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It was his own fault, really.
When the Red Archer had first been summoned, one of the very first Servants to come to Master’s aid in Chaldea, he had been uncertain of his new Master. He had withheld knowledge, tactics, strength, and even his Unlimited Bladeworks, even though there was no reason for it. This was not a Holy Grail War, and even if it had been, his new Master had no connection to his living past, no reason not to know.
Eventually, little by little, Emiya had revealed himself. As he took on the role of a mentor to the young and unprepared Master, such a familiar case, he became very much at ease. He still had to kill -- he had to accept that was still part of his duty -- but now it was a matter, once again, of defending himself and those near to him. He was no longer squabbling over some mystic relic, or cleaning up the messes that humanity left behind itself -- he was fighting for the future of humanity. Finally, he had truly reached his ideal.
Along the way, though, he admitted he had manipulated his Master several times. Each time he turned it into a lesson, and each time the outcome was good, but still. He feared Master had taken those lessons more to heart than he had intended.
It had started with Christmas, and little Jeanne d’Arc Santa Alter Lily Lancer. Emiya had been quite proud of his Master’s plan, and had gladly gone along with it. Later, it was Mordred -- although that had hardly been a complex plan.
“What we talked about the other day--”
“Idiot! I told you not to mention it!”
“Right! It’s just, well -- I think you should mention it. To, you know -- Artoria.”
Master certainly had a good heart, but lacked tact. Still, it had worked, more or less. With a little maneuvering from Emiya, they had “coincidentally” gotten the two of them together often enough so, eventually, they both gave in to their guilt and apologized.
Now, Emiya finally realized, it wasn’t entirely pleasant to be on the receiving end of their “help”.
“Are you ready, Archer?” the Lancer asked from across the training room.
Steely green eyes. Flaxen hair. Musculature unsuited to a simple girl, but perfectly suited to a knight. Armor that shone like silver moonlight. Artoria was everything still etched into Emiya’s memories, yet none of them. His thoughts turned to the Lion King, but he pushed them away. The Lancer was also everything and nothing like her; nearly her twin but for the shade of her eyes, yet completely different emotionally.
“Mm,” Emiya nodded. He didn’t know what exactly Master was getting at, but he didn’t think he liked it. This mature, Lancer-class vision of Artoria from some other time stream was fairly new to Chaldea, but Master knew Emiya’s history. It was no coincidence that he was her final training partner today.
“Good. Then prepare yourself, Archer -- here I come!”
Just as he knew she would. Lancer was painfully similar to Saber, in terms of behavior, although she showed at once both more and even less emotion and maturity. She was a grown woman, well-rounded and very human, yet she still had the dispassion of not just a ruler, but a divinity.
That lance… Its divinity fed into the Lancer, and it was a fighting style he had never observed in Saber, making her dangerous indeed. At least she had dismounted from Dun Stallion for training. Still, Emiya had fought many masters of spear and lance, including Ireland’s great Child of Light, and he had no time for fear or hesitation.
He stood, empty-handed and motionless, waiting for the King of Knights as she charged him. A single flicker of doubt crossed her eyes when he still did not materialize a weapon or retreat -- unlike the reverse, Artoria had never seen Emiya fight before.
He would relish the chance to see just how far he had come.
When she reached him, all doubt and hesitation was gone. Artoria swung Rhongomyniad, and Emiya only barely dodged back, parrying the blow with the newly-projected shortswords in hand before spinning inside her guard.
Immediately the King leapt back, avoiding his twisting strikes, and dashed back in. Even his eyes, reinforced with magecraft, a heroic spirit core, and his class as Archer, couldn’t follow the speed. He could only draw on experience, her starting position and stance, what he knew about the similar Artoria of his past--
Faster than a mere human eye could follow, they clashed. Sparks flew and the clatter of steel rang out across the training room, and though Emiya met each strike evenly, he was slowly being pushed back.
Even Excalibur could keep him at range unsuited to his smaller blades. Clarent could easily do the same. Gae Bolg and certainly Rhongomyniad, then, were matters of course. But every kind of defense had gaps. Mordred and Cu Chulainn fought aggressively and left openings in their armor as tradeoffs, small as they were; even wielded by its master, Excalibur was a heavy blade, and using his comparative speed to slip inside its guard temporarily nullified it. The combination of Rhongomyniad’s reach, Artoria’s masterful form, and her even heavier-than-usual armor left few options indeed.
But there were always options.
With a flick of her wrist, Artoria disarmed him, flinging Bakuya away. Emiya let the sword disappear and lunged with Kanshou at her right shoulder, left unarmored.
“Haa--!”
Seeing her muscles twitch and knowing danger was coming, Emiya was barely able to redirect his strike into a parry as Artoria swept her lance back at him. When she deftly spun the sweep into an double overhead slash, Emiya was unprepared and was relieved of his second sword. He was barely able to bound backward on his heels, feeling the point of her lance rake across his chest.
He was surprised and enthralled. This Artoria had strength and ferocity equal to the one of his memories, perhaps even superior, but she also had a dexterity that would rival Cu Chulainn. And just like the Child of Light, her mastery of her lance extended so far as to use the weapon superbly in ways it was never designed for -- turning the long and unwieldy blunt edge of a lance into a deadly fan blade.
Artoria did not pursue him. Instead she relaxed her stance, armor clinking slightly as she straightened. “Your skill and tact in melee is impressive, Archer. But why would you prefer it to your bow?”
“I doubt I could keep you at range,” he shrugged.
“You think too little of yourself,” Artoria said, appraising him again. “You obviously have great experience.”
Emiya smirked. “Then let us see if your praise is deserved.”
He could never beat the King of Knights fairly. He was well aware of that, but he wanted to try to give her an honorable match, before resorting to his usual tricks.
He dashed forward, projecting Kanshou and Bakuya in his hands again, and Artoria did not disappoint, dropping back into perfect stance well before he reached her. She readied herself to redirect his strikes and counterattack, but Emiya never launched them. Instead he utilized a technique he had spent years perfecting.
Reinforcement magic, strengthening, was a useful but difficult art of filling -- but not overfilling -- an object with magic, enhancing it and even reshaping it. Emiya had no particular talent for it, but every magus was perfectly capable of reinforcing parts of their own bodies, naturally familiar as they were, and Emiya had spent a very long time training the simplistic magecraft, one of the few he had enough talent to cast.
In a manner inspired by Artoria’s own Mana Burst skill, Emiya flooded every circuit of his body with an instantaneous jolt of magical energy, the absolute limit it could handle. Until his final days of life, it could barely have been considered useful, but with the body and magical reserves of a Heroic Spirit--
Emiya seemed to blink out of existence, reappearing an instant later behind Artoria. Relying on her keen instinct, she had already begun wheeling to face him even before his “False Mana Burst” had been completed, but she found her opponent kicking away from her through the air, rather than slashing at her from behind.
And in his hands were no longer his twin shortswords, but a sleek black bow.
“Kuh!”
The Holy Lance of the End of the World streaked through the air as if it was a swarm of meteors in the night sky, desperately deflecting a flurry of arrows as numerous as the stars.
The attacks were not strong for a Servant, but they were many. Even the King of Knights could be overwhelmed. Emiya had expected her to dodge instead of block, evade and pursue him, but it seemed she was confident in her ability to stand against the onslaught. Well, then--
“I am the bone of my sword.”
Risking the momentary lapse in the barrage, Emiya pulled the blade from the hill and nocked it as he began to fall.
“Hrunting!”
The Hound of the Red Plains, the blade that sought blood, turned into a burning sanguine sniper’s shot. Even if deflected, it would arc back to its target. Flying at supersonic speeds through the hail of the other arrows, it was sure to overwhelm the King of Knights, even if her preternatural instincts allowed her to deflect it again and again.
“Kiyaaah--!”
With a cry of determination, Artoria let a normal arrow through her defense, taking it on her left pauldron, and thrust her lance forward. Its exterior loosened like a wrapping of silver ribbons, letting blinding holy light shine through the small gaps, and with a burst of golden energy the cloud of projectiles all burned in the air, Hrunting being no exception.
And a thread of gold still traced in a line from her beautiful lance toward his chest.
“--! Rho--”
The Holy Lance’s power was no projectile, but the Shield of Ajax was still stalwart, and Artoria was loosing only a fraction of her power. Emiya was thrown back against the wall, but he was unscathed, all things considered.
He rose, prepared to continue, but he found Artoria once again in a relaxed stance. Her face was critical.
“Archer. Who are you, to call upon two great Noble Phantasms of the Danes and the Greeks in one breath?”
Emiya chuckled. “I am only a fake. I possess infinite Noble Phantasms, and none. No -- I do have one, but it is not a weapon, and it is not a thing the King of Knights should see.”
Her eyes flashed. “Do not insult my honor, Archer.”
“You’re mistaken, Lancer. It is an ugly thing, not fit for your presence. But be assured I am using it, unseen. I would not insult you by giving you less than my all.”
That wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t charge Hrunting as a Broken Phantasm, nor would he fire Caladbolg, or bring out Kanshou and Bakuya’s truest strength of technique. Each of them, and many more tools at his disposal, bore nothing less than lethal intent. Just as Artoria would not unleash her true might, or Cu Chulainn would not use his spear’s great curse, Emiya would not seek the death of his ally. Training always required a measure of restraint, no matter how other Heroic Spirits liked to banter.
“Thank you, Archer -- no, Emiya.”
It felt strange. His heart caught in his throat, but it sounded alien, that voice uttering his surname.
“Now -- shall we continue?”
“Let’s,” Emiya assented, once again Projecting his shortswords.
They met again in a flurry. Sparks flew and steel clashed at superhuman speeds until Artoria disarmed him again, bashing both weapons away and spinning her lance back into a new strike--
In an instant the blades were back in his hands and parrying. Artoria scoffed in annoyance, but never slowed. She must have sensed the blades were more than they appeared if they were his favored weapons, but she didn’t understand their power lay in their very simplicity and form. She saw mastercrafted twin blades with unknown powers, layered in wards and promising mystery and danger.
It never hurt to encourage the wrong idea.
“Trace -- on!”
Emiya surged magical energy into the blades as he swung them in a cross, and the edges of the blades overextended, becoming spiked, rough-looking broadswords. Artoria barely redirected her movement and ducked with a grunt of effort. The blades now looked grotesque and deadly, but their beauty was still undeniable, albeit in different form.
And he was well inside her guard with his new reach. She needed to create space.
She slammed her armored left shoulder into the archer. It pained her where his arrow had partially pierced earlier, but it had the effect she desired.
Bounding backward again to keep his footing, Emiya threw his weapons aside. Artoria readied herself to face some new Noble Phantasm, and once again instinct alone allowed her to defend as both “discarded” swords suddenly came around behind her and spun inward from both sides.
Difficult, but not impossible to dodge and deflect. The true danger was still in Emiya himself. But when she returned her attention to him, ready to defend from a third blow, he was already upon her, wielding overhead a fine golden longsword.
And for a vital moment, she could not believe it. Her eyes were fixed on that sword. A sword fit for a King. Which made Kings. Her sword. And it was not like the other Noble Phantasms; those had been incredible copies, but still unmistakable for the originals. This was still a copy, true, logic dictated that much -- but it was flawless. The small signs of wear in the blade from constant use and repair, and her own mana surges. The way the light caught on the edge of the blade, seeming to diffuse into the steel and reflect back into the world ten times brighter. Even Emiya’s strike -- it was her own.
And he was again inside her guard. She could not block, but--
Emiya stopped his swing, the blade of Caliburn, the Sword of Selection, hovering near Artoria’s face. She could see her own eyes reflected in it. Her sword.
“The end,” Emiya said, but there was none of the self-satisfied mirth Artoria was expecting. He was strangely serious, scowling.
“Indeed,” Artoria echoed, and tapped him gently with the point of Rhongomyniad. She held it at an awkward angle, too far back, for if she had moved it into proper position the Archer would have skewered himself upon it -- not that it would have stopped his swing.
The impasse brought on another wave of memories for the King. She pushed them down adamantly.
The smirk came back to Emiya’s face as he leaned back. Caliburn disappeared, lost once more.
“A draw, then. Thank you for training with me, Sa-- Lancer.” He could feel heat rising in his cheeks, but he didn’t let it show on his expression. How childish of him. He was glad his bronzed skin would betray little.
Still, perhaps the King of Knights’ instincts extended even to this. With a soft smile, she said, “Please -- refer to me as Artoria.”
“Artoria,” he echoed slowly. “Not King Arthur?”
She shook her head. “I am no king in Chaldea. And without Caliburn or Avalon, my guise as “Arthur” was... short-lived.”
Her eyes dipped downward once before pointedly directing themselves elsewhere. It had been a long time since Emiya had seen the King of Knights blush. No -- not a king anymore. Artoria. This certainly wasn’t the Saber he knew. She was different.
“Then, call me Shirou.”
The words came tumbling out of his mouth without thought behind them, and even though an English woman like her didn’t assign such weight to first names, Emiya immediately regretted his foolishness.
“Shirou,” Artoria echoed, and Emiya’s regrets vanished just for an instant. “Yes. I like that.”
Well. If it was her...
“Shirou.”
“Yes?”
“My sword -- Caliburn. How…?”
Emiya looked away, gazing at some distant horizon. After a long moment:
“... I used to dream of that sword, when I was alive. Its image is closer to the original than any other I can create, save one. It is not much compared to your lance, but--”
“No,” Artoria interrupted. “Caliburn is a great blade. And -- you wield it with grace.”
“Hrmph--” Emiya scratched at the back of his head. He needed to leave. This entire situation was starting to feel like he was just embarrassing himself merely by existing. He cursed Master. “Thanks.”
“So…” Artoria clasped her hands behind her and made an innocent, all-too-suspect face Emiya was still well-familiar with. “After training, it is only right for tired warriors to replenish their strength. I am told… you make excellent food.”
“Damn,” Emiya shook his head. “I take it back. You’re all the same, aren’t you?”