#rcdp

 A hitch in his step. A stumble. But Archer continued his headway through Chaldea’s halls with a rushed pace. No. No. Hell no. He wasn’t dealing with this. 

He felt Arturia's fingers circle his wrist. It had been so long since he had touched her. Many a lonely night, he'd longed for that same touch, trying and failing to find its comfort between every summon. Many of those nights, he realized all he'd ever known was sweat against the grip of his twin swords and blood on the tips of his arrows. She was a dream; a single, impossible dream. She had no place in his life of infinite nightmares.

"Shirou—"

A few eons ago he would be on his knees, but now, his spirit didn't even stir. She might have as well called another name and it wouldn’t have made a difference. If anything, it was anger that moved him as he turned to face her. After years and years of trying to outrun his demons she’d dragged him right back into their damned den. 

"That's not who I am, Saber."

Arturia felt the floor slide from under her, smooth tile replaced by stone and gravel that cut at her heels. All of a sudden, the fluorescent lights were a brown sky of cinders and smoke and when she breathed all she tasted was ash. She blinked and swords were at her neck. Eyes devoid of all life and color stared her down. She felt like she was looking straight into a black hole, helpless as it tore her apart inch by inch. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. How could she, stifled by how glaringly empty the white haired vessel in front of her was?

The dull, metallic sound of gears turning filled the stale air between the two Servants. Unnoticed, a single tear slipped from her cheek, joining all those that had been spilled on the grounds of his nightmarish reality marble. She knew he was right. She need only look around for her proof. This place, this hill—if she squinted she could believe she was bleeding out on the fields of Camlann, her voice hoarse from grieving for her failures. If Shirou had taken the same path that she did, it was entirely possible for the man he became to end up here. 

Fresh salt welled up under her irises as she wept for the stranger before her. The hearth she once loved was but an empty fireplace now; the fire that once warmed her soul replaced by white ash. Maybe the other kings were right. She was a fool; a dreaming little girl clawing for delusions she could never achieve. 

As her tears fell, a bitter smile graced her face. "If you could just tell me, one last time, that it was real…that you loved—"

"I won’t. I can’t." Archer cut her off, pain shooting through his system like swords erupting from his flesh. A long, sharp ringing in his ear resounded as he looked down on the girl that changed his life several centuries ago. Her words haunted him like an echo, cyclically repeating till they left scars in the deepest recesses of his mind. Worse were her sea green eyes. He used to drink them up, but now he felt like he was drowning.

"Don't make me say it,” he grunted, lips quivering with every syllable, “I can't say the words."

Arturia’s tears ran dry before either of them said anything. Soon the orange sky had faded back into the white lights of the Chaldea halls. The knight swiped the back of her hand against her face. When he met her stare again, it had gone cold as ice, as if she’d discarded their warmth together with her tears. He realized at once she’d done what had taken him years to do: bury her feelings so far down there was no way she could ever reach them again. 

“My sincerest apologies for my earlier outburst,” she said stiffly, adopting a tone he hadn’t heard since they first met in that dark storage house. “Thank you for your answer. But…you are right. I should not have reminded you of your past when you’ve already cast it away.”

Why did it feel like his insides were being ripped out?  

Arturia dusted herself off, wearing that irritating soulless expression she liked to use with her knights. She gave him a soft, distant smile. “I hope you can forgive me…Archer.”

"Gil—" 

His eyes snapped open as their lips touched. No, that wasn't…he wasn't…

Her rejection burned against his chest like wildfire. He didn’t even realize he’d crossed the room to meet her till he felt her armored fingers on his skin and the rush of air rapidly filling the space she created between them. Anger burned across his cheek, smearing his—not his— body with a small streak of red. Then there was a vaguely familiar blade at his chin, held up by one delicate hand as she swiped the other against what remained of his kiss.

"Give me one reason I should not send you back to the Throne, Gilgamesh!" swordswoman warned, rage—so familiar on her face—igniting her countenance such that even their Master's commands did not deter her.

As his heart continued to beat for her, crushing itself against its unwilling ribcage in its adamant longing, the Chaldean king finally understood. Against all laws and logic the avarice of this body seeped into his very soul.  Every part, every sliver of his resurrected shell thirsted for everything she was and will be. It was like Gilgamesh's ghost was breathing down his neck, clawing at his throat with jealousy.

"My name is Nebuchadnezzar II," he worded carefully, watching those damning green eyes search for answers within his amber ones. He wondered if she’d find them. After all, here he stood, lost as a navigator on a cloudy night. His body told him she was the true way. That all roads led to her. That she was the light at the end of the long tunnel, but he didn’t know why. 

“This form tells me I am a Caster, though without this masquerade, I would present myself as a Ruler. As King of Babylon, that class ought to have been more fitting, but I suppose I should not complain of the power a body from the Age of the Gods grants me,” he explained. 

She tensed like a string pulled taught. The lines between her brows moved as she sought in him a lie. He wondered how it would feel to know her eyes in a gentler light, without mistrust or apprehension or even anger. He wanted to see in her gaze the kind of potent longing like that of his wife for her homeland. He wished for a day he was no longer at the sharper end of her sword. 

Meanwhile, the shorter king’s fingers faltered on her grip, dissuaded by vexation. A body from the Age of the Gods? What could he have possibly meant by that? She’d never known Gilgamesh to joke, but the alternative was to believe this man told the truth, and there was no conceivable way the King of Heroes would ever permit this to happen to him, even in death. 

Impossible. It had to be. This “Nebuchadnezzar II” spoke like him, moved like him—she pursed her lips—acted like him, and yet…

Arturia looked deep into his eyes, discerning if this truly was not the supercilious king that she once decided the fate of the world with. Eyes like amber struck with sunlight stared back at her just as intensely, dilated black circles drawing her in with a strange gravity Gilgamesh’s snake-like, ruby gaze used to have. 

No matter how tempting her prejudice was, slowly, her sword sheathed itself, and she turned to her shell-shocked Master with a hesitant nod of approval. Then, she made for the door. The woman king could permit a lookalike if it meant another strong ally for Master’s cause, but that didn’t mean she had to stay here, or anywhere near him for that matter. Especially when that lookalike thought he could get away with handling her. She could apologize to Master for her conduct later, but she would not stand another minute in this room.  

“Arturia.”  

The Earth stopped turning. 

Nebuchadnezzar didn’t even realize he’d spoken ‘til the sound had left his mouth. He voiced it with such ease it was like his tongue had yearned for eons to call out her name. Now her eyes clashed with his again, and though it had only been seconds since their gazes last met, it felt like a long-awaited reunion. His heart beat faster, harder, in his chest. He couldn't breathe. He wanted her to stay. 

But she, with her eyes wide as dinner plates and a quivering lip that tasted like disbelief, ran.

Run, she did, for the most grueling months Nebuchadnezzar had ever lived. Ritsuka offered to help, but he was a proud king, the architect of Babylon's most prosperous city, a god to his own people. Requesting her assistance reduced him to common folk. 

Besides, he ought not to have such troubles as those of the heart. He put his hand over his chest, trying to soothe it in vain. How humbling to think an organ the size of a fist could cripple him so, especially when this body didn't even belong to him. 

Nebuchadnezzar was by no means weak. However, considering this demigod shell hijacked his own sense of being twice now—with Enkidu and now with Arturia—whispers of thought entertained the notion he wasn't entirely himself, not anymore. Perhaps he was someone else, someone with borrowed feelings so strong they persisted long after their owner entered his tomb.

Nonetheless, even if they were borrowed, they were undoubtedly real.  

Just when he was about to retire for the evening, he heard the familiar commotion that accompanied Master's return from a successful mission, and felt the overwhelming rush of feelings that was her.

Once again, their eyes locked in a dance of ice and fire. Once again, she turned immediately away, rushing down the hallway to avoid him. Once again, he contemplated giving chase, only this time, he gave in.

"Leave," she insisted, trying in vain to get him back out her door. "Your presence is unwanted here, King of Babylon."

Her words stung like a whip, but they were nothing compared to the hurt of being shunned for weeks on end. He’d had enough of that. 

"I did not believe you a cruel king when we met, Arturia, but if you must avoid me when I have done nothing to warrant your ire, then I have grossly misjudged."

She stopped suddenly, the wrists he held in his hands going slack before she tore them from his grip. Though she put some distance between them, he felt relief that she no longer fought to drive him out. 

"Don't," she hissed, her green eyes igniting as she glared up at him. "I never gave you my true name, Nebuchadnezzar. What on God's earth makes you assume you have the right to use it?" 

He didn't answer.

Arturia inhaled sharply, massaging her temples as she tried to manage her temper. Perhaps she was being cruel. Part of her knew she was being irrational but really, there couldn't be anyone in the world who understood how she was feeling because how was she to treat someone who lived in Gilgamesh's body? 

And the kiss? Where had that come from? They were strangers so far removed in time that weren't blessed to be enemies in a Grail War. It wasn't Nebuchadnezzar who harassed her with promises of marriage. It wasn't Nebuchadnezzar who waited ten years to do it again. It wasn't Nebuchadnezzar who smiled so gently after their battle, telling her he had fun as he faded to nothing. He was merely the inheritor. 

The older king gave in, his irate gaze faltering in the heat of hers. A long, hard breath danced across her eyelashes, as he once again dared to venture into her personal space. She took a step back. Another. And suddenly, she was between the wall and a familiar face with a different name.

"Why do you know my name? And…how?" she interrogated, searching his golden eyes. They were distracted, every so often fluttering down to her mouth. She couldn't even tell if he'd heard her, the bastard.

She slapped away his hand before it could cup her cheek, banishing the confusing memory of the King of Heroes' goodbye from her memory. She knew she couldn't possibly have harmed him, and yet Nebuchadnezzar stared at her, betrayed, with her knife through his chest.

"I don't know," Nebuchadnezzar lied. 

Every inch of his very existence screamed her name at him whenever they touched, loud like war and just as deafening. It was like his body demanded he speak it, her foreign moniker a mantra maddeningly echoing in his mind. But it wasn't Nebuchadnezzar's voice that spoke it, it was—

"Then I see no reason we should associate at all—" she started and stopped, her back hitting the wall as Nebuchadnezzar held her in place. Before she could retort he was cupping her face, forcing her to witness the grief she'd just inflicted.

"Have some empathy," Please. He hadn't said it, but she could hear it in his voice.

"You—" 

He cut her off with a breath, trying not to lose himself in her scent. 

"When I first laid eyes on you it was as if I had waited several eons to see you again. I had my ambitions, my accomplishments. If I wished for anything it was more power and now that seems so terribly foolish because you exist. I was never a stranger to life's great luxuries. I never wanted beyond my own ambitions, and yet one infinitesimal moment with you in the same room made me feel as if I had nothing."

He stroked her cheek with his thumb, bittersweet nostalgia flooding his senses. Arturia stiffened, then relaxed, recognition and confusion in her eyes. 

"I was…" he sighed, mirroring her vexation "jealous of the dress that touched your skin, the floor beneath your boots, the air that left your lips—imagine how I felt when the name you spoke was not mine."

Arturia bit her lip til it went pale, her eyebrows knitting as she stared into the unfamiliar gold shade of his eyes. Gilgamesh's were red. 

"How can you claim such things?" she asked, struggling to comprehend what she was hearing. Arturia had never been the most in touch with her feelings."You do not know me, Nebuchadnezzar."

"Don't I?"

Two words, and all her common sense jumped out the window. A hitch in her breath. She feared staring at his eyes too long. She feared he'd see her waver. She feared she'd believe him. Because if what he said was true…what did that mean for his body's original owner?

"We have just met," she reasoned weakly, her voice a mere whimper.

"We have just met," he repeated, in that familiar voice yet unfamiliar tone. "and yet it feels like I have known you for a lifetime.”

She pursed her lips, pulling away from his touch. "You haven't. He hadn't. You couldn't possibly—"

His lips landed on her fingers. It was such a slight and gentle touch, she wondered if she would've minded letting them find their original target. Slowly, she untangled herself from him, weaving herself out of his arms.

"We are strangers, you and I. You must understand," she said, detaching her hand from fingers that tried in vain to keep her. 

His heart wrenched in his chest, clawing for her retreating figure, but his head kept him in place. Deep down, he knew the heated longing he felt wasn't truly his. Even if it were, he doubted he had the right to act on it, not in this form. Alas, she'd doomed Nebuchadnezzar to live his second life jealous of every mongrel that dared seek her attention.

Like hell. 

Arturia spun back around, her hand gently wrapped in his. 

“I do not wish to be strangers, Arturia,” Nebuchadnezzar declared with conviction. She stared back at him, lips pursed and jade eyes unsure. The king released her slowly, dreading that she’d run once more, but she stayed where she was, her mind still warring with itself.

Arturia looked down at the fingers which only moments before were in his hold, then back at his eyes. They were gold, like honey struck by sunlight. Meanwhile, the neo-babylonian king drank up the sea in her gaze. The expression she wore was one neither he nor this body’s original owner had ever seen before. 

Nebuchadnezzar smiled softly to himself. They wouldn’t be strangers for long.

_____________________

I've always wanted to write these two. Ain't nothing I love more than confusing feelings ahahaha.

Arturia had long lost count of the times they ended up this way: one of his knees between her thighs, his hand locking her wrist to the floor, his fingers around her throat, the weight of his body pressing down on her, his eyes staring into hers like they were drilling holes into them. 

The burning of her lungs no longer felt painful, it felt familiar. She knew, even as she choked out his name, that her efforts would only ever anger him. There was no reasoning with a Berserker, after all, and she had never been equipped by the same hypnotic charm Ritsuka used to calm him down. Both Master and the Round Table decided to separate them when they realized Lancelot was never lucid when Arturia was around. She, particularly this version of her, was the trigger to his shotgun, and there were bound to be casualties whenever they met. 

“Lan…ce…” the king croaked, dragging her nails across the black metal at her neck. Dark spots waltzed across her vision to the sounds of her whimpers. Her consciousness was hanging by a thread, and yet the only thoughts that filled her head were of the dark-haired knight in front of her. He looked older. His hair was longer than she remembered from their time in Camelot. He used to keep it so short before…before everything. 

Arturia’s lips turned blue as the excommunicated knight tightened his grip. The darkness was beginning to cloud her vision, her imagination filling in the gaps. He used to love riding. She remembered so clearly the way he held the reins, encouraging his horse to run faster as they raced through the kingdom. His skill as a rider was in large part what made him so formidable at jousting. Lancelot would always attribute his victories to her blessing of course, which was often in the form of a blue ribbon circled around his wrist. It always made her so proud to have such a champion in her roster and such a friend by her side.

“Lan…”

The Berserker roared at her, baring his teeth like a rabid dog. Arturia recalled how brightly he used to smile. When they were younger, she’d wondered how victory tasted on the handsome man’s lips. Tavern girls seemed to enjoy its flavor so much. Of course, she never voiced those improper thoughts. Such were not fit for a king. The girl in her, however, suppressed til she was naught but a memory, wondered all the same. She’d felt his kiss on the back of her hand for years, of course the thought crossed her mind.

Arturia tasted iron as the black knight began eerily rambling her “name”. It occurred to her that she had been fighting him off, but as usual, he was stronger. He had always been. Once, when they were sparring, she admitted her insecurity at not being the mightiest despite her sitting on the throne. Smiling, he told her, “Your job is to protect the kingdom. Mine is to protect you. If you were stronger than I am, I would be doing my job quite poorly.” 

Since that day he’d injected himself into her life like poison, and there was nothing she could do but let him drag her to her demise, agonizing all the way down. Maybe the fall of her kingdom was inevitable. She’d sent it spiraling out of control when she brought the Frenchman into her service. Arturia should have turned him away. If she had, she–Gwen would never have fallen for him. She wouldn’t have chased him out into France. The throne wouldn’t have been empty, and Mordred would never have had the chance to start a coup. 

“Lancel…ot.”

The woman thrashed as air rushed through her lungs. Lancelot snapped to attention like he’d just been reset, then shuddered as he drew a breath. He blinked and his eyes were different, the snarl upon his mouth dropping into a small grimace. Meanwhile, Arturia coughed into her hands, curling to the side like a fetus. 

“My…king?” 

The salt lining her eyes finally fell. It had been so long since she last heard that voice. It was hoarser than she remembered. All that time he spent screaming her name must have taken a toll. 

Her tired hands cupped his face, deja vu granting her a vision from back when they were younger. Lancelot had defended her just like this, tackling her to the ground and taking arrows to his back. He shouldn’t look so concerned. Did he not know he swayed the hearts of many? How could she resist if he stared at her like that?

“I am deeply sorry, Lancelot,” she whispered, her throat straining as she spoke. Berserker softly brushed his fingers over the bruises on her neck, unaware that it was he that had left them. Panic began to build in his weary eyes, like it did when he was still her sworn protector. Back then, she thought he was only carrying out his job, she never imagined what Ritsuka so clearly pointed out. 

He loved her despite destiny tearing them apart. 

The mad warrior gently swept away her tears with his thumb. Arturia bit her lip, stifling her regrets before they could overwhelm her. If only she’d known his true feelings in life. They could have been so much happier. Instead, they died estranged and miserable and came back on opposite sides of a Grail War. Here in Chaldea, with how much they both hurt, their friends tried to keep them apart. Part of her believed she should bury her own feelings once more and pretend she’d never felt anything for her first knight but the other…

“I can’t pretend anymore…” the king whispered, pulling his lips to hers as she admitted the truth the girl inside of her had always known. 

_____

thank you for reading. as usual angst is what gives me life mwahahaha

i hope you guys take care. The pandemic may be on the decline, but it's still out there. Pandemic or not, I wish you all good health.