When Arturia heard the word 'suit,' she thought of armour: helmet, cuirass, gauntlets and leggings, with padded cloth underneath and perhaps a surcoat emblazoned with her sigil on top. Something gallant. Something fierce. Something made to accomplish a single job with utmost efficiency and elegance. Something greater than the sum of its parts.

She studied her reflection, looking herself up and down with a critical eye. They called this getup a suit. She begged to differ. "How am I supposed to fight in this?"

"You're not supposed to." Irisviel nodded for the tailor to leave. "Excellent work." She turned back to Arturia. "It's for when other people see you with me. It's the fashion for the wealthy to be accompanied by people wearing such attire."

Arturia held her arms out, turned a half-circle and studied the back of her jacket. Turned again. The work done was more than competent, she had to admit. The cuffs stopped just before her waists ended and her hands began, the dress pants didn't reach her shoes, and everything was at that right place between snug and taut. Even so, she didn't see the point in the tie. If she was fighting someone wearing what she was wearing, it's the first thing she'd grab. "You people are so baffling."

Irisviel clapped her hands together. "I like it. It looks good on you."

"Me too!" A third voice piped up.

Arturia glanced at her. Illya. Jumping up and down on her parents' bed. She was a fey child. That much was obvious. Like her mother, she was a prodigy of magic right from the cradle, and it came at a cost. Her mother couldn't see it, for mothers did not want to see nor acknowledge the flaws of their offspring, but Arturia can: the constant fevers, the short attention span and the weakness in her breath, hands and stride. At her age, Arturia was already learning how to saddle and ride horses, clean plate and chain mail and swing weapons of war. She'd sleep in the stables with the animals and wake up early in the morning to do her chores. When her foster father had no need of her, she'd run in the streets of the town with her friends, playing knights and brigands, making mischief as only stray children knew how, harassing guardsmen, taunting beggars and stealing merchants.

Those were simpler days. But things changed and that's just the way it was.

Arturia grunted. "If you say it's so, then I suppose it must be true, Illya."

"Of course it is! I'm always right!" Illya exclaimed, and her mother smiled sheepishly.

He was of her blood. Anyone could see it and the similarities ran more than just skin deep. There was the step in his walk, the steel in his gaze, and the magic in his words. He was of king's blood, dragon's blood and most of all, her blood.

From the doorway of the castle's kitchen where she could see everything, Arturia watched the boy spar in the courtyard with his fellows, motions in time with the bellowed orders of his instructors, going high and then low, to attack and to defend on their count. She watched him as he frowned in concentration, brushed golden bangs out of his eyes, and offer his hand to his partner to help him up when he knocked him down. Arturia shivered at how perfectly the likeness and the mannerisms were like her own. "He's not mine. I would have known."

Lancelot followed her gaze. "And yet who else could he be?"

Arturia bristled. She was king, her spouse was queen, and they always slept in the same bed. "I've not been unfaithful."

Lancelot shrugged and went back to studying the blemishes on the table he was seated at, his mind lost on other matters. He's been like that for quite a while. If she didn't know better, she'd say he was lovesick. "Perhaps you should tell Guinevere," he eventually suggested, his tone quiet and wistful. "Better that this news comes from you than from somebody else."

Arturia slumped back on her stool. "Perhaps I should," she muttered, massaging her temple, wondering how she was going to explain this to her, and what it might cost her both immediately and in the long run.

Outside, practice was called to an end. The golden-haired boy put away his wooden sword and went about clapping shoulders, ruffling heads, trading jests, the leader in him already showing as one by one, his peers, many older and bigger and closer to grown men than he, each gave way to let him lead them all back to the classrooms where they would return to studying their letters and numbers.

Guinevere would understand. She was never angered by anything. It was not in her nature to hate. Hate was reserved for lesser creatures. Arturia remembered when she first confessed to her how she felt that Caliburn must have made a mistake, that she couldn't be a Pendragon, that there was no way she could rule and govern with the same wisdom and strength her predecessors did. She remembered how Guinevere had taken her hand in hers and told her everything would be alright and that she was not alone, and that she should deal with things one at a time and strive for the best, even as her eyes looked at her with such bitterness, such disappointment.

Arturia quickly turned her gaze away from the boy and stood up, her face tight. "I don't think…that she'll react well if it were me. I should-"

"Do you want me to-" Lancelot caught himself as he realized what he'd did. Even he should not interrupt the king while he was speaking.

"Yes. Yes, please. I know it's uncouth, but I think that would be for the best."

Lancelot went quiet, and Arturia realized how stricken she must seem, how fearful she must sound to him. She opened her mouth to take her words back, but he was already bowing his head, eyes averted. "If that is what you wish…your Highness."

"What is it?" Kiritsugu looked up from his laptop as his visitor entered his study. The light of the screen showed his 9 o'clock shadow, thin cheekbones, and the dark circles under his eyes. He looked older than Arturia felt on some days considering her own age.

"Midnight. You should get some sleep."

"I will. Thank you for the reminder." Kiritsugu returned his attention to his screen, and Arturia waited. Half a minute passed before Kiritsugu looked up again. "You can go now."

"Do you really think you should be having these late-night study sessions?"

"That's none of your concern."

"Keep this up, and you'll be in no condition to win the Holy Grail War."

"I'll be the judge of that, Servant."

Arturia bit her lip and looked out the window, where the moon shone in the sky as the snow continued to slowly drift down, her tongue in cheek as she took a moment to let her anger and contempt simmer down. Conversations with him always came down to this. Every statement of hers a thrust, every answer from him a parry. She made up her mind on what she had to do, and stepped forward, loosening her tie as she approached his desk. She knew Irisviel would disapprove, but she didn't mind. Irisviel can love and support her husband as much as she wanted, but she was a wife and Arturia was a king, and no matter what century it was, a king's word was law.

"If that will be all, I have to get back to work-" She closed his laptop. Kiritsugu looked up and squarely met Arturia's gaze. He took a deep breath. "What do you think you're doing?"

Saber rested her palms on the desk and leaned over him, staring till she was past the point where most people would still feel comfortable. "Emiya, just so we understand each other, I don't like you, let alone know for the life of me what Irisviel sees in an irksome bastard such as yourself. But if we're going to make any progress once the war begins, you'll cease this idiosyncrasy of yours where you somehow manage to thank me and insult me in the same breath, because honestly, I've had just about enough of it from you. And fair warning, if it continues, you'll be needing more than three Command Seals to prevent the consequences. Have I made my point clear?"

Kiritsugu narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to retort, but hesitated as Arturia's eyes widened. "Crystal, Saber," he said begrudgingly.

"Good." Arturia straightened and motioned to the door with a jerk of her head. "Irisviel's already abed. You should join her."

Kiritsugu needed the last word however. As he stopped at the door, he turned back. "Were you like this with your family too?"

The Servant glanced at him sharply. "All the time. Good night, Emiya."

Kiritsugu closed the door, leaving Arturia to stand alone in his study. She looked down at his desk and drummed her fingers on the wood, lost in thought. She was reminded of her own table. The Round Table, and the knights who sat at it with her. Warriors without peer and legends in their own right who spent as much time fighting each other as they did together if she wasn't there to rein them in. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine them ringed around her, trading banter and insults with their loud voices bouncing off the walls, every single one of them a brother in spirit.

To her, there was nothing more vexing than the uproar of family and friends in quarrel, and nothing sadder than the silence they left behind when they were all gone.

"Arturia!"

She stiffened at the sound of that voice coming from the other end of the corridor. "We'll speak of this later," she said to the lord. "The queen calls for me. She sounds cross." She smiled weakly. "I've learned, a long time ago, that when she wants to scold me, it is best if I make as much of an appearance to suffer it."

The lord bowed. "I understand. You have my sympathies, sire," he replied before hurriedly departing, his retinue trailing in his wake.

Arturia turned around, smile disappearing as her heart sank at the sight that approached her. "Guinevere."

"Arturia." The queen glanced at her handmaidens. "Leave us."

Arturia cleared her throat. "Lancelot. In this, even you can't protect me."

Beside her, the black knight coughed into an armoured fist and stood to attention, heels clicking. "You know where to find me, your Highness."

Guinevere and Arturia waited as they listened for the knights and the handmaidens' footsteps to begin receding. "Can they hear us from here?" Guinevere asked.

"I think so."

The open palm hurtled towards her, and the sound of the slap echoed throughout the hallway. Arturia let her face snap to the side with the blow. "Did they notice that?" Guinevere asked.

"Probably." Arturia rubbed her cheek, wincing as she looked over the queen's shoulder. "Yes, Lancelot just picked up the pace."

A pause. "Still there?"

"Not anymore."

"Sorry about that."

Arturia nodded. "You could have warned me."

"I could. But you deserved it."

"I guess I do."

Guinevere took her hand. "Walk with me. I want to hear about this son of yours." There was no anger in her voice now, what that there had been being nothing but acting for the sake of appearances in front of everyone else. There was still that guarded look, but Arturia let it lie. Everyone's entitled to a secret. Just look to her own, which would be the ruin of a kingdom if it were to ever be laid bare to the light of day.

"It's not like that. I wasn't expecting him."

"Really?" Guinevere turned around, eyes wide. "So, you didn't-"

"Not with anyone, not even before they put the crown on my head." Arturia hesitated. "This is honestly the first time I've heard about him in my life." She held up her hand so that Guinevere could see the ring on her finger. "I keep my vows, all of them."

Even the ones that are a lie, she could have added, but there was enough resentment in their relationship already.

Guinevere went silent as they walked down the corridor together. Out the windows, the autumn leaves could be seen trailing in the wind, red, orange and yellow, and behind them, the trees stood out starkly bare. And despite the sight, Arturia still didn't believe that there could be beauty in death. She's seen death, smelt it, heard it, even tasted it. In battle, when she was knocked off her mount to fall into the melee, it'd wrap its arms around her and she'd thrash about in its grip, cutting blindly like a shipwrecked sailor fighting for air in the raging sea. Around her the bodies would get closer and tighter, till men were hugging each other, close enough to kiss, too far away to swing their axes and maces and swords, such that they were forced to fumble for knives. And just when she thought she was going to drown in all that carnage, the cavalry would cut through, her banner high up in the air, and someone would be pulling her up onto a fresh horse, and the cycle would repeat itself again. She'd always thought it'd get easier after the first time.

"Merlin."

Arturia glanced at her. "Yes?"

"You're an only child, and as far as we know, all your remaining relatives are dead, so if you don't remember, magic is probably what had a hand in this."

"You think so?" Arturia frowned. "I'll speak to him then. But he never shows up unless he wants to, even if I summon him."

Guinevere nodded. She peered ahead, then turned to glance behind her, to make sure no one was around. "We can't keep this pretence up forever."

Arturia let go of her hand. "I know."

"What are you going to do about the boy?"

"I'm not sure," Arturia lied.

She had already made up her mind up about it.

Arturia came into Illya's playroom to find her pointing one of her father's toys up at herself so she could look down the barrel. The Servant was lunging even as the little finger squeezed the trigger.

There was a light click and then the pistol was in Arturia's hand and Illya was looking up at her with hurt and dismay, not realizing that if things had turned out a little differently she'd have a gaping hole in her face and a 9mm slug lodged in her brain. Arturia didn't yell or scream, but whatever Illya saw on her face still made her cry.

She forgot how irritating children can be.

"Alright, so remind me. Who's going to know about this?" Arturia asked after she managed to calm Illya down and explain half of what happened while leaving the other half, the half the child was too young to understand yet, to herself.

"No one but us. Not Mother. Not Father. It'll be out little secret," Illya recited with the utmost seriousness, rubbing her eyes on Arturia's sleeve as she sniffed, on account of there being no tissues immediately on hand.

"That's a good girl." Arturia ruffled Illya's hair, her heart still hammering in terror. "And I'll be putting this back where it belongs, and if you see it again, you're to leave it alone," she added, patting the bulge in her jacket where the gun sat in an inner pocket. "Okay?"

Illya bopped her head up and down. "Okay."

After leaving the playroom, Arturia took the gun out again and studied it, disengaging the safety and cocking the hammer, before holding it out before her, muzzle pointed at the wall. As she stared down the barrel, she found that there something discomforting about the appeal of a weapon that everyone from cowards to children can use, an appeal that even she was drawn to. And the craftsmanship; there was an elegance in the design that made the minds behind swords, bows and trebuchets look juvenile in comparison.

She went looking for Irisviel and she found her on top of a stairway and staring out of a window. The homunculus made no motion and said not a word as Arturia went to stand beside her to see what the other woman saw, which was snow as far as the eye could see.

"Kiritsugu said we'll be going to Japan in a couple of days, as soon as the weather's cleared and he's made all the necessary arrangements." Irisviel murmured aloud. She glanced at Arturia and frowned when she saw what was in her hand. "What are you doing with that?"

"Oh this? I borrowed it from Kiritsugu." Arturia flashed her a small smile, hoping that it wasn't tinged with bitterness. "It scares me, you know. The gods made men, and this made them equal. I can't say whether I find it astounding or disgusting." She shrugged. "And then I remember that this is only a tiny fraction of what the world has managed to invent since my passing, and I can't help but long for my own era."

"Where things were much simpler?"

"Not at all. But at least, I knew how to deal with the problems back there." Arturia pocketed the gun. "Thank you for telling me the good news."

"It's the least I can do." Irisviel bit her lip and returned her gaze to the skyline. "I know what you think of him, but I really do wish you two could get along together. Methods aside, the gun for example, the both of you are fighting for a common cause."

"The ends don't justify the means, Irisviel. I cannot accept his in good conscience. I'm sorry."

The homunculus shook her head. "No need to apologize. I suppose a knight should be unyielding when it comes to his principles. Can't fault me for trying though."

"I guess not." Arturia took her leave, and went to return the gun to the locked drawer in Kiritsugu's study.

"I'm leaving you in charge while I'm gone."

They were at the docks, where the boats waited with their sails flapping in the strong breeze. It was good weather for sailing. What with the soldiers and sailors around them bustling about and making last minute preparations for the journey, and the friends and families giving their loved ones what could be their final goodbye, Arturia knew that all who looked upon them both would swear they were looking at twins. "It's a heavy burden, but I'm sure you'll do fine," she said.

Mordred hammered a fist against his breastplate. "You can count on me, my king."

Arturia looked at him, and saw once again how badly he wanted to call her to call him son. "I never doubted it." She cleared her throat. There were so many things she knew she might one day have to say to him, some already overdue, others hiding in the shadow of the future. "If I don't make it back from Rome-"

"You'll make it back." Mordred stiffened as he realized what he'd done, and Arturia remembered Lancelot, and what he had done, and what she herself had to do to one of the best people she thought she had known in her life. She and Guinevere still haven't talked since then. "Forgive me," Mordred said. "I spoke out of turn."

"No." They were standing side by side, and Arturia stepped past him and turned, placing a hand on his shoulder. She threw a hand out to the scene before them: the ships, the harbor and the city. "Once I leave, you'll sit where I sit, and you'll govern all this. Perform your duties well." She lowered her voice, till Mordred had to crane his ears to hear. "We both know who you are," she said, watching as emotions flitted over her son's face, too quick to follow, but easy to guess. "We both know what people think of you. A pox on them. I want you to learn while you rule in my stead. I want you to understand that one day it will all be yours, not just the throne, but the crown to go with it. Maybe not today, maybe not for another decade, but the time will come, and when it does, know that I'll call you what you want to hear." She patted him on the back. "Until then, make me proud."

That was the first time Mordred might have cried. If it were just the two of them, Arturia knew he would. But people were watching, so the water in his eyes was gone in moments as Arturia left him behind to say the rest of her goodbyes before heading up onto the deck of the vessel.

It took Arturia longer, far longer than she had preferred to return to England. When she did, she found that Mordred liked the throne far too much to give it back to her, far too long to wait for his turn. She found that he still had much to learn, but he could not see it and could not accept it. She found that the Round Table and the nobles were not of one mind when it came to how to resolve this issue, and the resulting conflict ripped the country apart.

And so it came to be, on a field of green stained red and heaped with the deceased, Mordred slain by her own hand, that Arturia wished for a second chance to make things right, and the Grail answered.

"You shouldn't have let me sleep."

"It's alright, Saber. I figured you could use some rest."

Arturia frowned. "And what if we were attacked? What then?"

"Then the wards would have been triggered, Archer would have warned us and there'd be plenty of time to wake you up then."

They were in the kitchen, and from the nearby stove wafted the smell of dinner. Arturia had long since given up trying to guess what they were making when they first started this bizarre tradition. The dishes tasted well, and that was all that mattered. She turned her gaze to Rin. The magus shrugged, not wishing to do anything as stupid as pick sides between a Servant and Master, her eyes intent on the pan she was holding over the flames. Arturia looked back to Shirou, who gave her a pleasant smile before returning his attention to the chopping board, cleaver steadily cutting through the broccoli. Arturia hated broccoli. "Shirou," Rin interjected, trying to scoot around them both, forcing them to brush shoulders as they made space for her. "Can you take over for a second?"

"Sure." Shirou gave Arturia his back, wiping his hands on his apron. "What are you looking for?"

"Oil." Rin opened the cupboard, and then slapped her forehead. "Shirou. We got a problem. There're no more bottles left. Do you have any margarine?"

"No, but there should be some butter left in the fridge."

Rin clucked her tongue. "It'll have to do."

Arturia had no idea what they were talking about and decided it'll be better to let the two high school students have their space. As she was about to go out, she turned around to see the two of them hunched over the pan, bickering over how much butter should be added, and it occurred to her that it would have really been something to see Illya, Kiritsugu and Irisviel like that together.

She forgot Japan didn't have doors on hinges, and spent a moment staring at the one in front of her in confusion before remembering and sliding it open. It was pouring outside. Arturia hopped off the porch and walked towards the gates, where Archer stood guard.

"No umbrella?" The red Servant asked as she approached. "Really?"

Arturia shrugged, flicking wet bangs out of her eyes with a toss of her head. "It's just rain. Doesn't bother me in the slightest."

"It bothers me." Archer started to shrug off his coat.

Arturia held up her hand. "That won't be necessary."

"Please. For my sake." Archer handed it to her. Despite herself she accepted his gift and hung about her shoulders, settling for not putting her arms in the sleeves when she realized that they wouldn't make it even halfway. "So, what are our idiotic Masters doing?"

"Cooking."

Archer snorted. "Typical. Don't they realize they have bigger things to worry about?" He asked aloud, leaning up against one of the doors. "If this whole war had no Servants, the boy would be the first one to be pushing daisies."

"They're children, let them be. Besides, that's why we're here." She took the other one. Hair dripping, Arturia untied the braids. "Have we met before?" She scooped all her locks back in one hand as she pulled them into a ponytail.

"Don't think so. I'd know who you are otherwise." Archer lifted his head sharply. "Joan of Arc?"

"No, and I'm not surprised that was your first guess." She glanced at him, studying him carefully before shaking her head. "I'm not even going to bother. I don't think anyone from Japan visited my land when I was alive."

"Right." Archer folded his arms. For a while they stood there in silence, lost in their own private thoughts, Arturia thinking about why Illya pretended not to recognize her, and how the man Shirou spoke of as his foster father differed so much from the man Arturia fought alongside and detested. "You're from Scandinavia?" Archer finally asked.

"Do I really look that pale?"

"Germany, no, Britain then." Arturia didn't respond. "You look chivalrous," Archer continued. "Have that whole holier than thou look. Perhaps…a knight?"

Arturia rubbed her nose in irritation. "I'm not tall enough," she retorted. Around them the sound of the rain started to rise in volume. It could be heard slapping the overhanging roof and gurgling down the drains and trickling down the road. "Imagine me jousting. That'd be a fine jest."

"Maybe." Archer frowned to himself. "The Round Table perhaps?" Louder.

"I don't recall there being women seated." It was a deafening roar now. If one of them were to walk out of the shelter of the gates and roof, they wouldn't be able to see their hand, even if they were to wave it before their eyes. It was the kind of rain that put a Christian in mind of a divine flood.

"No, but perhaps you hid it well." Archer snapped his finger as he got it, not noticing the other Servant stiffen at the look of triumph on his face. "Sir Gawain."

The rain slowed to a drizzle.

Archer's grin shifted into a grimace as Arturia laughed. "Gawain?" Arturia repeated loudly. "Never met the man, but I've heard the stories. No, not that flirter, not that champion of women."

From across the courtyard, they heard a door slide open. "Saber! Archer! Dinner's ready!" Rin called out. "Hurry, while it's hot!"

Arturia took off the red coat, wiped her face on it and handed it back to Archer, clearing her throat as she did so. "You, on the other hand would make a great Gawain, I'd imagine."

Archer chuckled, folding the garment and slinging it over his shoulder. "I hope not. That wouldn't do for my reputation." He bowed and gestured mockingly to the estate. "Ladies first."

Arturia shook her head and stepped past him, thinking it was a pity that she might end up having to kill him if she wanted to win this war.

"What were you two up to?" Rin asked suspiciously as Arturia stepped up onto the landing.

"Us? We were just discussing a wager."

The magus raised an eyebrow. "On what, may I ask?"

"On whether," Archer answered for her, coming up behind them both. "The idiot over there would shack up with you or Sakura."

Arturia didn't hear Rin's reply, nor the cry of pain from Archer as he was kicked in the shin. She made her way over to her Master. She thought of Kiritsugu and how he'd blow up a building to get an enemy and shoot down a plane to save a city, of his foster son who would fight everyone's battles so they wouldn't have to, and saw both the adult and the child as each being a different kind of broken. "Need any help?" She asked.

"No I should be fine." Shirou caught the look on Arturia's face as she turned and sat herself down at the dinner table. "Is everything alright, Saber?"

"Of course." Arturia shifted to give Archer space, realizing that this would be the first time the other Servant would be joining them for a meal. Glancing at him and seeing the grimace, she reckoned he too had noticed. Then it came to her, glancing between him and Shirou, that there was something peculiar about them both, something she can't quite put her finger on, like they were-

"I want some sake!" Archer announced, thumping a fist down.

"We don't have any," Shirou retorted. "I'm underage."

"This is going to be a very boring dinner then. Do you know what I do when I'm drunk?"

"Throw up?" Rin guessed, pointing a ladle of rice at him.

"Worse. I sing!"

The table wasn't round, but it did feel like home.