appl3cookieswriting

[appl3cookieswriting]

farewell judas (gone to ashes)

“It’s been a long time, Kiritsugu.”

On contemplating the nature of dying - or, Saber pays a visit to her former Master on the eve of battle and receives a visit herself.

A Saber/Gilgamesh missing scene from the UBW anime.

She goes to see him that night.

Rin and Shirou don’t need her there, making things awkward with her presence. Something has grown between those two in the time she has been apart from them – something soft and gentle that needs space and privacy to flourish.

It is better that she absents herself from their company tonight.

The streets of Fuyuki are deserted as she makes her way to the graveyard – the city holding its breath as if anticipating the evil that will take form here.

Birds take flight from skeletal branches when her footsteps disturb the evening’s quiet, their shrieks of protest accompanied by the startled beat of feather and bone. A small, shrivelled part of Saber wishes that she could join them – wishes that she could simply fly away and forget this whole wretched conflict.

(She knows now that wishing is a double-edged sword.)

The small sheet of directions that Fujimura-san pressed into her hand earlier (soft, sad smile and a ‘give him my best’) crackle in protest with every step that jostles her coat pocket. It almost mutes the drumming tattoo of her heart.

.

The grave is small but neat.

The headstone suits him more than they probably realise, all form and function with little thought given to decoration or frivolity. Kiritsugu may have mellowed somewhat in the years after their forced parting, but there was still some fragment of the Mage-Killer in the man buried before her.

It feels right, in an awful, hollow way, to be standing here with him at the end of it all – the fallen Servant and the reluctant Master. They couldn’t save his wife or child, couldn’t stop the devastation ten years ago. In the end, all they accomplished was senseless killing. What a mess their pact made.

Still, he left behind a better legacy than she.

“It’s been a long time, Kiritsugu.”

There’s no one here to answer her but the sharp gusts of wind and black marble staring back at her, but this is something that needs to be said.

“Shirou-” She sighs, feeling foolish. “He’s going to do it – what you and I couldn’t. He’ll avenge Irisviel and Illyasviel, and he’ll prevent the destruction from last time,” Her mouth is unbearably dry. “He won’t make our mistakes.”

Our mistakes? she thinks, bitterly – old fury rising, sharp as lemons, in her throat.

“I- I understand now. I know why you gave me those orders, but I-” Her voice is thick with anger and hurt, shoulders trembling as her hands fist at her sides. “I still can’t forgive you, I just can’t.”

Forgiveness would be the noble option, she knows; especially since his betrayal was made with the best intentions – but Saber can still remember that cold steel in his eyes whenever he looked at her, the way he addressed her as if she were but a tool to be used and then discarded.

Ten years is not enough time to close all wounds.

She had not meant to cry, but bitter tears soon obscure her vision, turning the epitaph on the headstone blurred and illegible.

She watches the kanji fade from legibility with guilty relief. Like this, with his name obscured and the past washed away, she can pretend to put this ghost to rest; to move on as best she can and find some sort of peace within herself.

And if it is a lie, well – she never claimed that Kings should always tell the truth.

The setting sun paints the grave in russet and orange as she stands there in silence, letting the wind pluck at her hair and the fraying hem of her skirt. The tears, when they dry, leave itchy salt trails in their place.

She doesn’t wipe them away.

.

Perhaps it is because she is seeking composure, or maybe she is just warier after their last encounter, but this time she senses him long before he arrives.

“Don’t you have a Grail to prepare, King of Heroes?” She calls, unable to tear her eyes from the resting place of her last Master.

The sight of his smug face would probably force her to start their final battle here and now.

“Don’t you have a grubby pair of teenagers to babysit, King of Knights?” He shoots back, coming to stand some feet away.

She wonders if he means to irritate her to death, “I will not dignify that with a comment.”

Gilgamesh hums noncommittally, walking closer now that she’s made no overt act of aggression. He stops close enough behind her that she can feel the warmth against her spine.

“Oh, visiting old acquaintances, I see,” He says, leaning over her shoulder to get a closer look at the grave. “That’s just what I would’ve expected of you, Saber, loyal to the last.”

She is painfully aware of his closeness, can make out his profile at the edge of her vision. All it would take is the smallest rise of her shoulder – nothing more than a slightly deeper inhale – and she would brush the underside of his chin. Conversely, he would need to dip his head but a little to rest his jaw on the soft cotton of her shirt.

The thought is disconcerting.

Saber turns, the sudden movement enough to push him back slightly. There is comfort in the newfound distance between them, a gap which his damnable warmth cannot not cross.

If he is surprised by her abrupt action, his ever-present smirk gives no sign.

Irritated by his arrogance, she favours him with a glare. “Why are you here, Gilgamesh?”

“To ask you to join me.”

Her eyes narrow, “What did you say?”

He huffs out a soft laugh at her expression, amusement written in the sharp lines of his smile, “Your integrity is commendable, but there’s no need to play coy with me. We both know that you cannot win. I defeated Iskandar; I defeated Heracles. Why continue to fight me when victory is hopeless?”

“Perhaps I have more faith in our strength than you do,” She snaps, although she cannot quite stop the sinking in her stomach when he mentions his powerful (dead) opponents.

“Ah yes, your ever-present hope,” He scoffs, pinning her where she stands with a look that is both pitying and malicious. “The last time you placed your valued trust in something it turned out to be an abomination masquerading as a miracle. Tell me, King of Knights, how well has your faith served you in the past?”

His eyes are too knowing, his tone too bitter – and in that moment, Saber realises that this man (god, monster, both) knows more about her than she could have ever fathomed.

Uncomfortable with the intensity of his study and angry from his mocking, she looks to the well-trampled ground, her shaking hands fisting in the faded cotton of her skirt, “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

She hears his shoe scuff in the dust, and then he sighs, his hand threading through his gold-spun hair in frustration. “My apologies, it was not my intention to make you angry tonight.”

It’s the closest to an admission of fault that she’s ever heard from him, and she looks up in surprise, eyes wide at the King of Heroes’ unexpected humility.

But the set of his jaw tells her that he clearly has no intention of elaborating on said apology, and so they stand in silence for a moment, the gentle rustling of branches the only sound in the graveyard.

“Would… would you humour me one more question?” He finally asks her, his expression thoughtful as he gazes down the lines of headstones.

She steels herself, unwilling to let him any further under her skin. But- “You will not know until you have asked.”

This smile is soft, filled with fond amusement and exasperation that he should not bear for her. In the space where he chooses his words, she feels every hair on her nape stand to attention.

“If the Grail is destroyed, you will return to your own time.”

“I will.”

“You will die,” The fading light must be playing tricks on her eyes – because there is no reason for the pain she sees in his face.

A shrug, “If that is my fate.”

“I will not allow it.”

She faces him, frustration making her bold, “If you mean to challenge destiny for my sake, Gilgamesh, by all means, have at it. But I will not stand idly by and watch this farce.”

She makes as if to leave, brushing past the unmoving figure of the King of Heroes.

His hand snaps out faster than she can react to, catching her wrist in a vice-grip. The force of the motion drags her back to him, crushing her captured arm between their chests.

“Foolish woman,” He hisses, looking like he wants to shake her stubbornness out of her, “Are you so eager to perish?”

Her efforts to rescue her hand amount to little, and she stops tugging in favour of glaring up into his furious red eyes, “And why are you, a man who desires the end of the human race, so interested in my continued survival?”

His smile is positively feral, “Tell me honestly how your impending demise makes you feel, and I shall consider answering your question.”

She resists the urge to stamp on his foot.

“Of course I don’t want to die,” She snaps. “But what choice do I have? The legend says that King Arthur dies at Camlann, and so I must!”

Gilgamesh frowns, and for a moment she feels an insane urge to trace the furrow between his brows with a questing finger. “So you’ll just accept your death? Because some stories say you must?”

He sounds so much like a petulant child deprived of his favourite toy, and she can’t quite stop the smile that his incredulous tone invokes. “Aren’t we all just stories in the end?”

“That’s not an answer.”

She sighs, smirk falling as the mood between them sobers, “My death is an unfortunate side-effect of ending this war. I cannot remain in the world without the Grail, and I refuse to remain in a world where it still exists.”

“Your stubbornness is infuriating, woman,” Gilgamesh huffs, dropping her hand and turning on his heel. “So there is no chance of swaying you to my side?”

Saber looks up from cradling her wrist (from where she can still feel the gentle press of his fingers along the bone), “None, King of Heroes. I will fulfil my pact with my Master and finish this tonight.”

“And go to your doom obediently like the loyal little Servant that you are, yes you made that quite clear.”

“A true King would be gracious in defeat,” She reminds him, tone mockingly reproving.

He chuckles, kicking at the dirt path, “I believe we already decided that we have different views of kingship and what behaviour befits a ruler.”

The reminder of their banquet (a decade ago and a world away) makes something in her chest ache. “Perhaps we are both wrong,” She says, almost too quiet for Gilgamesh to hear.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue. The corner of his mouth curls, “Perhaps.”

Not a true agreement, but an acknowledgement of all that has passed between them.

They are silent for a moment; before he sighs and speaks up again, “Well then. Ready your mighty forces, King of Knights, and let us end this fight tonight.”

She nods, unease a cold malady in her gut, “On the battlefield, then.”

“I look forward to it, Saber,” Again with that smile that promises both damnation and salvation.

Feeling shaken, she turns to leave.

Before she can, his hands settle like warm weights on her shoulders, tugging her back into the solid lines of his chest. Hot breath whispers against her ear and she barely controls the shiver that races down her spine.

“I will save you from your self-destruction, Arturia, even if I must damn you to achieve it.”

She does shudder then, from hope and fear and something dark and terrible that she will not name. Instead, she steps out of his grasp (is almost surprised that he lets her) and tries not to give into temptation, “And if I don’t want to be saved, King of Heroes?”

Gilgamesh laughs, an ugly, bitter thing, “We both know that’s a lie.”

His words are salt in the rawness of her wounded pride, and the worst part is that it is true (that maybe she has grown tired of only saving and never being saved).

But she’ll never admit that he’s right.

“You presume too much,” She tells him, and flees before he can unravel her further.

.

Her heart does not calm its racing until she stands in the shadow of Shirou’s house, one hand fisting in the fabric of her skirt while Excalibur begs to be released in the other.

Damn him. Damn him and all his poisonous words. How cruel he is, to offer her salvation when she has already tried to reconcile herself to her end. Does he mean to tear her apart at the seams? If he weren’t already consigned to die at the end of her sword tonight, she would cut him down for the impertinence.

‘And then what?’ That treacherous little voice (that sounds more and more like him with each passing day) at the back of her mind asks, digging its claws in deep at her doubts, ‘You go die like the loyal little Servant that you are?’

His words rattle about in her empty skull.

“I’m dead, already,” Saber snarls, and stuffs those thoughts down where they cannot gain more traction. My soul just hasn’t realised it yet.

She cannot be saved – because there is nothing left to save.

That’s what she repeats to herself as she climbs the worn stones of the Temple’s steps, the sky dark and red with the birth pangs of the Grail.

A nightmare will be born tonight – with only three children to stand in its way. Saber thinks that Iskandar himself could not fault her for the trepidation rolling in her gut. The Grail is a fearsome foe, but her looming Death is an even greater one. Of course she is scared.

“Dead already,” She whispers under her breath, and tries very hard not to think of golden kings and their honeyed promises.

#Gilgamesh x Saber #gilber #fsn fanfic #fate stay night #unlimited blade works #the trash returns #mwahahaha

[appl3cookieswriting]

drag me down (it’s warm in hell)

“Feeling sentimental, Saber?”

Ties formed ten years ago are harder to break than you’d believe - or, Saber returns to some old haunts and meets a familiar face.

A Saber/Gilgamesh missing scene from the UBW anime.

She is burning atop her blood-soaked hill.

The pennants flame and the spears smoulder, and the bodies of her fallen soldiers weep red into the dirt. Above, the sky is black with smoke.

And I looked upon what I had wrought and proclaimed it good.

What sort of ruler lets their country tear itself apart? What sort of knight stands by as brother turns against brother and parents drive spears through the hearts of their children?

I- I should never have been King.

Kiritsugu had taught her that ten years ago; carved it into her bones with his cruel words and two command seals. And she cannot even blame him for it.

Iskander was right, she is a fool.

The Undefeated King turns her face to the sky and waits for oblivion.

.

Waking comes with a sobbing gasp, leaving her disorientated by her surroundings until she spies the familiar figure on the futon.

Shirou sleeps still, filling the dark room with the soft rustle of linen and the quiet rush of his breath. It is a welcome sound after the eerie silence of Camlann – but restlessness stirs in her breast, as if the blade that once pierced her heart resides there still.

She cannot remain, not now.

Lancer will keep Shirou safe, so she lets the echo of the dream chase her out of the house, taking to the night-shrouded streets of Fuyuki. Perhaps she will lose the ghosts of the past to the neon glare of this modern age.

As she walks, she savours the relief of having a true Master once more; of feeling the reassuring weight of armour on her shoulders and the worn grip of Excalibur in her hands. Even now, when she has been taken from them, Rin’s mana thrums gently through her veins.

Her wanderings lead her down to the docks, and in the quiet of the night Saber lets herself imagine that it is the Fourth War again. That Irisviel is beside her and soon Lancer will appear to challenge her to a chivalrous duel.

There is no honour to be found in this fifth war. Servants turn on their masters and allies abandon each other with ease, and Irisviel’s only daughter was murdered and desecrated by a madman just hours ago. She is glad Diarmuid and Iskander did not live to see such horrors.

Caught up in the memories as she is, she senses his presence too late.

“Feeling sentimental, Saber?”

She stiffens but does not turn – her guard has been weak tonight, and he could have easily attacked before now. He is not here to fight.

“This city holds many memories for us both, Archer,” She says, fingers curling around Excalibur. “Surely you would not begrudge me some time to reminisce?” Every nerve in her body screams to flee from the man behind her, but she grits her teeth against them.

She does face him now, having taken a moment to steel herself.

He hasn’t changed.

This is hardly surprising – he is still a Servant, after all, and is unaffected by the passage of time – but seeing him here is an eerie reminder of the previous war. His apparent relinquishing of the golden armour in favour of modern clothing does nothing to detract from the familiar aristocratic features and haughty manner.

And the look in his eyes is as hungry as it was a decade ago, his smile equal parts chilling and fond.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” He notes, sidling closer with his hands in his pockets.

“Shirou-” She murmurs, fighting the urge to edge backwards. “He described the attacking Servant at the Einzbern Castle. It did not take much to guess your identity.” She doesn’t mention that she now knows his true name – fears that saying it aloud will only give him more power over her. The King of Heroes, for pity’s sake.

Archer tilts his head, smirk spreading. “Oh? I’m flattered that you remembered me in such detail,” He reaches out to catch a strand of her hair, “But then, I suppose I did leave quite an impression on you at our last crossing.”

If a sword and an axe in her legs counts as an impression.

Disgust claws its way up her throat, and she steps back, brushing his hand away from her hair with a steel-clad fist. He lets her, drops his arm to his side gracefully, more amused than angered.

“Such hostility,” He muses. “What could I have done to deserve it, I wonder?”

Fury rises, hot and piercing beneath her tongue. “Surely you jest,” She hisses, raising Excalibur until the point rests at his throat. “Ilyasviel is dead.”

Confusion flickers across that beautiful face, until understanding dawns and cracks open its maw to grin. “The doll,” He chuckles, pressing forwards until the blade almost breaks skin. “Of course, it’s about the puppet. Your previous Master’s, I take it?”

Chivalry be damned, Saber decides. He will die here. He will die now.

But Excalibur slices air and Archer perches above her on a streetlamp, swinging a long leg in taunt as he laughs into his hand. “Have I touched a nerve? My dear, sweet Saber – just how many fools did you think to take under your protection? Did you hope to save them all? Such beautiful, self-destructive ideals; it would appear you haven’t changed at all.”

“I wish I could say the same, you monster,” She spits. “But your actions, Gilgamesh, have proved that the years have only made you crueller.”

That sobers him somewhat, something dangerous glimmering in the depths of those cold, red eyes when she names him. “My true name may fall sweetly from your lips, little girl, but your tone is unforgivable. You have no idea what I have endured this last decade, what offences I have suffered. But you will learn – you will be taught.”

She doesn’t quite succeed at hiding the shudder crawling down her spine, and he must notice – because that predatory smile is back, the darkness clearing from his face as if it were but a passing madness. Archer stands, balancing effortlessly on the narrow pole and, with a nonchalant glance, takes in their position.

“This is nostalgic,” He calls down to her, hands once again secured in his pockets. “Memories of our first encounter spring to mind. All we need now is your mad dog to attack us.”

He has misjudged, she thinks, if he believes that Lancelot’s fate can hurt her now. She buried him in her heart the day Excalibur drove him through.

Still, Archer must be punished for such disrespect to the dead.

Her master may be missing but the bond between Rin and herself is still strong (stronger than it ever was with Shirou – a small, treacherous voice points out). The sword in her hands leaps into life, the golden light as brilliant as always. It illuminates Archer’s handsome features, and reveals the wariness behind his grin.

She will show him no mercy, not when Rin is lost and Irisviel’s daughter lies in a shallow grave. Not when he appears before her to dig his cruel fingers into her heart and squeeze.

In the space between Excalibur’s swing and the explosion, Saber cherishes the flicker of true panic that flits across Archer’s face before the world turns white once more.

“EX- CALIBUR!”

When her vision has cleared and the ringing in her ears subsides, she takes in the Holy Sword’s devastation with grim satisfaction. Such an attack would be a mere inconvenience to a hero of Archer’s skill, but she has most likely seen him off for the night-

An arm curls around her waist.

Or not.

“How beautiful you are, Saber, when you shine with the fire of the righteous.” He is behind her, one hand on her hip, the other encircling the wrist of her sword hand. A sharp squeeze to the bird-thin bones there, and Excalibur clatters to the ground.

It is unnerving to have him so close; to feel the hot breath at her nape and the bite of long fingers pressing into her side. Each delicate hair on her arms prickles to attention, and the hard warmth of his body behind her brings blood to her cheeks; a fire to match the heat spreading from her waist and wrist.

How long has it been since she was touched, truly touched – embraced – even, by another? Shirou had never dared to be this intimate, nor had Irisviel – and certainly not Kiritsugu. Her knights had been distant, too respectful of the crown she wore to ever hold her like this.

Could she have missed human contact so much?

“Release me, Archer,” It’s fainter than she’d like, too hesitant to be forceful – and he must sense her misgivings because his grip only tightens.

“In time,” He hums, lips brushing whisper-soft down her neck. Each breath against her nape sends trembles shuddering down her spine, and her legs are weak and her lungs gasp for air and he won’t stop touching her.

She feels him grin against her skin, and wonders if he knows just how much he is affecting her.

Probably, the bastard.

“I’ve waited ten years to see you again, King of Knights,” He continues, dragging her even closer into his embrace. “You will forgive me if I take a moment to savour this.” The hand at her waist travels up until it tangles in her hair, a sharp tug pulling her head back to face him.

In the moonlight, pinned by those crimson eyes, she believes in the Devil and his temptation with all her might.

“Please,” She whispers, hating her voice for breaking; for the tremble in her knees and for the heat that coils, hard and unrepentant, in her belly. “Please let go.”

He doesn’t, unsurprisingly, but cups her cheek tenderly, thumb swiping away invisible tears.

The kiss is gentler than she expects, but still passionate – ten years of impatience and longing and rage built into a storm, tempered only by the will of the man behind it. It is her first (though she would sooner die than admit that, especially to him) and beneath the lust and possessiveness that she anticipated, there is something that feels an awful lot like kindness.

In the end, that’s what makes the tears come, makes her sob into the kiss and bring her hands up (to push him away, to pull him closer, to-)

It matters not, because in the next moment he has spun her to face him, crushed her to him until her armour creaks in protest – and still he does not break the kiss.

The whole world shrinks down to the heated space between their bodies; the desperate tightening of her fingers in that ridiculous jacket of his, and the way gold bursts behind her clenched eyelids when his thumb brushes her chin oh so gently.

Her tears (of fear, of frustration and loneliness and desire) paint her lips with salt, and it is only when he tastes them that he pulls away.

In the silence of the docks, she lets him chase the slick trails up her cheeks; lets him press butterfly kisses to her eyelids and firm lips to her forehead. If she leans into it, he is solemn enough not to mock.

“I expect I shall see you again very soon, Saber. Do try to stay alive until then.”

Blinking watery eyes at him, she musters a weak smile. “I shall do my best, Arch- Gilgamesh. Perhaps we shall finally resolve our last battle when that meeting comes.”

His chuckle is warm, warmer than she thought possible, as is the hand that cradles her skull.

“I look forward to it,” He promises, stealing one last kiss from the corner of her mouth that threatens many more to come – and she must close her eyes tight against the temptation. “Until the next time, Arturia.”

He is gone by the time she opens her eyes, but she stands between the shipping containers for a long time afterwards, body trembling at the use of her real name.

#gilgamesh x saber #gilber #fsn fanfic #fate stay night #unlimited blade works #i am trash #no regrets