A/N: The story picks up during the first fight between Lancer and Saber.
Near the Fuyuki River...
The ground pulsed with the life of the lightning that danced across the behemoth of a chariot that had rode into the middle of the battle. Arturia could only assume that this was Rider, another Servant in the War.
"I am Iskander!" cried the man from atop the chariot. "The King of Conquerors! In this battle, I am the Rider Class of Servants!"
Well, she was right.
Glancing towards her previous foe, she could see Lancer with a look that read either disbelief or abhorrence.
As Iskander went on about himself and some proposition to join forces in order to obtain the Holy Grail together, Arturia couldn't help but find herself recognizing the man's demeanor. His profile, silhouetted by the fluorescent street lamps, did nothing to blight out the fiery read hair that covered most of his head and face. His appearance was so dynamic that it seemed impossible to forget him. And yet, Arturia could only remember so much about her past life.
Lancer was the first to address Iskander.
"As tempting as your offer may be, I'm afraid I must decline. I may give the Grail to but one man. My new avowed lord Master, and not the likes of you."
Arturia could practically hear Iskander frown. She chimed in, "Tell me, Rider. Did you come here to rudely interfere with our battle, merely to proffer that absurd and foolish plan of yours?" Her one good grip, while the other remained wounded from Lancer's cursed spear, tightened around Excalibur. "This is a grave offense against my honor!"
Iskander reached up and scratched his beard, humming briefly.
"I'd be willing to discuss compensation-"
"Enough!" both Lander and Arturia snapped.
"I am the rightful King of Britain, and...and..."
Just as forceful as she began, Arturia felt her words dry up in her throat as her memory dropped into oblivion. It was as if someone had reached into her life and cut out a piece in time with a jagged knife. Memories trickled down from the crystal clear image of Excalibur upon its stone, to the painful altercations with Lancelot and Guinevere. What had they been in dispute about again? The fights grew dimmer and fuzzier as Arturia strained to recall them. She had completely lost track of what had been going on in the present.
She jolted back to reality at the sound of her name, a name she had not uttered to anyone but her Master. A wide grin crossed Iskander's face.
"I thought as much," he said with a chuckle. "This is quite a surprise! I would hardly be expected to encounter the King of Knights as yourself. You did a better work of concealing your feminine identity when we first encountered, little girl."
Anger boiled in Arturia's gut, partly for Iskander's mockery of her, but mostly that she indeed knew him, as confirmed by the man himself, and yet she could still not conjure up any memory of him.
"Would you like to taste this little girl's blade, King of Conquerors?" she said through her teeth. "Or would you do better to hold your foul tongue?"
Iskander merely scoffed.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" sad a tiny voice that came from behind Iskander. Arturia leaned to the right to see a boy cowering behind Rider, presumably his master. There then came a string of altercations between the boy and Lancer's master who had been hiding in the shadows. Something about Rider being Kayneth's rightful servant. Arturia paid no heed to it, as a different dispute went on in her mind. She thought so hard for a clue, a hint, something.
"Those too craven and cowardly to show themselves here tonight will draw the viscous scorn of Iskander, King of Conquerors."
Just then, distant chuckle, detached from anyone present, echoed about the shipping containers that surrounded the battlefield. The boy in the chariot, Waver his name was, was the first to speak up.
"Oh no! That's him!" he said, his voice trembling. Then Arturia saw him, perched atop a light post. He practically radiated from the flawless golden armor that adorned him from head to toe.
How vain, Arturia thought.
"The Servant that defeated Assassin?!" said Kayneth, still concealed from sight.
"So," the new man spoke lowly, yet his voice carried far to reach Arturia's ears, "two lesser beings dare to name themselves kings even in my royal presence?"
Iskander turned, the chariot creaking under his weight, and faced the new adversary.
"I fail to see where the problem lies, Servant. For I am Iskander, the legendary King of the Conquerors." Arturia was about ready to cut out Rider's tongue if he even evaded to being the King of Conquerors one more time. "Or perhaps you were referring to the little princess to dares so valiantly to compete with our power?"
"What nonsense!" said the king atop the post. "Of course I am referring to the both of you. Although her offenses are entirely separated from yours."
His voice left a strange taste in Arturia's mouth. She also knew that voice, arrogant and powerful, full of himself, full of authority. But once again, her memory fell short of his identity.
"If you are that who insists your claim," said Iskander. "Then why not name yourself? No true king should be troubled by something as simple as giving his name to those he wishes to challenge."
"You would question me, you filthy mongrel? Me, the one true king?"
Arturia's head began to ache. She was confused and angry and she wanted a straight answer, not a pissing contest between two hotheaded men.
"If you cannot now discern my identity in the presence of my magnificent glory, then your ignorant blindness will serve to seal you demise." His stance shifted as he turned to face Arturia from above. "And you, little lioness, should have my name branded upon your lips still."
"What?!" Arturia snapped; her grip tightened around her blade. "How dare you speak to me in that manner. I'll cut out your tongue for saying such things to me!"
The man raised a bright eyebrow.
"That's the very same fire I recall taming in our bedchambers." He chuckled again. "Come now, Arturia..." Her breath caught in her throat. "...don't play the fool with me."
"Who are you!?" Arturia screamed, the wind around her blade picked up in a cyclone that tossed about her hair and clothes. A struggled groan escaped her throat as she turned to Irisviel, the woman posing as her Master.
"Who am- I?" she cried to her. Irisviel clutched at her chest with perplexed eyes.
"Saber..." Her voice was no louder than a whisper.
"You mean to tell me," the proud king spoke up once more, "that you have no recollection of your own king and savior?"
"You are not my king!" Arturia snapped.
"But of course I am..." A wide grin spread across his lips. "...my queen."