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Arthur polished her golden blade with a cloth, unable to let go of the simple habit despite Excalibur needing no upkeep. The rhythmic motion calmed her as she let the repetition rub out her racing thoughts just as the cloth cleaned off smudges and fingerprints. But soon enough, the blade was gleaming and pristine in her lap, and she raised her eyes away from her reflection in its surface. The sun was just now beginning to touch the summit of the hill to the west; the time was nearing to meet Lancer for their duel.
Restless, Arthur unsummoned Excalibur and begin to pace around the Japanese-style house, roaming its empty rooms; Kiritsugu and Maiya had gone ahead, making their own preparations, and Irisviel was enclosed in the old, stone storage room on the edge of the property, storing up mana. She felt her anxiety prickling at her back. Impatiently, Arthur began to go through her bladework forms in the yard, first without the blade, and then with it, Excalibur coming into her hands as easily as a thought.
“Practicing?”
Irisviel was behind her, but she didn’t turn to her until she completed her set, letting the weight of the blade guide the final arc. As Arthur let her sword disappear again, Irisviel flashed a quick smile at her. The sky was a brilliant red, the clouds outlined in gold from below, and the color washed everything in warmth.
“Your form is beautiful,” Irisviel said.
“Only in practice,” Arthur responded lightly. “In battle, form matters less than efficiency. Those who know nothing but form would find themselves at a great disadvantage.”
“Of course. But I think there’s merit in trying to fight elegantly.”
“You speak of shows, tournaments.”
Irisviel shrugged, and Arthur noticed that her fingers were playing with a silver thread that shone faintly. It would have to be a silver alloy, that material favored by mages for its ease of conductivity for mana.
“Did you ever fight in tournaments?” Irisviel asked as she tied a length of silver thread into a bow and undid it, redid it. “I mean, kings were allowed to fight in tournaments, weren’t they? I read about them.”
“More often than not, I held them. I was made king before even being made a knight, you see. It was at Kay’s first tournament that I found the Sword.”
“But you did fight in some?” Irisviel said, continuing to press.
“When I was younger.” Arthur paused, thinking back to multicolored waving banners, wooden stands full of lords and ladies, and the musk of horse sweat and human blood mixed with dry dust or trodden grass. The knights rode around the ring before the fight began, showing off their polished armor, as well as the token of a lady’s favor pinned to their helm.
She had never taken a lady’s token. By the time Guinevere had come around, she’d stopped fighting in tournaments, even disguised or with a blank, device-less shield, and before then, she’d sought the thrill of the fight more than anything else. Well, Kay had chided her for that plenty, but what could he have expected from a fresh squire suddenly made king? She had wanted, or perhaps needed those fights where nothing was at stake except for fame and a few broken bones that were quickly set by healer mages. Even now, she remembered the weightless feeling of charging at an opponent on a horse, aiming the lance, and the exhilaration of unhorsing the other knight. When you were the winner, she thought with some satisfaction, you didn’t even feel their hit against you. It was force against force, as simple as that.
“Saber?”
She shook her head, clearing away the old memories.
“Apologies, Irisviel. I did fight in some tournaments, but I will have to tell you about them some other time. Is it time for us to depart?”
The sky was dark now, and the temperature dropped noticeably from minute to minute. Irisviel’s white hair and clothes stood out in the darkness, like an illusion an errant knight would find upon awakening in a deep, old forest.
“Almost. How do you feel about fighting Lancer?”
Arthur clenched her hands. The wound Lancer had given her before was gone now, healed after he had destroyed his own Noble Phantasm, Gae Buidhe. But she would have to be a fool to expect him to be weaker just because he was fighting with one spear instead of two.
“I look forward to my duel with him,” she said confidently. “I know my own abilities, and although I am not so arrogant to declare my victory prematurely, I believe I will not find myself lacking this time.”
Irisviel was looking at her with a soft expression when Arthur turned to her, and then she suddenly smiled radiantly.
“I think it will be a good fight to watch,” Irisviel said. “And it will be beautiful. Not because of form, I mean because both he, and you–” She stopped, and a muted blush colored her cheeks. “Because your form is beautiful, Saber, but I meant it about you, too.”
Arthur stared at her, the back of her neck feeling strangely hot. Irisviel met her gaze steadfastly with a small and self-conscious smile. Of course Arthur had considered the possibility, but–
“Oh, don’t mind me, Saber,” Irisviel said, laughing, her cheeks pink. “I only meant it as encouragement. I’m sorry if it’s a distraction, how about we get going?”
With two quick steps, Arthur crossed the distance between them, and Irisviel seemed to hold herself still, waiting. Arthur knelt right there, in the thin, yellowing grass, in the faint suggestion of moonlight.
“In my time,” she began, feeling her heart beat furiously in her chest, “knights took tokens from ladies to carry into battle. They displayed them proudly in tournaments as a sign of favor–and of love.” She looked up into Irisviel’s eyes, then continued, voice low. “I am not fighting to prove anything. But a token can mean many things. Encouragement, a charm for good luck, and a sign of companionship. Irisviel, give me a token. I cannot fight for you, but I can fight with you.”
Irisviel let out a breath, looking away.
“I had hoped you might ask for one,” Irisviel replied softly. “I don’t have anything special to give you… But I want to give you something nonetheless. Saber, would you hold out your arm?”
Arthur extended her left arm, and Irisviel took her wrist with slight, cool fingers. She pushed up her sleeve a bit and deftly looped a length of silver thread once, twice, three times around Arthur’s wrist and tied it with a simple knot.
“There,” Irisviel said, letting go. “It shouldn’t get in your way. It’s nothing, just a bit of mana.”
“It is more than that to me, Irisviel,” Arthur said solemnly. “I will keep it for as long as I am able.”
“That’s about as much as we can promise, isn’t it? No one knows what will happen tomorrow. Thank you, Saber. For asking and accepting. I want to watch you fight, and I want to watch you win.”
Arthur stood up, and the two of them did not look at each other, but Arthur could still feel Irisviel’s fingers on her wrist.
The moment then was charged with potential so that Arthur could feel her skin tingling with it; the night’s coming events were completely incongruous with it. But even when her days became soaked in blood and guilt at Lancer’s death, even though her time with Irisviel ended up being too short to even put a name to the feelings building in her heart, she never forgot the promise tied to her wrist. And in the darkness later, in the time of regret, it was enough just to remember: beauty for beauty’s sake.