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Lights had danced in a circle, like fairies coaxing them from the throne of heroes into the land of mortals, will-o-wisps of humanity’s echoed determination. He’d felt it, then—the call, the pull, the familiar-yet-unfamiliar static of summoning—and another, too, a parallel reply, another servant who’d responded to such an honest, earnest cry for help.
“Servant—“
“Saber—“
“—Richard the Lionheart—“
“—Charlemagne—“
And before the light had dissipated and the dust had settled, when they’d scarcely had a chance for introductions, their Master (tired, disheveled, disinterested) had waved them off without a second glance, and a bespeckled brunette had ushered them away to what looked to be their quarters.
—
There was a ghost of him, Richard was sure. Or perhaps he was the ghost. In fact, they were all—Heroic Spirits—ghosts in a sense, brought to new life carrying whatever mistakes they’d made in their previous one. But this was different. He knew of Charlemagne, of Charles the Great, of course. But the Servant that wandered the halls, almost giddy with excitement, cheerful and boyish, overly honest—this was not the Emperor of old. Rather, this was a hero, through and through, ripped from ballad and legend.
...Well, he’d always loved legends. Most would say a bit too much.
—
It goes without saying that he loses his goddamn mind when he meets Artoria for the first time. And the second time. And the third time, and the fourth, and all the others that look like her. Not to mention the Arthur that he’d long dreamt of.
He thinks it’s probably alright to call his Noble Phantasm Excalibur, when the King of Knights herself has invoked its power for a water gun.
—
Chaldea was hosting an event. The end of the world is nigh, and what does humanity do? Throw a party, of course.
Would be the least weird thing to happen around here, he supposes.
Richard is dressed in modern-day finery—which is to say, he’s wearing a vest and tie, no suit jacket, rolled up pant legs, short sleeved shirt. Casual, formal, contradictory. As is existence.
Across the room, a raven-haired young man dances. He’s not particularly good. He makes up for his lack of skill with excess enthusiasm. Truly, Charlemagne is excitability incarnate. Richard feels almost tired just looking at him.
Almost. Instead, his eccentricities flare up, he’s a blur as he makes his way across the dance floor to intercept the man (stop, he reminds himself, if you go too fast, you’ll only get faster, and that’ll make a fine mess out of both of us).
“May I have this dance, King Charlemagne?” Richard asks, that damned charisma rolling off of him in sheets.
(God, how he wished it didn’t some nights. How if maybe he were just a little less dashing, a little less handsome, someone would have had the decency to tell him no, this is a bad idea, Richard, the age of Gods and Heroism has passed and you have a duty to uphold as king—)
(But no one had stopped him, and he certainly couldn’t stop himself.)
Charlemagne considers it for just a moment before breaking into a grin. And hell if the draw of his charisma wasn’t just as strong. “Sure, but in return, you have to call me Charles!”
Richard wishes he knew what to say.
Hey, are you struggling with how adored you were in life despite your questionable and sometimes utterly reprehensible actions?
Do you feel like a pale imitation of another hero that probably did a way better job than you?
Have you defined yourself by your swordsmanship and ability to fight, maim, and kill, to the point where you wonder if you should have even been summoned as a Heroic Spirit?
(“I hope you didn’t mistake me for a good person,” he hears an echo of himself say, another him, another time, another place that he doesn’t quite recall. “War was the only thing I was ever good at.”)
He settles for,
“Did you notice your hair looks a lot like mine?”
Charles laughs. “Now that you mention it! The weird swirly thing, yeah? We’re hair buddies!”
Richard laughs back, and it comes naturally to him. The joviality. He savors it for a moment, but he came here to say something. To... ask something?
“You and I, we are similar,” he starts, and Charles nods, humming off-tune with the music. “Kings, at the edge of the time of legends, only we were born too late.”
Charles is still smiling, but there’s something strained about it.
Richard takes a breath. “We were meant to be heroes, and you were, but it was just a little too late for me. There were no monsters left for me to fell, no quests for me to take. Sure, I had a memorable encounter with a Dead Apostle, but... it wasn’t enough. It never felt enough. So tell me, from one king to another,
“What was it like to be one of the last true heroes?”
Charles looks... His expression is almost, well, sheepish, if Richard had to put a word to it. He attempts a dip and almost drops poor Richard.
“See, I did a lot of grand exploits, and I had a lot of ballads sung about me...”
(Richard listens with rapt fascination. This could’ve been him, in another life.)
“...To be honest? I’m not entirely sure. None of that stuff... really happened.”
Richard blinks.
“What do you mean?” he asks, because he didn’t expect that one, wasn’t sure what he was expecting, really.
“I’m not the real-life Karl. I’m his fictional version, the fantasy the masses came up with because they needed a hero to look up too. I have memories, and powers, but my existence is, um, a little bit difficult to explain.”
(A little difficult is right, Richard thinks, and tightens his grip on Charles’ waist.)
But Charles doesn’t elaborate, and it seems the song is drawing to a close.
“You’re right that we’re a lot alike, though. I grew up to be a ruler that, thinking I was right, committed a lot of wrongs, in the name of God.”
“Thank you,” Richard says, because what else is there to say, “for letting me have this dance.”
(Richard is not a man who seeks closure, or to change the past. He knows his mistakes, and he regrets them, God, does he regret them. But there’s no fixing things now, and anyway, with his piss-poor lack of control, he thinks he’d probably just do the same damn things all over again.)
“Of course,” Charles says, and that cheerful grin is back again.
He begins to pull away, to find some other dance partner (his ‘Altera-nee-san’, Richard guesses, who’s looking stunning and forlorn in a corner by herself), but Richard holds him close, pulls him closer.
“You’ve one thing wrong, Charles,” Richard whispers against him, and he swears he feels the heroking shiver. “I never thought I was right.”