Well, after 2 months and nearly 55,000 words, Fate/Zero Eos is ready to be published. In the fashion of Fate/Zero, I tried to preface the characters by making long prologues-but it turns out that these characters required a lot more fleshing out than I thought, and as it turns out, all 55,000 of these words are of character backstories. Having amassed enough of them, though, I should be able to manage a month's worth of weekly updates. Of course, the progress will slow once I have to write new content (After all, College involves a lot of work, and I'll likely have to stop on normal weeks to prepare for Finals and midterms), but for now, I hope new readers and readers from Fate/Nightmare Apatheia can enjoy this work!
Before this, though, I would like to start off with a few notes.
1. The footnotes () are not necessary to the plot. You don't have to read them, and I usually explain what I happen to be explaining at the end. It just provides backstory and information for anybody who might be looking deeper into whatever I happen to be saying.
2. This Story will be two-pronged. As the prequel to Fate/Nightmare Apatheia, this story is aimed at ending at the Status Quo that is the case in F/NA. As such, while there are interactions, there is not one overarching plot, but rather two parallel plots that eventually condense into one plot. As such, I ask for a little patience. It'll take a while, but it'll happen.
3. Probably should be #1, but this is a Prequel to HeavyValor's Fate/Nightmare Apatheia, another Code Geass - Fate/Stay Night Crossover. While it probably could work as a standalone fanfiction, it introduces characters that are present in F/NA and is generally geared to follow the rules of F/NA. While you can read this as its own fanfiction, I would suggest that you read it concurrently with F/NA, which follows Fate/Stay Night's concurrence with Code Geass (FateZero Eos follows Fate/Zero's concurrence with Code Geass)
4. Some of the dates have been changed. To begin with, both HeavyValor and I are kinda iffy about the ATB system, since according to the ATB system all of Code Geass would already have happened in the 1960s by our calendar. Moreover, to allow the Second Pacific War and the Fourth Heaven's Feel (Holy Grail War) To coincide, there is a 7 year gap between F/NA and F/ZE that will be explained later. Please keep this in mind.
5. Fate/Zero Eos is based on Fate/Zero, the prequel to Fate/Stay Night. It's not hard to find the original of this in english translation-Baka-Tsuki offers a complete translation, and the second half of the Fate/Zero Anime is airing now. There are parts that I really needed to incorporate in the Prologues with a nearly identical plot to prologues in Fate/Zero, and to those who notice it and to Kinoko Nasu and Urobuchi Gen, I would apologize, but their importance to the story is so vital that I had to maintain them. As such, please do not expect major appearances from Emiya Shirou and co.
Well, that's about it, so for now, please enjoy Fate/Zero Eos! - Mr. Sparkles
"Every man carries the seed of his own death, and you will not be more than a man.
You will have everything; you cannot have more…"
-Mary Stewart, The Hollow Hills
April 592 A.T.B. 
Camelon, Modern day Republic of Scotland
It was a bright day, warm and relatively dry for a Scottish April.
Normally, farmers would have been out, noisily tending to their fields and discussing the latest village gossip.
Today, the only sound that could be heard was the wind that whistled through the uncountable spears and banners of two silent armies.
On one side, the pennants flashed silver and blue, the silver cross on the blue sky.
On the other, the banners glowed in scarlet and gold Dragon of the Pendragons on red background.
Standing in front of their individual banners and surrounded by their retainers, knights stared across the battlefield, trying to spot the banners of former friends and acquaintances.
On the day of battle, there were no grandiose promises or lighthearted banter, no dreams of heroics on either side. There was only a grim somberness.
This was not a simple war between enemies—it was also a war between friends, many of whom had fought with each other for years.
None of the knights dreamed that they could resolve this battle through negotiation. They were career military men, and once the horns of battle blew, they knew they, like everyone else, would fight for their lives, killing all in their way.
And yet they mourned.
For every man slain in this war would be a brother.
This was not a noble battle between nations, but a kinslaying within a nation.
The lines of silver and blue parted as a figured rode out from a central tent, guarded by four knights in silver armor and cloaks of blue-and-white.
Each knight wore a sword by their side and held a lance in their hands, each with a thin pennant of blue and silver attached, each with a different design.
Only some of the German Mercenaries did not recognize the uniforms and armor of the Knights of the Round Table.
And, in their center, the diminutive figure that rode out in armor of Blue and Silver could only be King Arthur Pendragon himself.
Murmurs of respect rose on both sides of the battlefield—some grudgingly, other devoutly, but all sincerely.
After all, this was the boy king who had led them for decades.
And here he was, not a day older from the day that, scorned by his brother, he drew the Sword from the Stone.
An Italian Mercenary in the ranks of the red and gold voiced the opinion of many of the other non-britons when he said, "he's smaller than I imagined."
They would never say it aloud, but even some of the Britons agreed. Every time he rode to the front, many a knight doubted if this young boy, who had not even grown facial hair, had truly led Britain.
Yet even now, an air of regal kingship emanated from his simple but functional iron armor.
And yet, whispered some of the older knights in the ranks of blue and silver, was not King Arthur weaker than ever?
Where was Sir Kay, that rash but devoted foster brother who had always been on the King's side? Dead, his body mangled in battle in a faraway land.
Where was Sir Lancelot, the Black Knight and the mightiest of Arthur's knights? In exile, forever estranged from his lord.
Where was Sir Gawain, the White Knight, and the only man who was Lancelot's equal? Dying, having been struck in an old wound dealt by Sir Lancelot, when the Queen Guinevere's betrayal turned these dire friends into enemies.
Of the four knights that guarded the King (Sir Lucan, Sir Sagramore, Sir Bedivere and Sir Percival), only Sirs Bedivere and Percival had been with the King during his greatest adventures, and only Sir Bedivere had been with him from the beginning.
All of Uther Pendragon's old guard and the King's peers were dead, most of them having fallen in the King's 10 years of service.
Yet the king had never cried or shown any grief, not even once. Unchanging and unaging, he went on, to the next battlefield, to the next enemy.
Battle after battle he fought, and man after man fell in his service.
The loss of fathers, sons, brothers and husbands struck family after family.
And gradually, the eternal youth that the King's people praised as vigor, the unemotional pragmatism the people praised as devotion, the efficiency with which he defeated enemies the people praised as singlehearted patriotism changed.
The King's youth was now iron rigidity, unchangeable like the King's features.
The King's lack of emotion was now apathy, the marks of a king so enamored with his nation that he had forgotten the nation's people.
The efficiency of his victories and his willingness to abandon whole villages for the right moment, the perfect battle, was now mercilessness.
And so the hearts of the king's men drew away from their king.
When even his closest associates, his queen and greatest knight fled from him, he found himself completely alone.
And now this lonely king rode out to defend a country that no longer understood him.
"King Arthur Pendragon, rightful ruler of Devon, Logres, Wales and Lothian, requests the presence of usurper Mordred for a parley!" The call, almost womanlike, echoed across the silent field for a moment before the opposing lines split.
On the other side, a company of riders issued. Wearing red cloaks over their plate armor, they stopped fifty meters from King Arthur's riders. From their center came a figure whose face was obscured by a familiar, two-horned mask—the mask of Sir Mordred the Crimson Knight, the most promising of the younger knights. At his side were four knights whose splendor was equal to that of King Arthur's own knights of the round table.
After all, they HAD been knights of the round table. There was Sir Pellias, a commoner-born knight whom Sir Gawain had betrayed in love; Sir Graveth, whose four brothers had died when the King had failed to deliver the siege of their castle; Sir Plenorius, who had matched Sir Lancelot for hours before yielding in combat; and Sir (and king) Melians, who had served King Uther and whose nation had been devastated by foreign invasions.
"Mordred of Britannia, Knight and Defender of the People of Britannia, presents himself," the masked knight called back.
For a moment, the two sides stared at each other, the two groups of bodyguards staring impassively.
Finally, King Arthur began.
"Mordred the Crimson Knight, you have violated the oath you swore on the day I dubbed you as Knight of the Round Table. You have taken up arms against your liege in his time of need. You have fought and killed fellow knights, and you now turn your sword against your sovereign in your lust for power. When I was in France, fighting for this land, you stole my throne and killed my men. This disloyalty should be rewarded with death. What say you in your defense?"
For a moment, Mordred said nothing.
"…It is true," he started finally, "that I am a traitor. But I am a traitor to a man, one man. You, King Arthur, are a traitor to a nation. What you equate to Britannia is you, not Britannia's people. You have brought suffering to countless families, made many wives into widows and children into orphans.
Your crimes are far more heinous than mere betrayal.
For your safety, you allow enemy invaders to trample on our land, betraying those villages and towns that waited in vain for their sovereign.
For victory, you hurl your men into impossible battles while you seize the prestige.
And for what?"
"—For country," the King replied curtly. "What I do is for Britannia. And what about you? You, Mordred, who is pursuing this war for your own personal grievances against me?"
"…personal grievances?" There was no longer simply dignity now in Mordred's voice. There was a distinct note of anger. For a moment, the other knights felt him glower underneath his mask. Slowly, he reached towards his helmet as the other knights let out a collective breath of disbelief. Mordred the Crimson Knight had never removed his helmet in public. Yet here he was, about to remove that helm that many had by now conceded to be Sir Mordred's face. Slowly, he pulled the helmet off.
There was a stir of shock among the knights, but the King remained impassive in the face of the features he had seen once before—in fact, much more than once.
For, underneath, grey-haired but quite recognizable, was the face of King Arthur.
There were a few differences, but this was clearly King Arthur, a little more youthful and yet a little older. The expression on Mordred's face, a livid anger, stood at odds with the King's impassive expression.
"Personal Grievances? Perhaps I have some personal stake in this, King Arthur," Mordred said in a forcibly suppressed voice, "but I was not the man who took the Armies of Britain over the channel in order against a man such as Lancelot. I was not the one started the grudge whom your own foster brother and so many others died for, far away from home. I am not the one who would scorn that which came from his flesh and blood—"
He stopped midrant. On both sides, the knights had long since frozen, their expressions shocked and puzzled, unsure of what was going on. And yet in response to his tirade, King Arthur simply looked at him with his emotionless eyes. Neither forgiving him nor judging him, neither loving him nor hating him.
The same way he would look at a tree—as something that he could never understand or relate to.
For some reason, that angered him more than anything.
"…this parley is over," Mordred managed, his voice constricted as he put his helmet back over his face.
"We will meet again on the battlefield," he said as he turned his horse around.
With his helmet on, none of his knights could have noticed the tears that stained the inside of the helmet.
Nor could they have heard him whisper "father" as he rode back into the waiting ranks of his men.
He remembered the first time he had seen the King.
That day when the Knights of the Round Table had returned, battered but proud, from their victory over the Germanic Saxon invaders.
On that day, Mordred had been allowed out from his studies in his tower. Escorted by his mother, he had looked down at the golden-haired boy-king, somehow still resplendent while caked in dirt and blood.
That King who had driven back the invaders none could halt yet again.
Mordred loved the king. He loved his quiet dignity, his strength, the way he epitomized the knights that he led. Loyal, unswerving, unerring.
On that day, his mother had patted his head.
"Do you want to be like our king, Mordred?"
On that day, Mordred had nodded happily, hopefully.
"Stay with me, Mordred. Allow me to train you, to raise you. Work hard, focus on your studies, live and grow in time, you will become our king, Mordred.
Nay, you may even surpass him."
From that day on, Mordred threw his everything into his studies. He never shrank before any adversity, never said no to a challenge. He tried to be like the king, the man he idolized.
A knight, his mother said, did not crave recognition by face—he should seek recognition by his works. And so, clad in the anonymous mask that had been made for him, Sir Mordred fought.
It was his mother, Arthur's half-sister Morgan Le Fay, who recommended him to the King—but it was utterly unnecessary, for Sir Mordred, the Red Knight, was surely the purest knight save the King Himself.
He would allow no injustice to occur in front of him. He was courteous to all women, many of which became his admirers—though he gently rebuffed their advances, afraid that they would lead him astray from his knightly obligations. He knew that though he was a man of war, his duty was to uphold peace. Many times, he would seek the peaceful resolution where he would lose honor.
Some knights disliked the fact that he would choose a peaceful negotiation over war and deplored his willingness to abandon chivalry and the code of honor for the good of the common people.
But to the commoners, he was a champion, the man who put his pride below the welfare of the people.
Unlike the King, who only returned with the corpses of their family, the Crimson Knight brought peace to the fields.
Yet, gradually, Mordred noticed something. For one, he grew like no other. While his childhood friends remained children, he was an adolescent, a young adult. And there was also the face that looked back at him in the mirror—the face that looked so much like the man he idolized.
Finally, he confronted his mother on his identity.
And that day was the greatest day in his life.
"You are not simply the nephew of the King, Mordred," his mother had said. "You are his son, a homunculus made of his flesh and blood."
Through obtaining the king's seed, his mother had created him, an alchemic being whose shorter and more rapid lifespan is compensated with exceptional physical and mental augmentations.
And though the fact that he was a false being scared Mordred, it made him proud. For he was the flesh and blood of the man he idolized, his true son. And given that Queen Guinevere had yet to bear the king a son, Mordred was truly the Heir to the man he loved and respected the most.
He imagined the King would be overjoyed. Here, finally, one of his greatest knights would reveal himself to be his son, and he would become a father. And they would consummate their love be father and son, the greatest heroes Britannia had known, and would ever know.
The next day, he sought the King in private. With impatience, he waited through the meeting of the Knights of the Round Table. He felt proud, elevated above his peers. For whom of them, whether it was Sir Lancelot or Sir Gawain, could claim to be a son of the king himself?
When the meeting was over and the knights had dispersed, it was night. Under the light of the moon, he eagerly removed his helmet in front of his king, his father.
He saw the shock on his father the King's face, the face that would surely turn to joy.
And yet, for all of Mordred's exclamations of joy, the King's expression of shock was replaced by the same serene expression the king always held.
"You…you cannot be my son, nor are you my heir," he had said.
And, at that moment, Mordred staggered backwards, as if the king had thrust a lance through his heart.
All his hopes and dreams, his image of his father, his pride—all of it was shattered by that single sentence.
The King refused to acknowledge him, his true son.
On that day, Sir Mordred had said nothing. He had ridden quietly back to his estate, and he held all his tears until he was back in his bedchambers and alone.
But he felt as if life was no longer worth living.
The radiant reunion he had envisioned had been replaced by cold rejection.
The King he loved had rejected him.
And gradually, his sorrow turned into anger, and then hate.
It was not the King who had rejected him.
It was he who rejected the king.
And, as he thought about it, he saw that the king he had loved and idealized was an illusion.
There was no love in this King's serene smile. There was only contempt, contempt at the fawning pawns that he would sacrifice at a moment's notice to win a battle.
There was no greatness in the King's conquests. With each battle came the bodies, each delivered rotting and surrounding by flies to fathers, mothers, children, siblings, all of whom still chanted "Long Live the King" through their tears.
Queen Guinevere's infidelity confirmed Mordred's fears. Armed with his knowledge of the Queen and Sir Lancelot's treacherous adultery, he brought her before the Knights, enforcing justice.
Yet, King Arthur simply ordered the queen's execution, leaving his favorite knight, Lancelot, unguarded and unpunished. The Black Knight was too powerful and important for the King to harm, it seemed.
And so, unguarded, it was the Black Knight who descended against the Knights of the Round Table at the Queen's Execution, who cleaved the Round Table apart as he separated the heads of Sir Gaheris and Gareth from their shoulders.
And King Arthur, finally driven to action, pursued Lancelot into France. He took the men of Britain to an overseas nation to fight a war motivated simply by a grudge against one man. Each of those who fell died not for their nation, but for King Arthur's grudge. And it was on the fields of France that Sir Mordred realized.
King Arthur was slowly driving Britannia into the ground.
Disillusioned, he returned with many of the knights to Britain when Arthur continued on to Rome.
One day, he walked into the King's Hall in Camelot, empty save for the ragged blue and white banners of the King, deserted in those six months of war.
Year after year, the splendid halls of Camelot grew emptier as knight after knight perished in King Arthur's wars; as farmers were separated from their hoes and fields to fight in the King's wars.
Britannia was on a road to its own destruction.
Mordred could see the starving populace, reduced to begging and servitude once the King inevitably died.
He could see the tears of the children as their fathers were drawn into unwinnable wars against hordes of invaders, of knights slain on the field of battle.
It pained him.
And then Mordred saw a new future, a brighter future.
He saw the King's Hall once more, draped not with blue and white, but with the radiant Red and Gold of his own armor and shield.
He would sit on that throne, a king who would bring peace to Britain and defend it from its foes, regardless of the costs. He saw himself administering a new justice, a kinder, more peaceful justice. He saw Britannia strong, an empire that would fill not simply the Isles, but distant lands and the Continent.
He would advance on Rome like a new Constantine (Author's Edit: Charlemagne wasn't born yet). He would be crowned as the Holy Roman Emperor, the defender of the faith.
He would lead this Holy Empire of Britannia past the Persian Heathens, into the Orient, from Ocean to Ocean, a peaceful land of peace, prosperity and strength.
He would succeed where his father had failed.
It was true that King Arthur's reign was a mistake.
But it was Sir Mordred's wish—nay, duty to fix that mistake.
And so, empowered with his reputation and influence, he started the revolution. Abandoning his old red-and-gold shield, he made a new flag—the old Dragon of Uther Pendragon, superimposed in gold on the red Sky, a new banner for a new Britannia.
He found allies—those who had been wronged by the king, who had lost much in the King's many wars, whose injustices had been ignored for politics.
And finally, he started the revolution.
Many were still loyal to the King—but many followed Mordred as well.
For "with Arthur was none other life but war and strife, and with Sir Mordred was great joy and bliss."
He and his men had triumphantly marched on Camelot, and it was there that he walked into the halls.
Sir Gawain, the marshal, was no challenge, still weakened from the wound he had suffered in his duel with Sir Lancelot. The old knight stood no chance against the heir to the King.
It was there, in the halls of Camelot, that he drew out Clarent, the Sword of Peace. Where King Arthur brought Excalibur, the Sword of War, with him to his many campaigns, he had left Clarent, the Ceremonial sword used in knighting, in Camelot. The sword made not to smite enemies, but to defend friends. The sword he should have always wielded.
And it was with the sword of peace that Mordred united his men against King Arthur, the man who had killed so many of his own people.
And it was Clarent that Mordred held in his hand now, as he waded into the sea of enemies.
Silent as ever, Mordred swung Clarent downwards, cleaving through the armor of a Knight in Blue and Silver. He felt the plate armor give way as Clarent cleaved though sinew. With a smooth step forwards, he separated the greatsword from the corpse as he charged another knot of knights.
And then, finally, Mordred spotted the large banner of King Arthur, White Cross and Silver Stars on the Blue Sky.
Among the dead and dying, he could spot the King, fearless as ever as he cut down Sir Pellias over Sir Percival's body.
Without another word, he charged towards the King's banner—and then rolled to the side as a halberd slammed down where his head would have been.
"On Guard, traitor," Sir Sagramore said levelly as he calmly twirled the halberd in his hands. Mordred paused. A Byzantine Prince, Sagramore had journeyed to Britain to join Arthur, and he had been one of Mordred's greatest supporters when he was being considered as a Knight of the Round Table. For many years, Mordred had considered him a friend.
Yet Mordred knew that this Sir Sagramore would show him no mercy.
"Sir Sagramore…will you not yield? For Britannia? I don't wish to fight you."
"…Words are useless, Sir Mordred," Sagramore responded. "I wish to fight you."
With a forwards step, Sagramore charged forwards, his halberd swinging upwards in a fierce uppercut that Mordred parried with Clarent. Ignoring Sagramore's attempt to swing back his halberd, Mordred took a step closer with Clarent, inside the reach of the halberd blade. The two clashed again—but with a close center of leverage, Mordred easily parried the shaft of Sagramore's blade. Only the superb craftsmanship of the greatsword prevented it from dulling as it impacted once more with the shaft.
Switching Clarent to one hand, Mordred suddenly stepped closer, punching Sagramore in the face with his gauntlet. Covered in metal, the armored first impacted into Sagramore's face, and he stepped back, blood gushing from his nose. The moment of hesitation was more than sufficient for Mordred, who finished his swing. Sagramore's armor held for a moment, and then bent and then shattered, allowing Clarent's ornamental blade to shear through flesh and armor.
The Byzantine man fell to the ground, defeated.
Yet the battle had not been lost on King Arthur's guard, and Sir Lucan charged forwards to stop him.
They were all in his way, all obstacles between he and the King.
But Mordred didn't care. He would chase after the king no matter what, come hell or high water, and not even a thousand men could stop him.
He would chase the King endlessly if he had to.
Because, deep in his heart, he still held onto hope.
The forlorn hope that, when he won, the King would admit defeat.
That the king would finally admit Mordred as a son.
In his heart, Mordred knew that if that would happen, he would cast aside the crown and his sword in an instant.
Just for that man to, just once, call him "son."
Sir Lucan fell, mortally wounded as Mordred finally found himself face to face with King Arthur.
Even now, he watched him with an expression of disinterest, neither understanding nor seeking to understand him.
"Prepare yourself, King Arthur!"
Mordred raised Clarent in front of him as he waited for the King to stand guard. With his other guards all in their own battles, there was nobody who could now stand between Mordred and the King.
Arthur was not holding Excalibur, his usual sword—instead, he held Rhongomyniad, his spear.
Mordred smiled inside. Instead of fighting him as an equal, the King had opted to choose the tactically superior option, the spear. The King evidently knew of and feared his prowess with the blade. In a way, the king had acknowledged him.
And so, finally, father and son met on the battlefield, fire on ice. Confidently, Mordred rushed into the battle.
And yet, he did not instantly disarm the King. The King's prowess on the battlefield was not undeserved, and charge after charge was negated by the point and shaft of the King's Spear.
Every enthusiastic charge was dashed like a wave on the unchanging iceburg of King Arthur's expressionless face with no result.
And gradually, Mordred's enthusiasm gave into impatience, and then rage.
Each of Mordred's attack's was parried, nothing more.
Once again, the King was ignoring him.
He wasn't treating him as a threat, just something that had to be blocked.
And that enraged Mordred.
"…is that it?" he managed between breaths as he stepped away.
The King gave no response, simply staring evenly back.
"Is that all you have to show, King Arthur? Don't you hate me? For what I've done to your knights? To your Conquests?"
The king said nothing, simply staring back calmly.
"Don't you hate me? Or is this another fight of yours, another calculated victory?"
And yet the king remained silent to Mordred's prodding—and finally, Mordred felt his anger reach his limit. Charging forwards, he swung viciously, a blow that forced King Arthur back two steps with the strength of the onslaught.
"Look at Britannia now! It's people are tired, its fields lie barren, it's wealth is exhausted—Because of YOU!" Mordred snarled as she charged forwards to close the gap between them.
"IF YOU HAD RECOGNIZED ME AS YOUR HEIR, I COULD HAVE FIXED THAT! I WOULD HAVE BROUGHT PEACE TO THIS LAND, AND YOU WOULD BE REMEMBERED AS THE KING WHO UNITED IT!" Mordred stabbed forwards with Clarent, blocked at the last moment as the King backpedaled, struggling to deflect each strike.
"WHY? WHY WOULD YOU NOT ACKNOWLEDGE ME? EIGHT YEARS I HAVE FOUGHT IN YOUR SERVICE, NEVER WAVERING!"
Another Blow, blocked once again with trembling hands by the spear shaft.
"EIGHT YEARS I HAVE BEEN YOUR MOST LOYAL KNIGHT, THE ONE WHO HAS NEVER FAILED YOU—IS IT BECAUSE OF MY MOTHER THAT YOU HATE ME? IS IT BECAUSE YOU CAN'T ADMIT SOMEONE WITH YOUR TALENTS? WHY?"
The King's face was not impassive anymore—and Mordred saw something—was it fear?—in his eyes. And it heartened him. With an almighty sweep, he finally sent the King to his knees. Breathlessly, he stepped back.
"WHY DO YOU NOT RECOGNIZE ME, ARTHUR PENDRAGON? WHY DID YOU NOT EVEN CALL ME SON EVEN ONCE? DID YOU HATE ME, THE SON OF MORGAN, THAT MUCH?"
The King's silence was absolute, like a death sentence. And, with a yell, Mordred charged forwards, raising Clarent to strike the final blow—
—and then he felt a hot coldness enter his stomach.
Without stopping, as if unafraid of the strike, King Arthur charged forwards, driving the head of the spear through Mordred's stomach as he closed in, step after step. With what strength he had left, Mordred slashed with Clarent—he felt it cleave through armor into flesh before it fell from his numbed hands. The greatsword clattered loudly-and then split, the blade snapping into two in between King and knight. For a moment, they stared at each other, unaware of the loud silence around them on top of that hill of swords.
Slowly, a crack ran across Mordred's helmet. Stricken by hundreds of glancing blows, the iron helmet given him by his mother split apart, falling to the ground, and he was face to face with the man he loved and hated the most.
"I…I have never hated you," the King said.
"Not once did I despise you," King Arthur continued slowly.
Mordred was lost for words.
"There was only one reason I would not give you the throne.
You didn't have the capacity of a King."
And, as Mordred looked into the King's eyes, he saw something else—and though his expression was the same as always, what Mordred saw was not impassivity. It was sorrow. Regret. Pain. The pain of watching a thousand knights and close friends fall around him—the pain of watching a burning farmhouse, a widow and her children. The weight of a thousand decisions, each of which held a thousand lives on the line. All of the things that had been in those eyes that he, behind his mask, had never once seen.
And, impaled by his own father, Mordred realized that, all this time, King Arthur had truly been fighting for him and Britannia.
He realized too late. Mordred knew that he was dying—the coldness that spread form his chest was testament to that.
But at least one time.
Weakly, Mordred raised his hand.
Slowly, his hand moved towards the King's face.
He didn't notice the tears that slid down his face.
He didn't ask for atonement, or for forgiveness.
At least once, Mordred Pendragon wished, I can touch the King as a son.
His blood-soaked hands reached out as he opened his mouth.
And then the last gasp of breath left his throat.
At the very end, even his smallest wish was left unfulfilled.
King Arturia Pendragon watched the young boy fall to the ground as she allowed Rhongomyniad to fall from her hands.
Another victim in her long reign as King.
Another victim sacrificed for Britain.
Without a support, she slumped down, propped up by just Excalibur, stuck into the ground nearby.
With an effort, she raised herself up—and saw a field of swords.
Normally, following a battle, the victorious warriors would gather up the armor and arms of the slain, as spoils to bring back to their homes, or as a memento for lost brothers.
But here, the corpses, swords and spears lay unmolested.
For there were no survivors to loot the dead.
Here was the full fighting force of Britain, fallen by its own hands.
Just another one of the many casualties she had caused.
Arturia Pendragon knew her time had come. This wound was not merely mortal, it was fatal.
And there would be no one left to resist the Saxons.
Camelot was lost.
Britain was lost.
And it was all her doing.
She looked up at the knight in blue and silver next to her. Sir Bedivere, tired but unbowed, held out a shaking hand.
"Your Highness, are you alright?"
Arturia looked up at him. The two had been friends on that day, both knights in training, that day where she had drawn the sword from the stone. Since that day, Bedivere's hair had greyed from a thousand battles. Scarred and haggard, he was yet another victim of her misrule.
Arturia smiled sadly.
"Yes…just a little tired."
It was morning when Arturia awoke, her back shifted against a tree.
"Bedivere…" Arturia looked up.
"Yes, your highness?"
"…Where are we?"
"…next to the Lake, by Camelot."
"…the lake where I obtained Excalibur?"
"Yes, your highness."
Arturia looked up at Bedivere. "Bedivere, take this." With limp, cold hands, she held up Excalibur, the sword with which she had won many of her victories.
Bedivere looked confused. "But, your majesty, this is your sword—"
"…It was lent to me by the Lady of the Lake. Return it to her."
"But you require this sword—"
"...Yes, your Majesty."
Three times Bedivere returned, each time claiming he had returned it. Each time, Arturia told him to return it.
"…Return it, Bedivere. Let me rest for some time."
For a moment, Bedivere looked torn—and then, finally, he nodded. "Yes, your highness."
Arturia Pendragon heard the sound of hooves fade away once more and closed her eyes.
On that day, left alone by all the older knights, she had drawn that sword without hesitation.
Had she cursed all of Britain on that day?
Had she deprived Britannia of someone perhaps better suited for the role?
For ten years, she had fought for Britain.
For ten years, she had strove against her enemies, won battle after battle.
For ten years, she had put her very soul into Britain.
Yet, it was not enough.
At the end, she had failed. Merlin, Kay, Lancelot, Gawain, Percival, Gaheris—all those around her had fallen, and now she, too, was about to fall, leaving a Britain unprepared for the next wave of Saxons.
In a way, Mordred had been right. For her own pride, she had taken her men into war after war. For her nation, she had chosen to prioritize the many over the few.
If only I had never been King…
That had to be it.
If she didn't draw that sword, another man would become king, a man better suited, one who could truly save Britain. Not a girl who carried nothing but good intentions.
Yes, that was it.
Closing her eyes, Arturia Pendragon made a prayer.
If there is a God, one who can alter my fate, I pray for all of Britannia—let me have never drawn that sword. Let me have never been King.
Let Destiny be altered.
Let this cup be taken away from me.
For the sake of all of Britannia.
Arturia Pendragon opened her eyes. She was in some kind of church or chapel. She could feel a cold breeze. She felt the chill on her skin, the weight of her sword by her side. She was in her prime, ready for battle.
Everything was as expected.
God, it seemed, had granted her wish.
She knew the fight ahead of her would not be easy.
Other heroes, many far greater than this boy-king, would take part, many with far greater reasons to take the prize.
But she would persevere.
Arturia Pendragon will change her destiny.
No matter what it takes.
And so, without hesitation, Servant Saber looked up at the individual in front of her.
Without hesitation, she said, "I ask of you—are you my master?"
Chapter Notes – for those interested
 Battle of Camlann in the 530s AD – Personally, I call bullshit on this. The term "Knight" didn't exist until the first millenia, and even in the 800's, Charles Martel's warriors might have rode on horses but dismounted for battle against the Muslim invaders at Tours. Plate Armor (armor made not out of chain mail, but of actual plates of metal like Saber's) doesn't emerge until after the hundred year's war, long after 1000 AD. The Battle of Camlann, if it existed, was never like what was shown in Fate/Stay Night. It would have been celtic warriors fighting in (at the very best) crude chain mail. But since Elevens clearly don't know shit about European history we'll go with the Nasuverse version.
 Totally not awkward – it's kinda weird, and Kinoko Nasu was a little awkward about it too. Apparently, to create an heir, Merlin and Morgan Le Fay worked together to give King Arturia a male reproductive organ for a short time, at least enough time for which Morgan could obtain the genetic material to create Mordred. My question is how she never noticed enough to ask Merlin "hey, what about that time you gave me a dick?" I'm not going to imagine how it worked out, but I won't write about it.
 Le Morte D'Arthur – quoted from Le Morte D'arthur, the book by Thomas Malory that helped to popularize the Arthurian legend. Malory depicts Mordred as a villain, but he still does concede that Mordred had his charms.
 Spear vs. Sword, Rhongomyniad – In fate/zero and fate/stay night, King Arthur is shown fighting the Battle of Camlann with a spear, it's not my fault. But it is true that in single combat, the spear is superior to the sword—in fact, the traditional sword is one of the weakest melee weapons, only useful if you're also decked out in plate armor. Even in the case of the Samurai of Sengoku-era japan, the traditional weapon was the Spear. There are a lot of reasons I won't elaborate, but the reason swords permeate our culture so much is that human culture has always had a fascination with swords, for well over a millenia. I won't elaborate on it too much, but my point being that the sword is actually the weakest melee weapon short of the dagger, and Saber is doing the smart thing here. For more, go here ( ht tp : / / www . streetdirectory . com / travel_guide / 13026 / education / myth_of_the_sword . ht ml )
Postface - From Fate/Nightmare Apatheia Author and this Fic's Coauthor, HeavyValor
Hey. HeavyValor here.
This is something of a mere formality, and yet it … isn't. I've been working with Mr. Sparkles for a long, long time. Not just on this fic, but on a variety of projects. Over the past year, we've been throwing around ideas, debates, and concepts on a daily basis for the Fate][Nightmare Apatheia and Fate][Zero Eos series. I never expected it to come this far, or for such a world to be weaved by the two of us. I suggested Fate/Zero Eos after Mr. Sparkles hounded me for a good month or so about the virtues of Fate/Zero. I knew that the background of F/NA was going to need major, major work, more than I could handle. With the advent of the F/Z anime (which I still haven't watched yet), a second author would be absolutely necessary. This wasn't the main reason why F/ZE exists, though.
I asked Mr. Sparkles to help me write this world because he is an unparalleled writer, an authority on both subject matters, and a good friend for nearly two decades. His knowledge of F/SN is top notch, and his grasp of the machinations behind Code Geass is impeccable. Indeed, I think Mr. Sparkles is a better writer than I am, though his slightly odd capitalization habits is a subject of much jest on my part. He has stood by my side even amidst the plethora of silly concepts for F/NA (mind-control backpacks and robot knightmares , for example). I could not ask for a better comrade in this endeavor. I sincerely thank Mr. Sparkles for being my cowriter, "ghostwriter," and primary critic for Fate/Nightmare Apatheia. I do hope you enjoy this fic, which is more of a stand-alone fic than a companion fic to F/NA, but taking both together will lead to a very satisfying experience.
I'll be a bit presumptuous and beseech you, reader, to follow my fellow writer's expedition into another facet of this war with the most intricate scale, from the single Servant and Master pair to the thousands of memories marching in the armies of the world. Read and Review, without further ado. HeavyValor out.