Requiem of the Wild King I

Atop a mountain resembling an arrowhead, the Black Knight stood tall and silent.

His armor was pitch black, entirely so, but it wasn't completely so. Gold lined the black metal and gauntleted arms, as well as even the black robes that flowed from underneath the armor itself. The armor wasn't jagged either but rounded and perfectly fitting its wearer. Overall, it was a very regal look and if anyone were to see him, they would come to the conclusion that the lone sentinel was of great importance.

The knight clutched something in his right hand. It was a form of smog, some sort of dark mist that resembled air yet was not so. Something was hidden within it but could not be perceived. A sword? A spear or dagger? It could have been any one of these things.

The only sound that echoed around him was the chirping of the red-breasted robins. Overall, it was a peaceful scene, bellying the inner thoughts of the sentinel who might as well have been a statue.

Many minutes passed until the knight took his invisible weapon and sat upon a nearby rock, peering down upon a town alight with the pinpricks of torches and even from here, he could hear the yells.

The knight sighed as he knew he would have to deal with those down below shortly. He didn't wish to, but he had no choice in the matter, unfortunately. He had long resigned himself to this reality, of hunting sinners for all eternity, but that did not mean he could not feel something at his predicament.

Shifting himself, from behind his leonine helmet with a golden mane fluttering at the back, the masked warrior peered up at the sky.

He watched the clouds idly, his thoughts now preoccupied with himself and other meaningless things.

How long had it been, he wondered. How long since he had been crowned the King of the Wild Hunt? It could have been a decade or even many centuries since- he lost count of time quickly since the concept didn't apply to him and his comrades.

How many Hunts had he led? He didn't know the answer to that either. Time was a concept he had no solid grasp on anyway and he let himself escape into his memories of better times. His fellow Hunters were most likely the same even if they didn't show it. They weren't evil people by any means, but rather ones that you got tired of quickly.

Robin Hood was a bit annoying in fairness but his joviality fondly reminded him of Galahad, the ever-present jester. For that, the man wasn't so annoyed and tolerated him at least.

Drake was in a similar boat, but she knew something of what the black knight felt and often gave him space if he needed it. He greatly appreciated it, at the very least.

The knight's shoulders dropped in resignation and tiredness, sighing to himself a little. This was his reality now. Hunting sinners and killing sinners, no matter who they would be or what shape they would take.

As he peered up at the clouds, the knight thought back to when this began. When he began his role as the Wild King, the mists of time seemingly taking him back to that time...


The field was consumed by flame and chaos.

The air smelt of death and despair.

Corpses and bodies were present upon the destroyed field, flames raging around it in a malevolent pattern, almost as if they were seeking to wipe out all those that lived that remained. The corpses were mutilated to the point that they were hardly recognizable as such, instead seeming to be just metal slabs that happened to be in the shape of humans, or else mutilated pieces of meat.

Flags that represented each side were burning, destroying any semblance of conflict. Swords and weaponry were stuck into the scorched earth, their metal burning as if the events that occurred at this place filled them with despair. At that moment, this field and hill weren't a battlefield. It wasn't even the site of two armies clashing, or of the leaders of each side killing each other. There could only be one description of this chaotic place.

A site of hell on earth. That is the only meaning to this place, to the fields of Camlann. A site of the great and unspeakable tragedy, representing the end of a golden age.

Even as the flames raged, in desperation comrades still tried to save each other. They tried wrapping grievous wounds with bloodstained cloth or amputating mangled limbs; even when they saw that their efforts were hopeless, they still refused to give up. They whispered sweet nothings to their former brothers in arms, to give them some comfort in death, in dying so far away from their loved ones. For each one that survived, more died.

Enemies continued trying to kill each other. Despite the carnage around them, enemies that had cursed one another still struck death-blows, cutting deep into the flesh of others, blocking out the rest of the scene with their own bloodlust, ignorant to the tragedy around them. They were too far gone to be saved. Some even continued fighting because of the tragedy, to give the deaths of their comrades and friends some meaning, to make it so that their sacrifices and deaths were not in vain. Yet, even then...

In their blows were sorrow and regret. Sorrow that events had led to this blood-stained battlefield, sorrow that they were going to die away from home, away from lovers or family. Regret that they were fighting and killing those they had once called brothers in arms.

Fathers against sons. Brothers and brothers. The family cut down the family.

Madness. That was the only way the hellish scene could be described as. There was no chivalry, no honor, no human decency: there was just tragedy, humanity killing itself, and warriors who had once fought great monsters now suffered the devouring feeling of despair.

On the hill, there was a man. He wore white armor stained dark with blood, blue cloth flowing from underneath and which was stained by the running dirt. Parts of it were scorched by the flames of hell. His once shining blonde hair was matted with blood, almost as if he had bathed in it, and a grievous wound ran down his chest as if someone had ripped a brutish weapon down him. Blood flowed from that injury, staining his once immaculate armor and the ground beneath him red. On his left arm, there was a shield but battered and warped in places, looking more like a ruined piece of metal than a shield.

He could only kneel: he had no energy left, and even if he could move he wouldn't wish to. He supported himself using his sword. It had once been beautiful as well, bringing joy and triumph to his allies, fear, and respect to his foes. A golden broadsword with intricate designs, it had served as his weapon through sorrow and triumph. It was the blood-stained knight's greatest weapon.

But even now it reflected the chaos of the hell it and the knight were surrounded by. Its surface was grimy, dirt clung to it in clots, almost rusting, with blood drenching it. It was no longer truly beautiful: instead, it was an insult, a pale comparison to its former glory. Even as the knight looked at it briefly, blood ran down it anew, as if it was crying tears of blood at the carnage.

"Where..." The knight finally said, his voice cracked and lacking energy. "Where...did it go wrong...?"

His eyes once shone like emeralds but were dulled in the face of this place. His face once expressed light and just but was now blank and drained. He was no longer the honorable and disciplined King of Knights, but a shadow of his former self.

With hollow eyes and a hollow soul, Arthur Pendragon looked around the fields of Camlann, at the hell he had caused.

The hell around him burned itself into his visage, imposing itself upon him. The flames seemed to creep towards him, reaching out blazing hands to claw at him. The numerous amount of swords stood like graves, memorials to their users. Corpses were strewn about, hacked into bloody chunks, and the blood turned the once green grass and hill completely red.

It horrified him. It terrified the King of Knights to his very core, that this was what his actions had caused. With a morbid fascination, he looked around each sign of tragedy etching itself into his memory, making sure he would never forget. The way he looked around... he was less of a Knight-King and more someone who had suddenly lost something precious to them, something they had tried to protect with all their determination, only to fail.

His dying Dragon heart beat fast against his chest, seeming to Arthur as if it was trying to kill him. The death around him... how could this have happened? Why had it happened? What was the purpose?

Even in the war with Vortigern, where he had slain that evil White Dragon, there had been nothing like this. Vortigern had earned a reputation for cruelty and monstrosity, for sure, and Arthur himself had seen many of the results of the White Dragon's armies upon the land of England.

It was in the midst of the war with Vortigern, and Arthur was almost completely lost.

He was holding a child, a boy no older than six or seven. The boy was breathing shallowly, eyes closed, but with a wound to his chest and back. It was a tragic sight, and it was all he could do to tell himself this boy would live-!

The village behind him had been burnt to the ground, and corpses covered the ground. Families had been killed- fathers died defending, sons died protecting, mothers and daughters died denying the lust of the monstrous warriors that served Vortigern. Their last act of defiance was making sure they did not toy or use them as they used other villages.

Some hadn't been fast enough to escape in death.

Arthur looked at one particular sight, where the corpses were being buried by some of his warriors so that they could at least find some semblance of peace in death. Bedivere- good, loyal and kind Bedivere- chanted the burial rites as the corpses were laid to rest, with Lancelot doing the rest. Away from the others, Tristan himself looked away from the carnage. Despite his eyes being every closed, Arthur could tell he was sickened and full of sorrow.

Vortigern's knights had done much worse than kill people here. Arthur and his knights had made sure to execute them without mercy, without kindness: they simply slaughtered the monsters in human flesh.

There was a stir; the boy was awake. Arthur gasped, and looked down at the boy. His eyes were opening slowly, blank but a strange feeling captured Arthur's heart. The boy was alive!

Before he could call out to Bedivere, anyone to help him with the boy, a voice not long for this world echoed from the throat of the boy. Arthur froze, shock gripping him just as he gripped the boy tighter.

"My...lord?" The boy asked of him, coughing slightly: red drops dotted Arthur's pristine white armor. "Is...that you?"

"Yes, it is me." Arthur's smile was small, yet genuine. The boy smiled slightly in turn.

"Have you...come to save us?" The innocent question from the boy's lips froze Arthur to his core. "Is my family safe?"

Arthur's heart felt like it had been ruptured. He had completely frozen, and his body felt if there was a disconnect between it and himself. He gulped slightly and looked over at some corpses that had not been laid to rest yet.

They had all been crowding around the boy in his arms, trying in vain to protect him from the wrath of Vortigern's soldiers. Their determination had done nothing to protect them: swords had easily slain them and would have killed the boy if Arthur and his group hadn't arrived in time.

As if viewing the world from a strange perspective, Arthur's mouth moved on its own. He was acutely aware of the sour feeling in his stomach and the way he was trembling ever so slightly but forced it away for now. Just a little while...

"Yes..." Arthur told him, then cleared his throat. "Yes, they're all safe. I'll take you to them shortly."

The boy's tired smile could illuminate a darkened cave, Arthur thought, as the boy relaxed and the last of the stress eased out of his form. This should be considered a good omen, but even though he was wearing armor and clothes underneath it, he was very sure the boy's body was going cold.

"Ah, I'll be glad to see them later. I'm just...really tired..." The boy's eyes lulled shut, his body beginning to still.

A surge of panic seeped into Arthur's body, paralyzing him in shock and hopelessness. Surely there was something he could do to save the boy. Surely he, the King of Knights and wielder of a Holy Sword, should be able to do something to save this small boy from dying!

The raw panic threatened to overthrow him, but a strange calmness washed over Arthur like a wave. He heard drops on the ground: it was raining now.

"Sleep as long as you like," Arthur told the boy, locking his sadness away. "They'll be waiting for you."

With a last smile, the boy closed his eyes and breathed his last breath. His body stilled, and the rain turned heavy.

The boy had died happy, as he should have.

And yet...Arthur was lost.

He could barely think through this, unaware of how the world kept moving around him, almost as if he was isolated in Avalon. He breathed in, heavily, steadying himself just for a little. His body trembled more, but it became firm when he exercised his will: he wiped some blood from the boy's face, and with a new and vague resolution, stood up.

"My lord?" Who was it that was asking him that question? Was it Bedivere? He couldn't tell through the haze of the rain. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to bury this boy myself." His voice was distant; for a moment, Arthur couldn't even tell it was he who had spoken. "It's the least I can do..."

It's the least I can do since I failed him and this village.

It's the least I can do because I failed.

I...failed. I promised I would protect my subjects, but I...


A cold claw grasped a hold on Arthur's heart, freezing his blood and he lost the remaining inner strength he had, barely able to keep himself up. He remembered that day clearly, as he always had. The first time he had truly failed to protect his subjects, to give them protection from anything that would want to harm them. Just like now, he realized suddenly, he...

He had failed to give them salvation.

Gawain, Galahad and many other knights he had professed to be close to had lost their lives as a result of all of this. They had all died fighting, either each other or dying like they lived: like comrades and blood-brothers.

He looked down at the silver-clad knight at his feet, impaled with his holy spear. A feeling of regret spread through him: Mordred, his 'son', another person he had deeply failed. Perhaps if he had accepted Mordred back then, when 'he' had revealed 'his' identity, this all might not have happened. As it stood, he had failed Mordred greatly as well.

He couldn't help but wonder at the irony. What a hypocrite he was at the end of it all. He had built his kingdom on the promise that at the slightest threat he would protect them, that he would do anything to keep his kingdom, subjects, and others safe. He had done so to the best of his ability against Vortigern, against Lucius Tiberius, and against other threats. He had mostly been successful: he had lost, he had mourned but he at least had protected some.

Here, he had protected none. Here, he had not saved anyone. Here...he failed them all. He had failed his kingdom, and from the death and despair he saw around him, his kingdom was gone. All thanks to him and his actions.

In that moment, it became truly apparent to him once more. Something dark clawed at his chest, and his heart froze in his chest, spreading the cold to his limbs and through his blood. He didn't want to believe it, but the truth was obvious now to him in these final moments. Recalling every moment since the beginning of the end, it became clear that he was truly responsible for Camelot falling. For Britain falling.

Banishing Guinevere and Lancelot, rejecting Mordred, and so many more decisions and actions led to his kingdom falling. He was responsible for all of this senseless death and carnage. This wasn't what he had wanted, this wasn't what he had worked towards, but all the same...

In that moment, it became truly apparent to him once more. Something dark clawed at his chest, and his heart froze in his chest, spreading the cold to his limbs and through his blood. He didn't want to believe it, but the truth was obvious now to him in these final moments. Recalling every moment since the beginning of the end, it became clear that he was truly responsible for Camelot falling. For Britain falling.

He was responsible for failing to give his kingdom and people salvation.

With a sudden and terrifying clarity, the Once and Future King truly despaired.

No tears came, no refutations or anger or bargaining. Arthur's face didn't shift expressions, staying stuck in the stone-cold face he had been wearing for months, the face of a man who had seen too much violence, death, and destruction of what he held dear. Everything Arthur had worked for was now ashes, everything he held dear was ashes, and he did the only thing that he could do since he had failed in everything else.

He accepted that he had caused all of this, and his kingdom would be gone forever more.

The once proud and strong King of Knights sagged even further into the ground, his grip on Excalibur loosening as everything started to become dark and cold. How fitting, he thought, that he would die when he had realized his role in the beginning of all of this. It was an ignoble end, but it was one he felt that he deserved.

But still, he thought as his eyes began to close, if he had one regret, one wish, it was that...

He wanted to save Britain. He wanted to save his kingdom. He wanted to save his people.

His desire, one that even at this moment couldn't deny, was still to grant salvation and peace to his kingdom and those inside of it. Through whatever means, if he could do it, he would. If he could somehow make up for this failure right here and now, then he would take that chance.

In his next life, if he could grant some salvation to people and the world, perhaps he could atone for not being able to do the same for his kingdom and people.

If he could still uphold justice...

The world suddenly stopped. The flames stopped blazing, the warriors stopped fighting, weapons froze mid-swing. All motion seemed to cease. Arthur tried to look around, wondering if this was just what happened before you die before he felt something. A cool hand touched his cheek, and despite himself, he relaxed into it: in the hell around him, it was something he could focus on before he died, making sure that he at least had something good left.

With his fading eyesight, he looked at the person who had cupped his cheek. He held his breath, and his eyes widened slightly. Even though his eyesight was failing and the darkness encroaching on him, he recognized that form. He recognized that person.

It was...

"Guinevere..." His hoarse voice called out, barely able to be heard, but he said it all the same.

Yes, it was definitely Guinevere. It had to be: even now he remembered everything about her. The beautiful clothes she wore, the bright hair she had and the vivid green eyes that sparkled like emeralds. Even her smile, a memory he had always treasured, was in the forefront of his mind.

With that came other memories, other memories of her that he treasured and kept close to his heart. Their first meeting, when they were children: when they met again, he as King and she as his bride-to-be; their wedding; that night; his wife seeing him off on quests and being right there when he returned...

This thing in front of him was identical to Guinevere in every respect. The one thing that was different was that this entity in front of him had a blank expression, looking at him curiously. How could that be Guinevere? She had always smiled, always laughed...

This thing was not Guinevere. But all the same, it gave him comfort.

"Did you seek justice, O King of Knights?" The fake Guinevere asked him. "Did you punish the sinners? Those who threatened justice?"

He was confused, surprised and anxious all at the same time. Why was he being asked these questions? What purpose did they serve? But all the same, he found himself answering.

"I did seek justice." He told it. "I sought justice and peace, salvation and protection for my kingdom and my people. In the end...I wasn't able to give it to them. I..."

Failed. He couldn't even speak that word it was so abhorrent to him. But that was the only way he could describe his role in bringing down his kingdom; he had failed in keeping his promises, he had been a hypocrite, and as such his kingdom had paid dearly for it.

He wanted to atone for failing them. For failing his citizens and friends. If he could at least, in his next life, save people to make up for his failings here and now...

The entity said nothing but the gaze it gave him showed it had seen his inner thoughts. From the point where its hand connected to his face, a cold feeling spread through Arthur's mind, body, and soul. His heart began pumping once more, his Magic Core bursting to life bit by bit, the faint roar of a Dragon echoing within Arthur's ears.

Tendrils of light began wrapping around his body like spider webs, and he felt displaced, distorted: almost as if his spirit was leaving his body. It was a strange feeling, but not altogether unpleasant, and Arthur surrendered to the comfort of the embrace of the fake Guinevere.

He failed to notice the black spreading into his body, tainting his armor, sword and everything else, as well as his eyes paling to yellow as his Core reacted to the entity and what it was spreading. He was unaware of what was happening, and even if he was aware he would not fight it. This embrace with even a facsimile of Guinevere was a true comfort in this instant.

"Rejoice, O King of Knights." The entity told him, as everything began to shine white.

"Rejoice, for your desire shall be fulfilled: you shall Hunt the sinners of the world, and deliver righteous justice forever more. This is your fate, Arthur Pendragon. To be the instrument of justice and Providence for this world. Rejoice, for this will be your atonement."

His world faded into white, and Arthur's eyes finally closed.


Arthur opened his eyes, broken from his reverie by the sound of someone calling his name. Sluggishly, the former King of Knights got up from his perch and looked to his right.

"Oi, Arthur!" A roguish voice called his name once more as the person it belonged to walked up to him. "There you are. Heh, nap time's over. Time to get the job done."

His companion was cloaked in a green vest and brown trousers as well as boots. Across his back, a strong bow was hung along with a quiver of green-tipped arrows. A green hood obscured his face, though Arthur could see the grin on his face.

"My thanks, Robin." The knight bowed his head in recognition. "I got lost in my memories for a while."

Robin merely shrugged before slapping Arthur on the back. The former King stumbled a little forward from the unexpected blow but didn't react negatively, only sighing a little. Really, Robin could be quite a trickster and a jester at times, doing things like this, but Arthur couldn't complain. Despite his eccentricities, Robin was a proficient bowman, his prowess reminding Arthur of Tristan a little.

They walked to the edge of the mountaintop, looking down at the town that Arthur had spotted earlier. It was now more dominated with torch-light and they could see the castle nearby being overrun gradually.

"We gotta take care of those people down there," Robin answered Arthur's unvoiced inquiry. "They're defying the 'natural order' after all."

Arthur nodded. That was his everpresent task; kill those who would defy the 'natural order' of the world. Even Arthur couldn't fully understand what the 'natural order' was, but he gathered some educated guesses about it over this abyss of time he called his existence.

Every time he was called for a Hunt, it was to remove something that could be construed as 'defying the world'. For example, he could be called to end a serial killer's rampage or he could be sent in order to massacre an entire city or town. The one thing these events had in common was that they were 'not lawful'- they were, in a strict sense, not endorsed by those in power and therefore they were things that broke the status quo and were criminal acts. For example, if a town rioted against its lord and it was not seen as 'acceptable' or was condoned as immoral by many people, the Wild Hunt sent him and his comrades to exterminate the cause- root, stem and all.

To earn the Wild Hunt's attention and to be exterminated... well, the implication was obvious, was it not?

Something was missing there but Arthur discarded that for now. He had to focus on this task and restrain his sympathy

He stepped forward, the smog in his hand clearing, revealing his weapon.

Excalibur was no longer the golden Sword of Promised Victory. Rather, it had been stained black, including the blade- not a black that was like sludge, but rather a shade that was akin to dark steel. Golden lines converged into engravings along the blade, forming into fairy letters and outlining the blade's guard and hilt to an extent.

Excalibur Wild: The Immovable Judgement of the Wild King.

Despite being warped from its old form, Excalibur was still beautiful. Not a traditional beauty, but rather a tragic one: Excalibur had been changed, shifted and even corrupted slightly in order to make it a more fitting tool for the Wild King. Despite that, it had resisted and still did but in exchange, had lost some of its glorious shine in exchange for becoming more an instrument of death rather than true justice.

No matter what, Excalibur followed Arthur throughout his duties despite being stained red with blood every time.

Arthur felt sadness for what had become of Excalibur, but could not deny it still had beauty. Though it didn't have its old reliability and instead was more akin to an executor's sword now, it still was an exceptional Divine Construct.

"You ready?" Robin Hood's tone was disciplined and impassive. He was no longer a jester.

Arthur nodded minutely. The next moment, they dropped off of the mountain, flying downwards towards their destination.

Towards their mission.

As the wind billowed around Arthur, as he clutched Excalibur even tighter in comfort, one thought to spread through his mind. It was a small one, but it still persisted.

Was this the atonement that he had wished for?

The Wild King did not know the answer.


Hey, guys! Sorry, it's been quite a while since my last story update, but this was too good to pass up!

This is meant to be the start of my own series of Fate short stories, as well as other branches of the Nasuverse. What does this mean? Basically, it means whatever I write that is Fate related and it isn't a story of itself will be posted here. Take this 'Requiem of the Wild King' for example I won't make it a full story but I will post bits and pieces in this collection in the future.

This kind of collection is meant to keep my muse stimulated with the various Fate/Nasuverse writings that I will write, as well as keep up my enthusiasm for a coming story I'm writing on. This collection won't be updated regularly, but rather irregularly: whenever I write something that will fit here, I'll post it.

Now, to pre-empt any questions about this first short story. Arthur as the Wild King was started by remembering that certain aspects of EMIYA were inspired by Arthur- his deadpan demeanor as well as teasing of his Master first and foremost. His somewhat nihilistic tone too as well came to mind. Therefore, I sought to create an 'EMIYA' counterpart to Arthur, in that he serves a higher being regardless of his own wishes.

Lancer Artoria Alter from Fate/Grand Order also played a part, as she mentions her legend is that of 'King Arthur who became the king of the Wild Hunt after death' instead of 'King Arthur who died at Camlann'.

That's where the similarities end. As you can tell, Arthur is resigned to his path as the Wild King and doesn't desire to exit it- he sees it as his atonement for failing his kingdom. In addition, the Wild Hunt as an entity functions very differently to Alaya or Gaia.

Whereas the former preserves humanity and the latter preserves the planet, the Wild Hunt is really indifferent. It doesn't care about protecting humanity nor protecting the world. All it cares about is 'the natural order'.

Allow me to explain: the Wild Hunt obeys but one rule- to execute sinners, any and all of them. Anything that constitutes as a 'sinner' to the Wild Hunt would be someone that defies the 'natural order', which means anything and anyone that defies a common belief of the people of the world at the time the sin was committed.

For example: back in the middle ages people were expected to be loyal to the King, or rather their lord and ruler. If the people committed a rising against their lord, regardless of what his personality or actions were if the consequences would be dire enough the Wild Hunt would get involved.

Another example would be regarding a serial killer in modern day: if they were well-known and they quite obviously violated morality or the laws, they would be executed by the Wild Hunt and its dogs.

The concept of the natural order gets distorted depending on the time that the Wild Hunt pays attention to. Essentially, in terms of Alignment, the Wild Hunt is 'Lawful' and seeks to eliminate anything and anyone that isn't 'Lawful' in terms of alignment. Whether they are Good or Evil doesn't matter, except in certain circumstances.

I'll be making a Servant Sheet for Hunter/Wild King Arthur soon enough and post it accordingly.

I hope you guys enjoyed this first short story. Look forward to the future parts!