How I Saved History (Fate/Grand Order SI)

"Sir!" Francois, one of my advance scouts, calls to me. "We found something up ahead!"

"Is it our target?" I ask, almost dreading the answer. Please, God, I'm not ready for Galahad to see me like this. I don't think I can possibly endure my son being ashamed of me. But, all the same, I'm so glad I got the chance to see him again.

"No. It's a woman!"

A woman? Out here? Dammit, I can't afford the delay of escorting her to the refugee camp! I'll have to keep her with me and my knights. I can't just send her off into the wilderness alone. "Living or dead?"

"Alive, but she's chained to a rock!"

...This is starting to feel familiar.

"Alright, let's investigate."

---​

She's a pretty one, I'll give her that. She handles the "damsel chained to a rock" look better than most other damsels in distress I've rescued. Usually, if she's been there for any amount of time, the damsel in question tends to look emaciated, unless the sorcerer imperiling her actually bothered to prevent her from starving. Or defecating herself, I've seen a lot of damsel chained to rocks by foul magics, and it is never an attractive or dignified position. Considering that the woman in question is still fairly plump in all the right places, and doesn't smell like shit, I'd have to say she's only been here a day at most.

"Fair lady, what villain has done this to you?" I ask, sticking to the classics. Back in the day, I used that line about as often as I said 'Hello.' Got pretty embarrassing when I started using it as my standard greeting on reflex, though.

"The vile lord of Chaldea, Charles Flynn, has entrapped me here, goodly knight. He bade his foul sorcerers to curse me, that none may move me from this spot, or break these sorcerous chains, until a quest most valiant is performed, and the Blade of Unbinding, the Stone of Sealing, and the Crook of Correction are all found and brought to this place." She sighs woefully, and somewhat overdramatically. "But he has hidden them behind guardians most mighty, laying down obstacles so great that no knight could ever retrieve them, unless they were the great Sir Lancelot!"

"Then fear not, fair lady, for I am that knight!" I call, subtly flexing my shoulders to set my cape fluttering dramatically. Took me more than a decade to get that move down pat, but I have to admit, it was completely worth it. All the same, this is way too formulaic to be anything other than a transparent way to delay me, and one that is making me thoroughly worried about my son associating with the mastermind behind it. Should I really go out of my way to save her? Should I really risk failing my king, just to save one woman?

Yes. Because she's in trouble, and if I turned my back on her, I could hardly call myself Lancelot. I could hardly call myself a knight.

"My lady, have you hungered or thirsted since you've been chained to this stone?" I ask. It's an important question to ask. I'm assuming the answer is yes, since she isn't sweaty in the slightest in spite of being directly exposed to the sun, but it's always important to be careful. I still remember the first time I ran into a scenario like this, when I returned with the necessary items to unchain the damsel, only to find she'd died of thirst while I was en route.

"Oh." She seems slightly taken aback. "No, I have not."

"Very well." I press a waterskin into her hands. "Please, keep this, just in case that changes."

"Thank you," she's looking at me in surprise. I don't know why, though. It's just a basic precaution. Honestly, if she'd told me for certain that she needed food and water, I would have stationed half my men here, to ensure she remained fed and hydrated.

"May I ask if the wicked Flynn mentioned where these items were?"

"Err... yes. I made sure to memorize them, as they were my only hope of freedom." She rattles off a list of directions.

"Thank you, milady. I assure you, we'll have you free soon."

"Wait!" she calls as I turn to go. "You... obviously have some kind of mission to be out here. Why are you letting it go, just to help me?"

Well, now she's just not making sense. "Why shouldn't I? It's the right thing to do."

She doesn't have anything to say to that, so I take my leave, my men following me as I head towards the rookery of the Wicked Wyverns of Wisconsin, to retrieve the Blade of Unbinding.

---​

As I chop yet another wyvern in half, a thought occurs: I am never getting all this blood out of my cape. Three wyverns lunge at me, and I dodge the first, kick the second off course, and decapitate the third in one smooth stroke, even as I contemplate the abysmal state of my laundry, and my wardrobe in general. I've had to clean my armor by hand, with sheep's wool and olive oil (not the best stain remover, but it was all I could get my hands on) to get the crusted blood off of it.

I absent-mindedly grab a wyvern by the throat as it tries to attack me, and then hold it up as a shield against its brother's attack, before slicing through the both of them while they're entangled. Still, while I can clean my armor, my cape is another matter entirely. The whole thing a patchwork of dried bloodstains nowadays, moldy green, and grey, with the occasional splash of rust brown. It's ugly as sin, and I can't get it cleaned, mostly because we don't have anyone doing our laundry. The King said it was a frivolity and a waste, but really, why can't we have washerwomen? The Crusaders had washerwomen.​

I notice that the wyverns are all dead as a dragon, one of the dumb ones, erupts from the mound, roaring its fury to the heavens, and I decide to table my lamentations over the state of my clothing, at least for the moment. This might actually take some concentration.

Right, just like riding a horse: just follow your muscle memory. Sidestep the fire breath, dodge the claws, and then, when it tries to bite you, dodge to the right, grab it by the horns with your left hand, and then...

"ARONDIGHT OVERLOAD!" I cut its head straight off.

Alright then, time to go back a mile to where I told my men to wait for me, and then tell them to help me search for the Blade of Unbinding. I walk off, leaving the various draconic bodies behind me. Thirty-two wyverns and a dragon. Easily handled, but still, a pleasant workout.

Now then, onto the rest. And then... and then I'll have to go see my son again.

I firmly redirect my thoughts to a more optimistic bent. After all, who knows? Maybe the other monsters will take me a week to get through.

 

Once we’ve spent the day helping the refugees settle into Cursed Arm’s village, and hunting up food alongside Arash, we’re called into Cursed Arm’s hut.

I notice, as I step inside, that it’s easily the most worn of all the structures in the village, and certainly the plainest. I mentally bump my estimation of our ally up a few notches. He clearly takes the responsibilities of command seriously.

Other!Cursed Arm is waiting for us inside. We file in, with My!Cursed Arm bringing up the rear. Okay, that’s it, we need to do something about the name situation.

“Before we begin,” I interject, holding up my hand. “Can we please address a situation I’ve noticed?”

“By all means,” Local!Cursed Arm says amiably. “What issue would this be?”

“The name situation. We have two Hassan-i-Sabbahs of the Cursed Arm in our group right now. I think we can all see the potential for confusion there.”

The Cursed Arms nod reluctantly.

“Cursed Arm?” both look at me expectantly. “Okay, my Cursed Arm?”

“Yes, Master?”

“Since we’re the new guys, at least in this Singularity, I think that we should be the ones to yield on this matter. If that’s acceptable with you, that is?”

He hesitates for a moment. “…What do you have in mind?”

“I was thinking we could give you an alternative cognomen while we’re in the Singularity, to distinguish you from your doppelganger over there.” I nod to Local!Cursed Arm. “I mean, since you’re both Hassan-i-Sabbah, the cognomen describing your unique talent is the only thing that really differentiates you, at least namewise.”

“Fair. Slightly hurtful, but fair.”

“Oh, I’m sorry if-“

“No, it’s fine.” He waves his hand dismissively. “What alternative cognomen would you propose?”

“I was thinking Scaevola, actually.”

He looks at me skeptically. “’Left-handed?’”

I blink. “Wait, it means left-handed? I thought it meant scorched hand.”

“No, it means left-handed. I’m not sure why you’d think otherwise.”

“It was the cognomen of a famous Roman assassin,” I recount, one hand sheepishly behind my head. “Gaius Mucius Scaevola. So called because, when on a mission to assassinate the Etruscan king, Lars Porsenna, he set his right hand on fire, as a demonstration that he and the two hundred and ninety-nine other Roman youths who’d sworn to assassinate Porsenna would sacrifice anything and everything in order to see Porsenna dead, including their own bodies. I thought you might like it.”

“Well, now that you explained it to me, I have to admit that I find myself warming to the name,” the newly redubbed Scaevola admits. “I think I’ll keep it. Although that Gaius Mucius fellow does sound familiar.”

“You don’t remember? We fought him in Rome, when we were storming Romulus’ city. He swore to kill Nero, and we had to stop him.” That was a tough fight. Not because he was a very good assassin, mind you, his sense of tactical planning mostly boiled down to ‘walk up to whoever looks most important and stab them to death,’ but those Noble Phantasms of his were a nightmare to deal with.

“Oh, yes!” Scaevola says, smiling. “That one shouty fellow whose hand was on fire? Kept screaming about how his hand burned bright, and its red glow told him to destroy us? And screaming ‘FOR ROMA!’ at the top of his lungs?”

“That’s the one. I’m surprised you didn’t remember him sooner. We had to kill him three hundred times.”

Cursed Arm clears his throat, and we all turn to him. Da Vinci looks slightly annoyed, so I’m guessing she wanted to chime in. That’s right. She’s Italian, isn’t she? I suppose it would be expected of her to be familiar with the classics. “Much as I appreciate the discussion of my counterpart’s new name, and as fascinating as those old war stories of yours may be, we are on a bit of a time crunch, here. Could we perhaps table this discussion for later, and move on to the main issues?”

“Certainly, Lord Cursed Arm.” I dip my head respectfully.

“Thank you. Now, our enemies, the Round Table, are deadly adversaries. To face them, we’ll need to muster up as many Servants, and as much military might as we can. I would propose that…”

‘Master.’ Georgios interrupts over the mental link, and I turn my attention to my distant Servant, and away from Cursed Arm’s tactical briefing.

‘Georgios? How go things at the village of the Hassan of the Hundred Faces?’

‘Somewhat poorly.’

‘Shit. Is she not letting you in?’

‘No, she recognized me from the desert, and the refugees all vouched for us. Currently our primary issue is that we’re under attack from Sir Mordred, and his retinue of artificial Holy City Knights.’

Thaaaaaat’s a problem. I’m about to speak up, when Arash runs into the tent. “Cursed Arm! Hundred Face is under attack!”

“WHAT?” Cursed Arm bellows. “Are you sure?”

“I can see it right now,” Arash says.

“I can second that. The Servants I sent to the village with the other half of the refugees contacted me to tell me they were under attack.”

“Damnation. Well, we were already planning on visiting Hundred Face in order to recruit them, I suppose this simply means we’ll have to visit even more swiftly.”

Arash lights up like a kid on Christmas. “Soooo…”

“Yes, I mean that damned Arrow Express of yours, you absolute lunatic.”

“Alright, let’s get going!” He ushers us out from the tent and up the cliff face with a cheerful smile that doesn’t reassure me in the slightest.

“We’ll need someone to stand guard on this village,” I point out.

“Damn.” Cursed Arm looks at his counterpart. “Scaevola?”

“It would be my honor.”

“All right, that’s settled!” Arash is still grinning like the cat that got the canary as he ties some ropes to one of his arrows. “Now get on the slab and lie down!”

“Flynn?” Galahad asks, looking nervous.

“Yeah, I have a bad feeling about this too.” I say as I lie down on the slab. “But if Cursed Arm says it’s our only way to get there in time, then I believe him. Hold on a sec, have you actually seen Star Wars?”

“Mash has,” Galahad says, looking a little irritated for some reason. “Doctor Roman made sure to show her all three movies.”

“What about the prequels?” I ask without thinking.

“There are prequels? Roman never mentioned thoseaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagghh!” His words turn into a prolonged scream as Arash finally seems to find the angle he was looking for, and then, in a move antithetical to a Newtonian understanding of physical motion, shoots an arrow that drags the slab we’re on after it at Mach 2.

That’s not an exaggeration, by the way. I can hear the sonic boom. The g-force is absurd, and I feel like my flesh is peeling from my face as I hurtle forward, shooting straight towards a nearby cliff face.

Just when I think that we’re all going to die, Galahad kicks the plate we’re on and hurtles forwards, shield in hand.

“LORD CAMELOT!”

And the shining walls cushion our fall.

Well, most of our falls. Cursed Arm and Arash both get smooshed between the plate and the rock wall, but they walk it off. Sometimes, Servants are just stupidly tough.

I just lie there where I fell for a second, feeling my heart racing, and marveling at the strange and almost miraculous fact that I’m still alive.

Then I get up and cuss Arash out.

“Okay, okay, let’s all agree that we’ve made mistakes,” Cursed Arm says, placing himself between us. “But we’re here now, and we need to deal with the problem at hand.”

“Alright.”

We head up the bluff, and see the battle currently unfolding. Mordred is going toe to toe with Siegfried inside the village, the dragonslayer easily holding his own against the Pendragon bastard. Meanwhile, Cu, Georgios, and Vlad have managed to bottleneck the invading knights at the valley leading into the village, beginning to form a barricade out of the broken bodies of their enemies. Hundred Face, for their part, seems to be finishing up evacuating the village.

‘Siegfried, how goes the battle?’

‘I’m faring well, Master,’ he reports. ‘I have proven able to penetrate Sir Mordred’s armor, while he proves incapable of doing the same to my Armor of Fafnir.’

‘Analysis of the enemy: has he given anything away?’ I mean, sure, only an arrogant idiot explains their plans and capabilities to the enemy before they’ve actually won, but then, Mordred kind of struck me as a bit of an arrogant idiot.

‘He loudly bragged that he, like the other Knights of the Lion King, has been granted a Gift of some sort, which he calls ‘Rampage.’ I can only assume that this empowerment elevates them beyond even their normal counterparts.’

‘Damn. What does his do?’

‘It burns through his soul, but allows him to utilize his Noble Phantasm an unlimited number of times. Consequently, I haven’t let him use his Noble Phantasm so much as once.’

‘How’d you pull that off?’ I ask, somewhat impressed.

‘His armor doesn’t let him use his Noble Phantasm. He has to remove his helmet in order to use his Gift, and thus, whenever he tries, I make a point of reminding him of the proper importance of head protection. With my pommel. And my fists.’

Mordred, taking advantage of Siegfried’s momentary distraction, disengages, his helmet sliding back in some sort of intricate unlocking mechanism. He’s actually done fairly well for himself. The only rent in his armor is on his right bicep, and I don’t think that cut actually did much damage. His nose, on the other hand, is quite thoroughly broken, and he’s missing a few teeth.

“Clarent Blood- FUCK!” his attempt to use his Noble Phantasm is interrupted by Siegfried, who brings Balmung down on Mordred’s head in a vertical chop, forcing the Knight of Treachery to block. He wreathes himself in crackling red lightning, but it does nothing against Siegfried’s armored flesh, as the taller knight relentlessly pushes his opponent back. With a growl, Mordred returns the favor, helmet re-engaging as he rushes Siegfried in a flurry of frantic blows. But it does nothing. Siegfried has the reach advantage, and he’s clearly the more skilled swordsman. Mordred’s Mana Bursts can never quite penetrate the Armor of Fafnir, and they can’t buy him enough distance to fire off his Noble Phantasm

“Well I’ll be damned,” Cursed Arm says with grudging respect. “I’m beginning to get the impression that they could’ve handled this without us.”

“Well, I am their mana supplier, so I suppose that me being here is boosting their performance,” I point out. “But yes. I sent my heaviest hitters to protect the group I wasn’t with.”

“And you didn’t save some for your own group?” Cursed Arm asks, and I can practically hear the raised eyebrow from behind the mask. “Confident of you.”

“I suppose.” I say, looking down at the fight.

‘Siegfried, stop toying with him. Finish the job.’

‘As you command, my Master.’

Mordred takes another leap back, only to find himself backed up against one of the cliffs encircling the village, with a determined Siegfried bearing down on him like a freight train.

“Clarent- FUUUUUCK!” he screams, as he’s forced to frantically parry Siegfried’s lightning-fast attacks, limbs blazing with red lightning as he brings his sword in to block.

“You, know,” Siegfried says conversationally, as he hammers Mordred back into the wall. “Your technique is terrible. You rely too much on overwhelming the enemy and can only parry according to your instincts. Against someone with enough combat experience, though, that advantage of yours becomes meaningless. Further, your over-reliance on your Noble Phantasms leaves you vulnerable.”

“SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!” Mordred roars, desperately pushing him back.

“I was only trying to help.” He pommel bashes Mordred’s nose, and I see it cave in. “My apologies if I unintentionally offended you.”

“FUCK YOU! CLAREBT-“

Siegfried brings down his blade, and, as Mordred desperately brings his blade up to parry, Fafnir’s Bane says but one word.

“Balmung.”

The glowing, etheric blast of Siegfried’s mighty Noble Phantasm disintegrates Mordred’s unarmored skull and carves a new canyon at least a mile long into the cliff face.

Mordred’s now decapitated corpse twitchs, desperately trying to cut into Siegfried, but it misses. His head is gone, and his torso has been bifurcated, a twisted, half-melted, burning mess of mangled meat. His left arm dangles somewhere around his waist, and his right arm, and the corresponding right half of his torso, is barely any better, drooping over under its own weight as it desperately strikes at Siegfried, barely held up by the charred and melted remnants of his spine.

This sight engraves itself in my mind, and I know that, soon enough, it’ll be joining my nightmares.

Finally, mercifully, Mordred’s body fades.

I turn to Galahad. “I’m sorry that you had to see that.”

He sighs. “No. It’s fine. Mordred was my friend, but… this is how he’d want to die. In honorable combat, fighting for his king. I’m not going to hold that against you. It’s just…”

“What?”

“When we face my father, promise me that you’ll let me fight him. Honorably, with no tricks.” He looks at me sternly. “I don’t want our match to be tainted by your interference again.”

What is he- Oh. When we first met, and he first took over Mash’s body. I had almost forgotten about that.

Do I make the promise? On the one hand, it’s a major disadvantage against Lancelot. On the other, this is important to Galahad. Briseis-level important. If I don’t give it to him, he might pull an Achilles.

I suddenly remember Sir Phelot, and how well he fared against Lancelot. Okay, yes, maybe treachery and dishonorable combat can’t carry the day against the Knight of the Lake.

“You have my word. But I reserve the right to bail you out if it looks like you’re about to die. Mash is still in there, and I’m not letting you drag her down with you. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” He grins. “Thank you, Flynn.”

“Anytime.”

And so, as Cu and Cursed Arm begin hunting down the knights that fled, Galahad and I descend into the valley, to deal with the battle’s aftermath.