, of course, couldn’t when her real body lacks muscle and limbs alike, but the intention is here. “You know it won’t do any good.”

She’s right, obviously. But it’s hard sometimes. It’s hard not to wonder are you really there? Are you a ghost, an apparition, an hallucination? Are you this girl I loved so, or are you an image I made up?

“If I asked you, would you tell me the truth?” is what you ask instead. You can’t, won’t voice those doubts in your head. But this- this is as close as you will allow yourself to get. This is as close as she needs it to be, to understand what you mean.

She smiles at you, softly, like an angel, like a star. “Have I ever lied to you?”

Ah. Yeah. That’s about what you expected.

You don’t answer. Instead, you swipe the oil across her blade again, as if for revenge. She’s visibly taken aback by your touch, her eyes suddenly shrinking into cat-like pupils. Her cheeks flush a deep crimson, and she bares sharp canines at you to snarl. “Ritsuka!”

“What? You don’t like it?” You press the sandpaper against the sword once more, making this swipe as slow as possible. “You don’t like my hands rubbing you all over? You don’t like me grasping you tightly?”

She makes a high-pitched noise not unlike a kettle. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You’ve dreamed of this noise. You’ve spent countless hours imagining what her face would be like, what her voice would be like, what her touch would be like, if only, if only, if only you’d taken that shot back then, if only you’d had more time-

You don’t notice your hand slipping. Artoria is the one who does, expression suddenly shifting from arousal to worry. “Your hand!

It doesn’t hurt- cannot hurt, when your nerves are barely functional at all. But when you flip your palm towards you, you can see a thin trail of blood running over your skin.

She bit you.

“Oh fuck- I didn’t mean to- are you alright??”

She bit you. She bit you. She bit you. She bit you. She has no tongue to kiss you with no hands to touch you with but still but still she could sink her teeth inside your soul still still she could find a way to reach you.

”Ritsuka?”

You can’t help it. You press that hand between your legs, staining your pants red, and let out a low whine.

For a few seconds, all she can do is stare at you in shock. Then she asks, very quietly: “... You still want me? Even… even like this?”

Even as a sword? Even as a ghost? “Of course. Always. Artoria.”

Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria.Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria.Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. Artoria. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

She glances at the sword, then at your hand, and finally at your face. She will not reject you. You know she won’t. “... Let me bite you some more, then.” She brings her face closer to yours, just an inch away, just a kiss away. “If you must shed blood, then give it to me. Let me drink your love from your veins.”

You would give so much more to this girl. You would give her your severed tongue, you would give her your torn-out heart, you would give her your what little remain of your sanity.

But all she wants is a kiss. So you draw your hand back, and run your palm over her blade again.

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