She is burning atop her blood-soaked hill.

The pennants flame and the spears smoulder, and the bodies of her fallen soldiers weep red into the dirt. Above, the sky is black with smoke.

And I looked upon what I had wrought and proclaimed it good.

What sort of ruler lets their country tear itself apart? What sort of knight stands by as brother turns against brother and parents drive spears through the hearts of their children?

I- I should never have been King.

Kiritsugu had taught her that ten years ago; carved it into her bones with his cruel words and two command seals. And she cannot even blame him for it.

Iskander was right, she is a fool.

The Undefeated King turns her face to the sky and waits for oblivion.

Waking comes with a sobbing gasp, leaving her disorientated by her surroundings until she spies the familiar figure on the futon.

Shirou sleeps still, filling the dark room with the soft rustle of linen and the quiet rush of his breath. It is a welcome sound after the eerie silence of Camlann – but restlessness stirs in her breast, as if the blade that once pierced her heart resides there still.

She cannot remain, not now.

Lancer will keep Shirou safe, so she lets the echo of the dream chase her out of the house, taking to the night-shrouded streets of Fuyuki. Perhaps she will lose the ghosts of the past to the neon glare of this modern age.

As she walks, she savours the relief of having a true Master once more; of feeling the reassuring weight of armour on her shoulders and the worn grip of Excalibur in her hands. Even now, when she has been taken from them, Rin's mana thrums gently through her veins.

Her wanderings lead her down to the docks, and in the quiet of the night Saber lets herself imagine that it is the Fourth War again. That Irisviel is beside her and soon Lancer will appear to challenge her to a chivalrous duel.

There is no honour to be found in this fifth war. Servants turn on their masters and allies abandon each other with ease, and Irisviel's only daughter was murdered and desecrated by a madman just hours ago. She is glad Diarmuid and Iskander did not live to see such horrors.

Caught up in the memories as she is, she senses his presence too late.

"Feeling sentimental, Saber?"

She stiffens but does not turn – her guard has been weak tonight, and he could have easily attacked before now. He is not here to fight.

"This city holds many memories for us both, Archer," She says, fingers curling around Excalibur. "Surely you would not begrudge me some time to reminisce?" Every nerve in her body screams to flee from the man behind her, but she grits her teeth against them.

She does face him now, having taken a moment to steel herself.

He hasn't changed.

This is hardly surprising – he is still a Servant, after all, and is unaffected by the passage of time – but seeing him here is an eerie reminder of the previous war. His apparent relinquishing of the golden armour in favour of modern clothing does nothing to detract from the familiar aristocratic features and haughty manner.

And the look in his eyes is as hungry as it was a decade ago, his smile equal parts chilling and fond.

"You don't seem surprised to see me," He notes, sidling closer with his hands in his pockets.

"Shirou-" She murmurs, fighting the urge to edge backwards. "He described the attacking Servant at the Einzbern Castle. It did not take much to guess your identity." She doesn't mention that she now knows his true name – fears that saying it aloud will only give him more power over her. The King of Heroes, for pity's sake.

Archer tilts his head, smirk spreading. "Oh? I'm flattered that you remembered me in such detail," He reaches out to catch a strand of her hair, "But then, I suppose I did leave quite an impression on you at our last crossing."

If a sword and an axe in her legs counts as an impression.

Disgust claws its way up her throat, and she steps back, brushing his hand away from her hair with a steel-clad fist. He lets her, drops his arm to his side gracefully, more amused than angered.

"Such hostility," He muses. "What could I have done to deserve it, I wonder?"

Fury rises, hot and piercing beneath her tongue. "Surely you jest," She hisses, raising Excalibur until the point rests at his throat. "Ilyasviel is dead."

Confusion flickers across that beautiful face, until understanding dawns and cracks open its maw to grin. "The doll," He chuckles, pressing forwards until the blade almost breaks skin. "Of course, it's about the puppet. Your previous Master's, I take it?"

Chivalry be damned, Saber decides. He will die here. He will die now.

But Excalibur slices air and Archer perches above her on a streetlamp, swinging a long leg in taunt as he laughs into his hand. "Have I touched a nerve? My dear, sweet Saber – just how many fools did you think to take under your protection? Did you hope to save them all? Such beautiful, self-destructive ideals; it would appear you haven't changed at all."

"I wish I could say the same, you monster," She spits. "But your actions, Gilgamesh, have proved that the years have only made you crueller."

That sobers him somewhat, something dangerous glimmering in the depths of those cold, red eyes when she names him. "My true name may fall sweetly from your lips, little girl, but your tone is unforgivable. You have no idea what I have endured this last decade, what offences I have suffered. But you will learn – you will be taught."

She doesn't quite succeed at hiding the shudder crawling down her spine, and he must notice – because that predatory smile is back, the darkness clearing from his face as if it were but a passing madness. Archer stands, balancing effortlessly on the narrow pole and, with a nonchalant glance, takes in their position.

"This is nostalgic," He calls down to her, hands once again secured in his pockets. "Memories of our first encounter spring to mind. All we need now is your mad dog to attack us."

He has misjudged, she thinks, if he believes that Lancelot's fate can hurt her now. She buried him in her heart the day Excalibur drove him through.

Still, Archer must be punished for such disrespect to the dead.

Her master may be missing but the bond between Rin and herself is still strong (stronger than it ever was with Shirou – a small, treacherous voice points out). The sword in her hands leaps into life, the golden light as brilliant as always. It illuminates Archer's handsome features, and reveals the wariness behind his grin.

She will show him no mercy, not when Rin is lost and Irisviel's daughter lies in a shallow grave. Not when he appears before her to dig his cruel fingers into her heart and squeeze.

In the space between Excalibur's swing and the explosion, Saber cherishes the flicker of true panic that flits across Archer's face before the world turns white once more.

"EX- CALIBUR!"

When her vision has cleared and the ringing in her ears subsides, she takes in the Holy Sword's devastation with grim satisfaction. Such an attack would be a mere inconvenience to a hero of Archer's skill, but she has most likely seen him off for the night-

An arm curls around her waist.

Or not.

"How beautiful you are, Saber, when you shine with the fire of the righteous." He is behind her, one hand on her hip, the other encircling the wrist of her sword hand. A sharp squeeze to the bird-thin bones there, and Excalibur clatters to the ground.

It is unnerving to have him so close; to feel the hot breath at her nape and the bite of long fingers pressing into her side. Each delicate hair on her arms prickles to attention, and the hard warmth of his body behind her brings blood to her cheeks; a fire to match the heat spreading from her waist and wrist.

How long has it been since she was touched, truly touched – embraced – even, by another? Shirou had never dared to be this intimate, nor had Irisviel – and certainly not Kiritsugu. Her knights had been distant, too respectful of the crown she wore to ever hold her like this.

Could she have missed human contact so much?

"Release me, Archer," It's fainter than she'd like, too hesitant to be forceful – and he must sense her misgivings because his grip only tightens.

"In time," He hums, lips brushing whisper-soft down her neck. Each breath against her nape sends trembles shuddering down her spine, and her legs are weak and her lungs gasp for air and he won't stop touching her.

She feels him grin against her skin, and wonders if he knows just how much he is affecting her.

Probably, the bastard.

"I've waited ten years to see you again, King of Knights," He continues, dragging her even closer into his embrace. "You will forgive me if I take a moment to savour this." The hand at her waist travels up until it tangles in her hair, a sharp tug pulling her head back to face him.

In the moonlight, pinned by those crimson eyes, she believes in the Devil and his temptation with all her might.

"Please," She whispers, hating her voice for breaking; for the tremble in her knees and for the heat that coils, hard and unrepentant, in her belly. "Please let go."

He doesn't, unsurprisingly, but cups her cheek tenderly, thumb swiping away invisible tears.

The kiss is gentler than she expects, but still passionate – ten years of impatience and longing and rage built into a storm, tempered only by the will of the man behind it. It is her first (though she would sooner die than admit that, especially to him) and beneath the lust and possessiveness that she anticipated, there is something that feels an awful lot like kindness.

In the end, that's what makes the tears come, makes her sob into the kiss and bring her hands up (to push him away, to pull him closer, to-)

It matters not, because in the next moment he has spun her to face him, crushed her to him until her armour creaks in protest – and still he does not break the kiss.

The whole world shrinks down to the heated space between their bodies; the desperate tightening of her fingers in that ridiculous jacket of his, and the way gold bursts behind her clenched eyelids when his thumb brushes her chin oh so gently.

Her tears (of fear, of frustration and loneliness and desire) paint her lips with salt, and it is only when he tastes them that he pulls away.

In the silence of the docks, she lets him chase the slick trails up her cheeks; lets him press butterfly kisses to her eyelids and firm lips to her forehead. If she leans into it, he is solemn enough not to mock.

"I expect I shall see you again very soon, Saber. Do try to stay alive until then."

Blinking watery eyes at him, she musters a weak smile. "I shall do my best, Arch- Gilgamesh. Perhaps we shall finally resolve our last battle when that meeting comes."

His chuckle is warm, warmer than she thought possible, as is the hand that cradles her skull.

"I look forward to it," He promises, stealing one last kiss from the corner of her mouth that threatens many more to come – and she must close her eyes tight against the temptation. "Until the next time, Arturia."

He is gone by the time she opens her eyes, but she stands between the shipping containers for a long time afterwards, body trembling at the use of her real name.