Chapter Text
He had long since abandoned his claim at humanity, yet that night, with another warm body beside him, sleeping soundly—the body of his Master, his lover, his voice of reason—Arthur felt as if…as if even with everything that has happened, even with the technicalities, even with his claim at humanity forfeited, he was human.
It was strange, since now he was a Heroic Spirit, little more than a phantom inhabiting a temporary body made manifest by magecraft, yet he had never felt so alive, so…free.
Arthur remembered how Ritsuka smiled at him, how the light did not turn him into a hero or a god, but a human, still, with all his flaws and shortcomings. He remembered how soft his lips felt, when he kissed him, how warm and welcoming his mouth was, as he parted his mouth slowly for him when they kissed, how tender his skin felt under his touch, the salt of his tears and the soft musky scent of his body.
Most of all, he remembered how felt liberated when they joined, as if all the metaphorical chains binding him had suddenly vanished.
It was not—at that moment, the moment that stretches into eternity—the Holy Grail that he had wanted all along, nor saving humanity, but this mortal body he was holding, so frail and ephemeral, a candle in the middle of a fierce storm, yet a candle stronger than any other light.
“If only…if only I could keep you safe forever, Master,” he found himself saying, whispering to the night, holding Ritsuka’s sleeping form tightly, fear started clouding his eyes.
For tomorrow was the last battle of the war, and even if they won…Arthur closed his eyes, and sleep, although it was elusive at first, claimed him too, at last.
The lake was still pitch black in the aftermath.
In Arthur’s memory, he was seeing a different kind of lake, the waters blue as the sky the day he did not die, lapping gently, a mirror towards another world.
He remembered, now.
He remembered commanding with his dying breath his most loyal knight—Saber—to throw his sacred sword to that lake, the lake that he could envision then, as he lay dying, even if his obstinate vision was slowly being replaced with those of a garden.
He remembered his sacred sword, remembered scouring the planet for it, in all his grief and loss, after Bedivere went missing with it.
He remembered the city he built at the end of the world, silver and perfect, where he sat with his knights and plotted the salvation of humanity, anointed by God Himself.
He remembered the first Summoning, the broken man who wanted to save humanity, the fourth Holy Grail War, when he released his sacred spear’s True Name the first time under the man’s command, even as he howled in horror and cursed the man to the skies.
Then he remembered…the second Summoning, the boy, oh, the boy who was on his last leg, begging for help, the boy who had stirred something deep in his heart, the heart that had died for a decade, that had lay broken and desiccated inside of him like a broken doll, or a discarded piece of memory.
The Holy Grail was a monster, a cursed eye looking down upon the world, ready to pour out its curses. It was not the golden cup he vaguely remembered, not a blessing from God, or a wish-granting device.
He remembered destroying it, rearing back and revealing the True Name of the sacred spear that he bears—this time not with a howl of pain and frustration, but with resolve as cold and as cutting as the light that Rhongomyniad released.
In the aftermath, the lake was still pitch black.
Ritsuka fell to his knees after he reached the shore, and Arthur immediately dismounted to run to him. He was carrying Archer’s temporary Master, who was injured after the ordeal but still alive, somehow.
“We made it,” Ritsuka said, looking up at him, smiling with tears in his eyes. “We made it, Lancer. We destroyed the Holy Grail. We defeated the priest,” he continued, and Arthur, too, can’t help but smile, slightly. Part of him wanted to sweep Ritsuka off his feet and embrace him, but for the moment, he held himself back.
“Yes, Master,” he said, fighting the urge to wipe Ritsuka’s tears, too. “We did it. Congratulations. You have truly…saved humanity this day.”
“I guess so,” Ritsuka replied, hastily wiping the tears from his eyes, slowly getting back to his feet. “I- I couldn’t have done it without you, though.”
Arthur didn’t know how to respond to that, so he simply nodded, tilted his head, and smiled. “It was your bravery and resolve that pulled you through, however, Master,” he pointed out, reaching out to touch Ritsuka’s face, gently. “I would never be able to work with someone less than that.”
Silence passed by for a moment, and Ritsuka’s eyes, as he tilted his chin up, was every bit as defiant as he made him out to be.
“But you said I was barely a Master,” he said, with a touch of impishness in his boyish voice. “And that you are going to kill me.”
Arthur lets him go and smiled, again, this time with a touch of wistfulness. “You had passed the test. You should know by now that you are my Master.”
“Yes,” Ritsuka nodded, and fell silent. “However…”
“It seems like we have finally come to this,” he told him, still smiling, still wistful, standing beside the pitch black lake, gaze steadfastly fixed to the one he loved, the one he held most precious above all things.
“We have come to this,” Ritsuka agreed, evading Arthur’s gaze for a moment.
“My contract with you has come to an end, Ritsuka,” Arthur said, out of formality, feeling the smile slowly turning to ash. “You have fulfilled your end of the bargain, and I have fulfilled mine. So…”
“Will you allow me to kiss you one last time?” Ritsuka said, abruptly, taking a step forward, fear and longing and desire entwined in his blue, blue eyes, the eyes that had enchanted him, haunted him. “Please?”
Arthur took it a step further and closed the distance between them, stooped down to kiss him by the lips like they did last night, lingering only for a moment, wishing that time could—would—stop, though even then, he could already feel himself evaporating from the world he was never meant to inhabit again.
A phantom is a phantom, and after all, even ghosts had to go after a certain period of time. He stepped back, then, and smiled, satisfied.
It was like being awakened from a long, long dream.
“I think we need not be so formal now,” he teased, trying his best not to lean forward and wipe Ritsuka’s tears, but he did, anyway. “The time for that has long since passed. And please…Master, do not cry. I have no regrets. My life has ended,” he added, airily, feeling at peace with that fact for the first time since he’d failed to truly die, back then. “I hope you can understand that by now. Though…” he wavered, not knowing whether he should say it or not, but his time was getting shorter, and in the end, he chose to say it.
“You reminded me how it was like to be alive again, like never before, to be human again. You did help me reclaim my humanity, and for that, I am forever grateful to you, Ritsuka Fujimaru,” Arthur told him, smiling, straightening up himself even as he felt his Spirit Origin slowly disappearing from the world—the world which Ritsuka inhabits, and which he felt grateful that he could inhabit along with him, even if only for such a short and limited time—and the gold dust rose up into the dark sky, slowly, but surely, like the tears of a dying star.
And yet. And yet, Arthur Pendragon now had no regrets.
“I wish—“ Ritsuka choked out, and Arthur waited, patiently. “I wish we had more time. I wish I had told you sooner. I wish it didn’t need to end like this,” he said, shaking his head, and Arthur once more gently wiped away his tears with the back of his hand.
He shook his head, and touched Ritsuka’s face again, gently. “I have no regrets. Our date, our time spent training and talking and eating together, and even last night…I savoured each and every moment. Do not be sad. Ritsuka,” he added, smiling brighter than before, mustering all his energy to stave off the evaporation for one last moment.
“My Master, my brave Master…I will be waiting for you at the garden at the end of time,” he told him. “I will see you there.”
And he disappeared into the gold dust of wishes, the gold dust of heroes and gods and stories, with the ghost of a kiss on Ritsuka’s lips.
“…pai. Senpai,” a voice cuts through the silent void between consciousness and unconsciousness, and he felt himself slowly being dragged to consciousness, leaving the dregs of empty palaces of memories behind. Did it really happen? An echo of his mind’s own voice asked, in-between the push and pull of the forces, but he didn’t really have time to dwell on the question. “Wake up,” the female voice said, with no reproach, but with affection. “I can’t believe you fell asleep. I left you only for a bit.”
Ritsuka blinked, tasting salt on the tip of his tongue and the cold touch of tears on his cheeks. His back hurts—he was leaning against a tree, his legs all stretched out before him, and he must have dozed off when his junior left him to go to the washroom for a bit. Anyone else would have blamed the other party—though he was sure Mash didn’t go for that long—but Ritsuka merely smiled, or tried to, while trying to blink away both the sleepiness and the tears that had seemingly come for no reason.
“Senpai,” Mash repeated, this time with a note of surprise, leaning down to look at him. “Are you okay? You’re crying,” she said, and Ritsuka stared at her, for a moment, dumbfounded, trying to remember everything up until this moment, and smiled. This time, he was able to muster one.
“I’m okay,” he told her, his own voice clear and strong, and he straightened up himself, dusting off some grass from his trousers. “It was just a long dream.”
Mash looked at him, then, doubt in her eyes, and concern, too, but she smiled, as well, shaking it all off. She, too, straightened up herself. Ritsuka felt glad at her presence.
“Then, shall we get going?” She said, the smile lighting up her kind eyes. “I’m sorry to have made you wait.”
“No, it’s okay,” Ritsuka shook his head. “I’m sorry I fell asleep.”
The tombstone was nothing special. Certainly it does not fit a king. It looked like an ordinary grave, though there was some sort of an extraordinary aura around it, even if it’s subtle and not very noticeable right away. People flit around, out and about, but when they arrived, they all leave, leaving just the two of them in the scene, as if they know of the story of the Holy Grail War that they had survived from. It was funny, Ritsuka thought, looking down at the grave, Mash beside him.
“I’ll leave you alone with him, Senpai,” Mash said, laying a hand on his arm for a moment.
He looked down at the grave, then, at the tombstone that bears a familiar inscription—he had read about it, after all, after the War, read everything he could about him, even come all this way to the Mage’s Association to learn more and be more—at the flowers people left, then up, at the blue, blue sky above England, the colour offsetting the green of the grass and the colourful flowers.
“Perhaps I should have brought one,” Ritsuka said, eyeing the flowers, more to himself than to anyone else, and really, he was alone, wasn’t he?
“But then, I don’t know what flowers are your favourite. And you—the version of ‘you’ I know—would probably balk at the thought of me giving you flowers. After all, flowers aren’t very practical, are they?” He mused out loud, tilting his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, falling to his knees. “Sorry I don’t know what to say. Sorry I wasn’t very good with words. But…” He trailed off, unconsciously touching his lips, remembering how he felt on it, when they were together, no matter how briefly—the infinite tenderness—and Ritsuka felt a certain yearning flared and gone inside of his chest, like a star being born and then immediately goes supernova.
“But I want you to know that I have no regrets, either,” Ritsuka finally said, a little louder, as if he could hear him. As if Arthur was beside him. “Farewell for now, my king. The garden at the end of time—wherever it is—I shall meet you there,” he said, smiling, though he could feel the threat of tears, again, and stood up, bravely, defiantly, remembering the night they met.
The winter night, laden with the ashes of roses. The winter night, two years ago, where he died, and comes back to life.
“It’s spring now,” Ritsuka found himself saying, chasing the train of thoughts away, wiping his tears with the back of his hand hastily. “I’ll come with roses next time, perhaps.”
He hesitated for a moment in his monologue, tasting the words slowly in his tongue before he rolled it out.
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you this,” he said, with a note of finality. “But I love you.”
He could imagine Arthur blush—the way the blood would colour his cheeks, the manner in which he would look away—and smiled.
Then he walked away, knowing, with full understanding, that their story had finally come to an end.
FIN