Hey everyone! I enjoyed writing this fic so much that I decided I wanted to try and write an extra chapter for it. If I do future chapters like these, they probably will still feature Emiya and Lancer Artoria. However, there will be a bit more focus on how they interact with other Servants since the original story served to bring Archer's original "route" in FSN/Artoria's role in Camelot's Singularity to a close.

I also stumbled across some rough translations of Camelot/Zero, in which I learned that Gareth died fighting for Artoria in FGO canon. I decided that would make an interesting plot element to revisit so I've tried to include it in this chapter.

This particular story takes place between Camelot and the first summer beach event, so spoilers for Fate Grand Order's Camelot singularity apply!

That said, I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

The lance lied.

She recalls Gareth's crying face as she performs a needless sacrifice against the revived Richard the Lionheart.

The Servants on both sides grapple with the task destiny has forced onto them. Richard, his golden mane stained once more with blood, simply digs his sword deeper into Gareth, technically following Amon's order to "oppose King Arthur". He is living his worst nightmare, and his tearful face begs for someone, anyone, to finish Gareth's deed. Her empty face grits as she pushes the blade further and she sees the blood splatter drop by drop against the desert sand.

The Knights of the Round Table have already killed so many like them (and many that were theirs). Even if they Heroic Spirits in body, they are human in mind (except the Goddess, whose mind has already been warped by merely becoming divine).

Even so, her mind whirls furiously as she scrys the future, searching for an outcome in which Gareth does not die. She would much rather Gareth submits to the brainwashing of the spear if it means a powerful servant can remain at her side.

"Tristan, send an arrow around her eye-"

"My lord." Agravain's voice echoes in her head. "Gawain, the field commander for Operation Carnwennan, had to act before Richard freed himself."

Oh, god. ('But you have become god.' The spear trills inquisitively. 'Why ponder like a human?')

"What is Gareth's status?" It is not a question. It was the first future she scryed into, but she asks anyway because a king must be there for her subjects.

"Sir Gareth is no longer with us." Agravain quietly replies. "Her death was not in vain."

"Except it was." Artoria hears Mordred muttering over the connection, as she sees her son clench Clarent furiously. Only Tristan shows no reaction; the brainwashing he asked for has dulled his senses to even the most heartless murder.

Gareth's face suddenly morphs into Mordred's, Rhongomyniad singing from her chest 'For humanity! For Camelot! For the righteous goddess-king!'

And 30 year old Artoria Pendragon screams in rage, beating her fists against the castle walls, as she wakes up at 2 AM in the morning and realizes her metal bedpost has a noticeable dent in it.

("Come on, you guys must do something for bonding." Gudako scratches behind her ear thoughtfully, looking up from the king's chest to her eyes "Sorry, had a bad idea for a joke." She giggles, her orange eyes burning with energy. "How about sparring? You guys wouldn't be the first group we've had that prefers talking with their fists.")

This is the first training exercise Chaldea's Knights of the Round Table have had together since Camelot's blood-soaked days were put behind them.

Unbeknownst to most of them, Artoria has spoken with Lancelot beforehand on what he thinks is the best way to go about this affair. The cold, business-like killing of each other (for humanity's survival, she grimly reminds herself) still rings in all their minds as one of their darkest days as Servants, and she wants to avoid a repeat of that, mocked or otherwise.

"My King, I appreciate that you wish to hear my words on the situation." Lancelot stirs his swallow's nest soup (an apparent delicacy in China, according to Shirou) awkwardly, his purple eyes flickering from side to side as if he's expecting someone to grab his black shirt clad shoulder. "But why your most disloyal knight, of all people?"

She sighs and crosses her blue sleeved arms, thinking back to that fateful moment when she identified the Berserker of the Fourth Holy Grail War. (The day her desire changed from "I wish to prevent Britain's fall" to "I wish I had not been chosen to rule")

King Arthur – no, Artoria needs to get this right. From what she recalls from their incomplete Chaldean copies, her younger self could only avoid the maddened knight as he was only capable of screaming her name and attacking her in what was no doubt fate's cruel way of mocking their history in the Fourth War.

"Lancelot, I wish to speak to you not just as a knight, but as a friend." She exhales and recites the reasons in her head. "I have long forgiven your disloyalty, and ask because I feel you are the only one who can offer an open mind on the situation."

The purple-haired knight stops looking around like a lost hound and stares directly at her at this. "Bedivere would certainly be a better judge of-"

"Bedivere was not present when we all sat at the Round Table, and knew in our hearts that we would not agree over my proposal to save humanity. His burden is of a different kind. "

("We're still trying to adjust Airgetlám to not rupture his soul after several hours of use." Da Vinci had told her. If only Merlin wasn't still locked up in Avalon. "Until then, he will be having nightmares for quite a while.")

She exhales gently, and tries not to think of her own nightmares. "Lancelot, aside from Agravain, who is currently not present," (and likely would not answer the World's call, because his only loyalty can be to King Arthur, she thinks) "You were the only one who essentially asked to stay open in mind despite the atrocities we committed."

"Mordred did not ask for a gift, either."

"Mordred's actions are….hard for me to comprehend, Lancelot. Why else did you think I forced a Gift on her and led her astray?" It is not tasteful of her to describe it that way, but she suspects her incomplete Chaldean copy avoided the Knight of Rebellion for the same reason.

(She is many things – an honored king, a beautiful lover, a hero with unrivaled resolve. She has no idea how to be a father, let alone one of a bastard child.)

"Then surely, Tristan or Gawain are better-"

If anything can cloud Lancelot's judgement, it is that subtle deprecation of his own worth. She decides to get to the point. "Lancelot, you went and saved lives while Tristan begged me to brainwash him, and we all know of the many things Gawain is, an unbiased advisor he is not." She leans across slightly and puts her hand on his – a gesture unbecoming of the king, but a gesture familiar to her from the 21st century. Thankfully, he does not pull away.

"You are also the only Knight of the Round table I have fought properly with as a Servant." She continues slowly, making sure he understands she is not trying to berate him. "If there is anyone I could create a proper training exercise with, it needs to be someone who I can discuss my ideas with, be it as a knight or a servant."

He nods his head, shoulders relaxing a bit. "Of course. Forgive me my king; it is so easy to doubt myself when I have turned against you every time."

"That is precisely why I want you to help me plan." She smiles, her eyes shimmering with hope from her younger days. "If anything goes wrong, we will all be there."

Had she left her Clairvoyance on, she would have seen Mordred sliding back into Chaldea's white hallways, muttering in frustration.

It is 1994 in Fuyuki, and the docks are quiet at midnight. A gleaming red bridge stands in the distance as Mash Kyrielight, settled upon as the mediator (because otherwise Artoria would be watching, and Galahad seems to think she is too distant) scans the simulated horizon, keeping watch for a VIP.

The first sign of engagement is not a clash of swords as expected, but a loud explosion as Artoria Pendragon, Assassin-class servant, flies out of the eastern most warehouse and rolls behind some crates.

Precise aim with a firearm is something she expects from Kiritsugu, but Lancelot's Knight of Honor skill is free from the chains of madness and a direct counter to her own prepared wildcard.

("We of the Round seem easily upset by unorthodox tactics," she had claimed, throwing an amused glance at Gawain's slightly dumbfounded face. "I would like each of you to try to invent something of your own for the skirmish.")

She curses and wraps her blue scarf around her leg to set it, using a light charge of mana to set it back in place. Modifying her Saint Graph back to her younger body had been the right call – Lancelot's first rubber bullet had sailed far over her head and in his haste to adjust he had fired with poor aim and excessive mana reinforcement.

"This is MHX. Virtue 2, have you secured an LZ?"She had instilled Kiritsugu's military jargon in the Enforcement Knights, but this is the first time in centuries she has used it. "I have the package but I'm under suppressing fire."

"Virtue 2 reporting, my King."Gawain's voice crackled back under the simulated Chaldea communications. "I apologize but am currently under fire from an impatient musician."

"I have no idea who this King is." She sarcastically replied, dropping her voice as low as she can force it. "My codename is MHX and my goal is to slay all the Sabers. That will include you, Virtue 2, if you and Tristan continue this horseplay."

"Yes, my K- MHX." Gawain replies hastily, and the clang of swords can be heard along with Tristan's gentle laughter as the communications cut out. If nothing else, it is clear the tragic knight of the bow has been grateful for Chaldea's much friendlier environment.

"This is Virtue 1!" Mordred's voice suddenly interrupts, as a loud burst of lighting from Clarent suddenly topples a whole row of warehouses further back. "The sad old eggplant is gonna regret not charging in now. Move, King of Knights!"

She would groan at Mordred's complete failure to follow the protocol had she not observed the rather impersonal reference in that remark. (This is ridiculous. Go ahead and tell her it's okay to call you Father. You have to start somewhere.)

She settles for slipping out the holy dagger from her chest pocket instead and pulsing mana into it. Carnwennan shimmers with light and bends the rays of the moon at angles that defy the laws of physics, and suddenly, it is as if Artoria has never been on the battlefield.

"MHX here, Saber Ninjutsu Art active." She fakes a grumble, but it is her best attempt to have some levity about the situation. (Will Mordred understand that, though?) "Virtue 1, where are you located?"

"Ahhh…. somewhere between the big brown boat and the small black one?" Her voice is rough like sandpaper, but if you listen closely, she too possesses Artoria's regal tone. (Medea once threw her hands up in frustration over the sheer dissonance, stating that it was like Mordred tried to be everything Artoria wasn't in manners.)

"Got it Virtue 1. En route to your location." The small king lithely hops over crates and onto the roof of a warehouse, scanning under her baseball cap for signs of her knight (and son). If she squints hard enough, she can see Lancelot scrambling to find a new vantage point, only for a gigantic burst of lightning to blow apart the next warehouse he climbs up on. At the rate Mordred is firing Clarent, there won't be anything left of the port.

(Like father, like son.)

She swallows that thought and begins stealthily creeping towards the lightning bursts when she hears Bedivere's soft, firm voice.

"Swordfish, I've engaged the enemy that's been intercepting you. Reposition and get a shot on MHX."

Leave it to Bedivere to follow the training protocol even when she has thrown it to the wind in exasperation.

"Roger that, Cyborg." Lancelot doesn't realize that he's right above her now, as she presses against the wall. His sniper rifle will not get an effective shot in at this range. "Attempting to relocate the target package."

Artoria sneaks towards the alleyway, almost certain of Mordred's location, only to slide back behind a ruined warehouse wall as Bedivere rockets past her, Airgetlám propelling his sword towards Mordred's head. The rough-shod blonde knight smirks as her helmet slides up around her by some mental command, taking the brunt of the hit as she slams the flat of Clarent's blade into Bedivere's stomach.

"Virtue 1, take another hit like that and you'll be waking up to your Masters in the infirmary." She chides, almost out of instinct. "Use the enemy as leverage, catch him on you bla-"

"I know what I'm doing, damnit, Father." More personal, but the reference to her is still forced. "Lemme beat the third-rate knight the way I want and I'll lift you up and drag ya home."

Artoria decides not to tell Mordred that they're currently the same height. Instead, she observes the clash of the two knights, Bedivere's thrusts and ripostes gracefully finding holes in Mordred's large, intimidating swings. At one point she heard Mordred mutter "Screw this" and aim a kick at Bedivere's groin – the silver haired knight is thankfully smart enough to use his magical arm to rocket upwards into the air, landing on his feet and back into another thrust on Mordred.

"Are you faring alright, Sir Mordred?" Lancelot calls out on top of the warehouse, watching the battle through his sniper rifle's scope. He too has clearly become intrigued by Bedivere's creative use of the artificial limb. "Perhaps the groin is not-"

"If anything, it'd be more appropriate for you, ya sour eggplant!" Mordred yells, slamming Clarent into the floor and cracking the ground into jagged pieces. This causes Bedivere to struggle to regain footing – Artoria silently notes to tell him not to rely excessively on familiar stances when the enemy does not fight like a swordsman.

For now, she lets Bedivere lunge to his doom, clearly a reflexive (and desperate) attempt to overwhelm his opponent with a surprise offense. Lancelot will probably have to cover his retre-

The sickening squish of a blade against guts is heard as Mordred pulls Bedivere's sword into her stomach, and holds Clarent against his neck.

(Her tear stained face, her hands reaching out, her mouthing of the same word over and over as she turns, "Father… father…father…")

"This is the cursed sword that destroyed my Father." Mordred begins her chant through gritted teeth, sparks searing her cheeks. No blood spills from her wound, but Artoria doesn't notice that as she runs out straight towards Mordred, tackling her.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!"

Armored fists instinctively raise up, beating against her back, but the King of Knights is no stranger to taking blows beyond what she should be able to sustain, letting Avalon pulse through her and regenerating bruises away as wraps her scarf around the wound and slides out the sword with divinity-aided accuracy.

It is then that she realizes the wound is almost nonexistent and stops just before Mordred's fist hits her face. Her son stops midway, lowering it as she realizes it's not Tristan.

"Fa-"

"What were you thinking." Artoria interrupts, her voice now cold as the steel of her dagger.

"But I-"

"I do not care!" She shouts, holding back an impulse to cry. "When I asked for unusual tactics I did not mean try to get yourself killed!"

Mordred shoves her off, and Artoria doesn't fight back, breathing weakly as she falls into a sitting position. Her son dissipates her grey-red armor, revealing a necklace with a pair of odd shades hanging from it.

"This…." Mordred tries to speak, choking on what seems to be exhaustion (but it is very clear she is a disappointed child trying not to cry). "This is a Craft Essence called Necromancy. My first Master was the last guy who knew how to use that magic stuff with it properly. I was hoping to show you…"

She breaks off and runs past Gawain and Tristan, towards the exit door of the simulation room. They nervously look at each other, then back to their King, who is still sitting beside a downcast looking Bedivere and Lancelot.

Mash nervously slips down from her perch on the observers deck and gently strides to her surrogate father's side. "Um…. King Arthur, I don't know if this is my place to state it…"

"No, speak." She replies, taking off her baseball cap and putting Carnwennan back in its sheath. "You have proven yourself more than worthy, and not just as a knight."

"I think you really need to talk to her." Mash kneads her hands, her brows knitted in remembrance. "When she first came to Chaldea, you both had this weird silent agreement to stay out of each other's way. At first I assumed it was natural discomfort, but…"

("Yeah, I'll gladly die!" She witnesses Mordred yelling at Mash in her visions. "After all, Father's planning to create a world where there won't be any need for knights!")

"I understand." Artoria gets up and slowly strides out of the room. "My feelings or not, this silence cannot continue, for both the sake of Chaldea and the Knights."

("And for our own sake as well." She silently adds, as she checks over Bedivere and reassures him that he is not at fault.)

Artoria's first attempt to talk is met with a door slam and halfhearted curses about not crying. The king, now back at her full, commanding height, shifts awkwardly against the wall, her arms folded below her breasts.

"It's almost midnight, you know." A flash of a different shade of red is caught in the corner of her eye, and a tanned hand extends her some hot cocoa. "You should get some rest."

The eyes are narrower, and the hair is certainly all wrong, but Shirou's golden brown eyes will never change. That said, they don't stop her eyes from trailing down to the burn wound on his left hand.

"Ah." He awkwardly stutters, as if he's that teenage boy that's dares tell her they're fasting all over again. "That was just a wyvern breathing fire at a girl. Had to get her out of the way."

"As long as you take care of yourself." She takes a sip of the hot chocolate, made to the perfect temperature and with the exact amount of sweetness she likes. "Did you ever have a night like this?"

He responds by patting her head. "If I did, I can't remember, honestly." He shakes his head thoughtfully. "You won't make any progress like this, Saber. A night's rest is good for any kind of combat, you know."

"Yes mom." She drawls playfully, as he rolls his eyes. "Come now, you have to admit it's a charming nickname from the children."

"Of all the things I've seen in my life, I never I thought I'd draw the line at being called 'Mom'." He groans, sliding his hand over his hair.

"It is alright, Shirou." She smiles softly and pecks him on the cheek. "After all, I suppose this is my first attempt to be a real Father."

He grumbles and playfully throws a red blanket onto her – it drapes around her shoulders like a vibrant cloak. "Go to bed, Saber, or Mordred is going to be very confused when she meets her 'mom' in the morning."

"So if you couldn't see the Masters face to face on anything, will you start purging humans and trapping them within your Rhongomyniad again?" Doctor Roman's passive, yet pointed voice is more than just 'a man concerned for his family'.

For his sake, she does not change the way she addresses him.

"That is too far of an insinuation, even for you of all people." Her eyes flicker briefly with the sacred green fire of the lance; it is a warning. "We have already fought a tired and pained war to ascertain that I wished for the same salvation but used unforgivable methods. I do not wish to tear Chaldea apart by revisiting those sentiments."

"You are correct. My apologies." He rubs his wedding ring, narrowing his eyes as he sips his coffee. Even the great Da Vinci can be sometimes taken in by his false aura of incompetence – it is telling that he does not bother with it in her presence. "I'm mainly worried about your lack of communication. Ritsuka and Gudako are adaptable, but the memory of Camelot is fresh on everyone else's minds. Boudica in particular feels you need to strike more of a chord with those under you; doubly so if we are going to need larger deployments for Babylon."

Thankfully, this dream is just a remembrance, and Merlin does not send Romulus and Ritsuka after her again to embarrass her with a half-serious proposal.

"I don't know how to relate to her." It slips out of her mouth at she puts down her coffee, staring at the sketchbook of one very grumpy Jeanne Alter. The sketch is unflatteringly titled "What if Mordred grew up?", but there is no doubting the anatomy and shading.

(Had she been born into a boring, ordinary, life, she would've been hailed as the next Da Vinci.) Artoria thinks.

"Hah?" Jeanne Alter snaps in surprise, quickly recomposing herself with an instinctive sneer. "Having mommy issues, your Heartless Highness?"

"That's fresh, coming from someone who believes Gilles de Rais is a loving father." She retorts. When it comes to the black-clothed saint, all bets of formality are off. "I could blast down the dormitory wall, but I actually care about the defenses of my allies."

"Maybe that's your problem." Jeanne Alter grumbles, sliding her pens to the side as she closes her book, spearing a frog's leg on her plate with a rough push.

"I don't remember asking for your advice to begin with, board game geek." She smirks, recalling a faint promise of Christmas revenge just for that barb. "If anything, I bet your 'sister' would be happy to aid me."

"Ta gueule, I'm serious." Jeanne Alter downs a glass of chocolate milk and slaps it on the table. "You talk to me better than you talk to your own kid, you tin can. Doesn't that bother you?"

"Considering that you're technically one year old, you have a point there." Artoria sighs and looks outside, watching the snowfall on the mountains of Chaldea. "So why do you enjoy my company?"

"Well, we're not all that different at heart." Jeanne Alter replies, poking a finger on Artoria's dark blue vest. "I'll be honest, I expected to have nothing in common with you, but there's something amusing about knowing King Arthur was also just a girl forced into a role she wasn't really sure how to play."

It would have been an insult from anyone else, but from a clone created solely to destroy history, Artoria understands her unofficial rival is speaking from her heart.

"Your point is that Mordred isn't all that different."

"Well, she probably got fed ten times the amount of lies we did, but yeah." Jeanne Alter stands up, tucking her sketchbook under her black wool sweater. "Get your head out of the mud and dive all the way in, Artoria. You always end up overthinking about whether you should act as a total friend or a total stranger and you know it's not that simple."

"I see. So, refrain from thinking?" Artoria raises her eyebrow coyly, her elbows on the table and her hands placed across her mouth.

"How else could you deal with me?" The pale haired witch laughs, presumably walking off to ponder if she should sketch Ritsuka a third time.

Much to her and Fran's surprise, Mordred is not in London. Instead, Jekyll sighs and readjusts his glasses, peering over at his empty fridge as he puts down a dusty book, likely from the 1888 Clock Tower.

"I think she expected people were going to start chasing after her, so she said something about 'going somewhere Father wouldn't want to look at.'" Fran nods and an unspoken message seems to pass between the bespectacled doctor and the veiled cyborg as she runs out to help Babbage track anachronisms.

"I'm fairly certain Camlann isn't accessible to us right now." Artoria nods silently in agreement, she already knows what he's going to ask next, even without using Clairvoyance.

"What's the most likely place that you think King Arthur would take for granted?"

The castle once covered in veils of snow is now a ruin littered with ash and embers.

Shirou had come here to pay respects to Illya – the first time he had done so since the Singularity of 1960's Fuyuki had been resolved. Only the charred remains of the disrupted Fuyuki of 2004 remain, and he is loathe to admit it but his heart cracks slightly whenever he leaps past the remains of a burnt home (his first, but not last home) towards another rooftop.

("If we'd come here in the first place, we wouldn't have had to walk around all day." He'd dryly chastised Rin once, in a Holy Grail War that has been wiped from the face of history.)

("All you can get from up here is a panoramic view of the city," she'd replied, confident as ever. "You can't get a feel for how the city is laid out until you've been there in person.")

"If only you could see Fuyuki now, Tohsaka." He sighs and leaps onto the road, the memory of slamming a door on her fresh in his mind. "Something to fight for, at least. For Fuji-nee, Sakura, and everyone else, too…"

"What the hell is with this sappy mess?" Shirou stiffens and whirls around, Kanshou and Byakuya at the ready, only to meet the tear-dried face of Mordred, clad in a loose red jacket and jean shorts.

"Interesting place to choose for a stroll." He replies in amusement, crossing his arms. "I'm afraid I already cleared the place of any threats a long time ago, though."

("Make sure no phantasmal beasts intrude in on this place." The blackened Saber tells him, determination set in her eyes when she is certain Lev Lynor isn't looking. "Chaldea has the right to prove their strength against us.")

"I didn't even think people bothered to kick around here." Mordred replied roughly, her voice slightly hoarse from what had probably been a long night of frustrated crying. "What makes this place so special to you, 'Mom'?"

The tanned Archer sighs at this remark, but decides to leave it for another day. Just like Artoria, there's really no point in dodging questions with the red-clad Saber.

"It's where I lived, and where I died." It's a half truth, blurred by the span of multiple timelines, but it will do. "I came to pay respects to someone else that passed away here."

"Ah." Mordred is fidgeting now, but eventually settles on blurting it out. "Didn't Father die with you here once?"

Shirou knows she's referring to the battle of Singularity F, but…

("Ah….Shirou?" The tainted Saber speaks in a daze, having hit her head.)

(In another life, Shirou has no choice but to plunge the Azoth Dagger into her neck.)

"Twice, actually." He replies, the smoke of the eternally burning buildings wafting into his nose. "Killing her was the hardest thing I'd ever done."

"How come she gets along with you so well?" Mordred grumbles, stomping her foot into the ground as if trying to process the dissonance in what she's heard and what she's seen. "You've got no history, reputation, or record that's worth a damn. For all I know, Father sees you as some country bumpkin."

"You're probably right about that." He replies. "But…"

"You have to find your own happiness." He pleads, hugging her tightly,
"You've fulfilled your oath, so you can return to being Artoria. "

She hangs her head, wanting to accept the declaration of love that comes after.

"…My answer will not change. I cannot break my oath as a king."

"…your father craved that sense of normalcy, you know." He chooses his words carefully. Technically, Mordred isn't his child, but he suspects Saber could use the support when it came to parenting. "She'd lived both a life and an afterlife pursuing the ideal of being a king, for the sake of bettering her country."

Mordred only quietly stares at him with barely hidden curiosity, so he continues. "I wasn't even half the man she was, in many ways. I wanted to save 'people', but I had a much less concrete idea of what "everyone" meant."

("Shirou - you are like me. That is why I can tell you what you have done wrong.")

He inhales and surveys the flames. "I deeply admired her drive to fulfill her oath, but in the end, what mattered the most to me was seeing her happy as a person."

Mordred seems to understand this, materializing Clarent, but quietly sticking it into the ground. "I think I wanted that, too, but I never really got a chance to please her."

"It's hard to when you're kept distant by everything." He admits. "I may have only fought with her for two weeks, but those two weeks were a battle for survival. We made a lot of mistakes, learned what made each other tick…all the things partners do, I suppose."

"Sounds like my first Master." She laughs harshly. "Kairi made the mistake of calling me a girl when I summoned him. The guy had a real good reason to want the Grail, though, and every other Master in the Grail War was an ass. I let myself die at his side."

"Spoken like a true knight, huh." He notes, noting Mordred's eyes glimmer with sentiment.

"Yeah." She gives a large, toothy grin. "He had this sort of reckless fighting style and a sharp tongue. Couldn't have asked for a better Master."

Something clicks in his mind, and Shirou thinks he's starting to see where the gap in Mordred and Saber's relationship lies.

"You know, Mordred, Sa- your dad does have a bit of a rough, sweet sense of humor." It's going to take him a while to get used to Mordred's way of addressing his love. "But it's not something that comes instinctively to her – she needs to be eased into it."

Fuyuki's ash-black winds whistle with faint whispers of voices long forgotten in her heart as Dun Stallion gallops onto the scorched earth.

In her brilliant, white armor, Artoria Pendragon sticks out just as blatantly as she did in the scorched deserts surrounding Jerusalem. Her son is a much better fit, red jacketed back facing her as she glances upon the burnt remains of what appears to be a dojo.

"Ya lived here once, right?" The brash knight speaks up, not daring to look at the woman behind her.

(It has been so long, and yet she can taste rice, hot soup, and fried shrimp on the tip of her tongue, all at once.)

"A long time ago, yes." Artoria tries to smile slightly (because this is just as important as it was with Lancelot, if not more), stepping down from her mount and dismissing it back into spirit form. "Mordred, if there's anything you want to say to me…"

"I've got a lot, yeah." The roughshod knight turns around, tilting her head upwards to look at her face. Burning sea-green eyes meet each other for seconds that seem to be hours, and then she takes another heavy breath. "But to be honest, I feel like every time I bring it up, I'm either going to scream it straight to your face or run away because I don't know what to feel."

"So what do you want to talk about, then?" Artoria tries to relax, but in truth, she's uncertain of her son's motive.

"I… just want to know you." Mordred shuffles about awkwardly. "I just…have to start somewhere, right, Father? Given all terrible things in the past, I was hoping seeing where you lived might help, but ah, it's all a wreck..."

("Get your head out of the mud and dive all the way in, Artoria.")

The king slips an arm around her son, pulling Mordred gently against her side. "…son, would you like to hear about the time I thought a raincoat was a perfect infiltration outfit?"

It's not quite the makeup she imagined, but judging by Mordred's small smile, it's a good start.

"Is it true that Mom almost tricked you into not eating for a day?" Mordred queries sometime later. A rough, more certain smile is on her face now as she and her father sit on the dark porch, watching the flames flicker quietly in the night.

She lets her eyes flare with mock anger in response. "I hope he also told you I gave him a sound strike on the head at training that day for such blapshemy."

"That sounds like you alright, Father." Mordred laughs at the bizarre moments they've shared of Grail Wars new and old, at plans for the future, at a complicated situation with an old father and a new mother.

Someday, they will have a more serious talk over grievances fighting to the death, and everything they couldn't speak of within the span of the tumultuous months of Camelot's fall.

(For now,) Artoria thinks, (It's more important that we know we won't run away from each other.)

"By the way, Father….um…. do you know anything about how to swim?"

Artoria almost jolts awake in shock at the question. For someone gifted with the ability to walk on water, she hadn't given such a question much thought.

"W-w-well, it's supposed to be summer soon and that Da Vinci lady keeps mentioning a "super secret ocean side vacation, so…" Mordred stutters, unsure of how to take her father's silence

The truth is that Artoria's last attempt at swimming was several lifetimes ago, and she'd rather not remember the number of times Shirou had to dunk her under the pool.

"I'm not sure if I could be an effective instructor, but…perhaps a floatation device could help?"

"Like... a miniature ship?" Mordred's cocky grin does not bear good tidings. "Father, do you think you could rebuild the Prydwen with your lance?!"

"Mordred, being on a ship isn't going to help you learn movements in the water."

"A-aah, yeah. How about maybe… a gauntlet? Or maybe something like an enchanted sea saddle?"

"…Mordred, I love you deeply, but I can't even begin to imagine perverting Prydwen into something like that."

"But Father, Fran and Boudica and everyone are gonna be there an…"

"I'll consider it." Artoria does her best to smile, though innately she's thinking of ways not to endear Mordred to her own bad habits in the water.

She doesn't use Clairvoyance out of sheer embarrassment of what she might witness. However, if she had peeked at the future, she would've witnessed a father and her son splashing each other happily in the warm ocean water, passionately arguing over the blueprints of Chaldea's Temporary Summer Resort.