===Artoria===
Standing upon the small stone balcony that extended from her study, Artoria rested both hands on the weathered railing and gazed across the lands of Camelot.
For nearly two years she had searched every village, fortress, and forgotten ruin across southern Britain, chasing rumors and broken trails in the desperate hope of finding her daughter.
Every lead had ended the same way, with nothing.
Once Godrick and Lancelot returned with Marquess Grasso, however, everything would change.
The south would finally be secured, allowing her to march north with the full strength of Camelot behind her.
If Mordred still lived, then Artoria swore she would tear apart every fortress in Britain until she found her.
Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the cold stone until her knuckles whitened.
Looking back over the past two years, she could not deny the truth.
They had made progress, but it had been painfully slow, scattered across too many fronts and too many enemies.
The Warlord had always remained just beyond her reach, always leaving another trail to follow, another town to liberate, another ally to rescue.
It was no longer enough.
Something had to change, because she could feel time slipping through her fingers.
A knock echoed from the study behind her, pulling her from her thoughts.
Moments later the door creaked open, and a young messenger hurried inside before dropping to one knee.
“My King,” he said, bowing his head.
“Sir Lancelot has been sighted riding toward the castle.”
Relief washed over her, followed almost immediately by anticipation.
“Thank you,” she replied before turning without another word and striding briskly through the study.
As she crossed the threshold, she allowed herself the smallest of smiles.
“Let a new chapter begin in our fight, Warlord,” she murmured quietly to the empty air.
She made her way through the corridors and emerged into the immense courtyard leading toward Camelot’s great gate.
Knights, servants, and soldiers instinctively stepped aside as their king walked past, all sensing the urgency in her stride.
Reaching the center of the courtyard, she stopped and waited, her eyes fixed upon the distant road winding toward the capital.
Eventually she saw them.
The first thing she noticed was that Lancelot rode at its head exactly as expected.
Then she heard the screaming.
The cries carried faintly across the distance before growing louder with every passing second, until the source finally came into view.
“My King!” Lancelot shouted from atop his horse as he approached.
“I bring news!”
As the distance closed, Artoria’s eyes fell behind his horse, and for a moment she scarcely recognized what she was looking at.
Marquess Grasso was being dragged across the stone road by a thick rope tied around his ankles.
The enormous noble who had once stood like a mountain of flesh had been worn down into something barely resembling a man.
His body had been ground raw against countless miles of dirt and stone until nearly half his bulk had simply been scraped away, leaving behind a grotesque trail of blood that stretched back along the road toward the south.
His screams had become little more than hoarse, broken sobs.
Lancelot glanced over his shoulder before casually shrugging.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said matter-of-factly.
“We stopped about three kilometers back and had one of the healers patch him up. He should survive a little while longer.”
With a quick motion, he drew his sword and sliced through the rope.
Grasso’s legs collapsed onto the courtyard stones in a twitching heap before several horrified guards cautiously moved forward to surround him.
Lancelot swung down from his saddle without another glance at the mutilated marquess.
“Now we must leave immediately.”
He gestured toward two familiar figures walking alongside the column.
“They’ve told us where the Warlord is hiding. All they asked in return was sanctuary from her and the chance to live peacefully.”
Artoria’s gaze shifted to Anthrax and Noel.
She stared at them in silence, unable to understand why two of the Warlord’s closest followers would betray her so completely.
Before she could ask, Anthrax quietly rested a protective hand upon Noel’s shoulder.
Noel answered by placing one of her own over her stomach.
“We will decide their future later,” she said firmly.
“Tell me… where is Godrick? And where is the Warlord?”
Lancelot’s expression grew noticeably more serious.
“Godrick remained behind to finish destroying Marquess Grasso’s city. He intended to meet us on the return journey.” He paused briefly before continuing.
“The Warlord is waiting alone in a coastal city called Tyddewi. She believes her forces are still gathering.”
Artoria’s stomach tightened.
“Does Godrick know?”
“…He does.”
There was enough hesitation in Lancelot’s voice for her to know something was wrong.
“I ordered him to return and rendezvous with us before advancing on Tyddewi.”
The stable boy hurried into the courtyard leading Llamrei alongside another fresh horse for Lancelot.
The moment Artoria saw her faithful mare, she was already moving.
She seized Llamrei’s reins, vaulted effortlessly into the saddle, and wheeled the horse toward the castle gates.
“Gather every Knight of the Round Table you can find,” she ordered without looking back.
“Ride after me and meet me at Tyddewi.”
“My King?” Lancelot called after her, confusion evident in his voice.
Artoria turned just enough for him to see the fear burning behind her emerald eyes through the slit of her helmet.
“Have you ever known Godrick to walk away from a challenge?”
Without another question, Lancelot spun on his heel and sprinted toward the barracks, shouting orders before he had even reached the doors.
Artoria dug her heels into Llamrei’s flanks.
The magnificent mare exploded into motion, iron shoes hammering against the stone roadway as she raced toward Camelot’s open gates.
“Come on, Llamrei!” Artoria cried, leaning low over the mare’s neck as the wind whipped her cloak back and forth.
The horse answered with another burst of speed.
“COME ON!”
The gate guards barely had time to throw the massive doors fully open before horse and rider thundered past them like an arrow loosed from a bow, disappearing down the western road as the setting sun painted the sky the color of burning gold.
===
Llamrei had been running for what felt like an eternity.
Sweat darkened the mare’s once-pristine white coat, and every powerful breath came harsher than the last, yet she never once slowed of her own accord.
She could feel the desperation flowing through the reins, hear the urgency in Artoria’s voice every time her rider urged her onward, and so the faithful mare gave everything she still possessed.
Her hooves thundered across the countryside in an unrelenting rhythm, carrying them over hills, streams, and winding roads until she seemed almost more spirit than horse, a white blur racing beneath the evening sky.
Even then, Artoria’s heart screamed that it wasn’t enough.
She could feel Llamrei nearing her limits, yet every instinct within her begged the mare for just a little more.
At last, the ridge overlooking Tyddewi rose before them.
Llamrei crested it in one final surge, and the instant the city came into view, Artoria felt the breath leave her lungs.
There was no city.
Homes had been reduced to splintered rubble.
Entire streets had simply ceased to exist, replaced by enormous scars gouged into the earth.
Smoke drifted lazily toward the heavens while shattered stone and broken timbers lay scattered across the landscape like the remnants of some ancient cataclysm.
“No!” Artoria cried, driving her heels into Llamrei’s sides.
The exhausted mare obeyed without hesitation.
They galloped through the ruined streets as Artoria searched desperately in every direction.
“GODRICK!”
Her voice echoed through the silent city, but nothing answered.
To her right stretched a trail of utter devastation unlike anything else in the city, a corridor where the earth itself had been torn apart.
Great slabs of bedrock had been ripped free, trees had vanished entirely, and the ground looked as though two gods had chosen that place to wage war.
Without hesitation she pulled Llamrei toward it.
The closer she rode, the greater the destruction became, until finally she reached what could only have been the battlefield itself.
Massive pillars of broken stone jutted from the earth at impossible angles, and at one such stone, she found him.
“Godrick…” She said, though there was no reply.
She threw herself from Llamrei before the mare had fully stopped and sprinted across the broken earth, her boots slipping over loose stone as she raced toward the lone figure resting against a great boulder overlooking the sea.
Only when she drew close did she slow, her trembling hands reaching up to remove her helmet before it slipped from her grasp and landed forgotten upon the ground.
He heard her approaching.
His head lifted only slightly, as though even that tiny movement required every ounce of strength he had left.
Artoria dropped to her knees beside him.
His left hand was gone, leaving only a blood-soaked stump.
Deep cuts covered nearly every inch of his battered armor, while the exposed skin beneath bore wounds too numerous to count.
His left cheek had been carved open almost to the bone, and the eye above it had turned a cloudy, lifeless white.
Yet none of that compared to the wound in his chest.
Clarent remained buried deep within him, piercing through the place where his armor had once been strongest.
The metal surrounding the blade had not merely been broken, it had melted away entirely.
Beneath it she could see burned muscle, shattered ribs, and blackened flesh still faintly smoldering around the crimson sword.
Since entering Tyddewi she had felt two familiar magics lingering over the battlefield.
She had once wielded both Clarent, and Caliburn, and knew exactly what both swords were capable of.
The fact that Godrick still breathed after taking the full force of Clarent’s Phantasmal power bordered on the impossible.
Caliburn still rested loosely in his trembling right hand, the legendary sword beginning to fade from existence as it returned to the lake.
Every violent shiver of his hand threatened to make him drop it.
Each breath came as a painful wheeze, his lungs struggling against his injuries.
“Godrick?” she whispered.
When he finally recognized her, a small smile appeared on his bloodstained face.
“Mother…”
She quickly slipped an arm around his shoulders, gently leaning him against her own body.
“I’m here,” she whispered, already fighting back tears.
“It’s alright now. I’m here.”
He smiled again.
She carefully eased Caliburn from his trembling fingers before taking his hand in her own.
“If… if we can get the healers here…” she began desperately.
A faint squeeze interrupted her.
“Not… this time…” he whispered.
Artoria lowered her head against his own.
He drew another painful breath.
“Din… Eidyn…”
She frowned.
“Din Eidyn?”
“…She’s… there…”
“Mordred?”
He managed the faintest nod.
“They’re… holding her… in Din Eidyn…”
His voice weakened with every passing word until it was scarcely more than a breath carried away by the sea wind.
Artoria wrapped both arms around him and rested her forehead against the crown of his head once more.
“I’ll find her,” she whispered.
“I promise. I’ll bring her home.”
A peaceful smile spread across his face.
“Good… Good…”
For a long time they simply sat together, watching the sun descend toward the western sea.
Gold gave way to crimson, crimson faded into violet, and the waves below crashed endlessly against the cliffs.
It was beautiful.
Beautiful enough that, for just a moment, Artoria almost forgot where they were.
Then his breathing changed.
Each breath became shallower than the last.
The trembling that had wracked his body since she’d arrived slowly began to fade.
She looked down.
“Mother…”
“Yes?”
“…Are you… disappointed… in me?”
She gently brushed away the single tear that escaped his eye before cupping his face and bringing it into the crook of her neck.
“Never,” she whispered, her voice cracking beneath the weight of her grief.
“Never, my little cub. I have never been more proud of you. You became everything I ever hoped you would.”
A tiny breath escaped him.
“…Ah…”
Silence lingered between them before he gathered the strength for one final thought.
“When… you find her…” He paused, struggling for air.
“…don’t… be angry with her… all we… ever wanted… was… to be… your Knights…”
His chest rose and fell once more.
Then… silence.
Artoria sat frozen.
She waited for another breath.
When none came, something inside her finally gave way.
“My little cub…”
Her voice broke into a sob as she gathered him against her chest, cradling him exactly as she had when he was a child.
She rocked him gently, tears pouring freely down her face as she buried her cheek against his hair.
“My little cub… please… please don’t leave me…”
The “King’ who had stood against invading armies, slain monsters, and united a fractured kingdom wept openly over the body of her son.
She did not know how long she remained like that.
Eventually, another person knelt quietly beside her.
Looking up through tear-filled eyes, she found Morgan.
Morgan simply lowered herself beside her sister and bowed her head, mourning silently for the son she had also come to love.
Several yards behind them stood the Knights of the Round Table.
Morgan had stopped them before they reached the battlefield, preserving the secret of Artoria’s identity.
Yet distance could not hide Artoria’s grief.
Every knight heard her cries.
Every one of them knew.
After what felt like an eternity, Artoria gently laid his body upon the earth.
Morgan carefully withdrew Clarent from his chest while Artoria rested her forehead against his one final time, tears falling freely onto his peaceful face.
Eventually she forced herself to stand.
She retrieved her helmet and slowly placed it back upon her head before turning toward the waiting Knights.
Lancelot stepped forward first.
“My King,” he said quietly, “allow us to carry him home. Let Camelot give him the farewell he deserves.”
Unable to trust her own voice, Artoria simply nodded.
Without hesitation, the Knights of the Round Table knelt together and gently lifted Godrick onto their shields.
None of them suggested using a wagon.
None wished to burden a horse with the task.
They would carry their brother home themselves.
Morgan approached a moment later, carrying Clarent alone, and Caliburn had already disappeared.
She silently placed the legendary sword into Artoria’s waiting hands before taking her place beside her.
As the long procession departed the shattered remains of Tyddewi, the Knights bore Godrick upon their shoulders, carrying him mile after mile toward Camelot with unwavering resolve.
Artoria and Morgan rode behind them in silence while the last rays of the dying sun disappeared beneath the western horizon.
The war had finally come to an end.
Camelot had won.
But as Artoria watched her son’s body carried home by the men who had loved him as she did, she found herself unable to think of victory.
All she could think about was what it had cost.
===
Hundreds of funeral pyres stretched across the broad valley beneath Camelot, each one bearing the body of a soldier who had fallen during the final battle against the Warlord.
Families gathered around them in solemn silence, mothers embracing children who would never again know their fathers, widowed wives clinging to one another through quiet sobs, and siblings standing shoulder to shoulder as they stared at the bodies of their brothers who would never again rise.
The cool evening breeze carried with it the scent of fresh timber, flowers, and death, while priests and priestesses walked among the fallen, whispering final blessings for those about to begin their last journey.
Before long, torches began appearing one after another throughout the valley, their warm glow illuminating the countless faces marked by grief.
On the hill overlooking the castle, where the two siblings once spent their free time, stood the largest pyre, reserved for the knight who had slain the Warlord and ended the war.
Artoria, Morgan, Lancelot, and several other members of the Round Table stood before it in respectful silence.
Morgan had spent nearly the entire day preparing Godrick’s body, washing away every trace of blood and dirt before carefully dressing him in clean white burial robes.
His golden hair had been combed neatly, and despite the terrible wounds he had suffered, she had done everything within her power to restore dignity to his appearance.
Looking upon him now, Artoria quietly thanked her sister.
It was impossible to erase the scars of his final battle, but Morgan had given him peace in death that the battlefield never could.
According to the ancient customs of Camelot, each person would place a meaningful possession upon the pyre.
The offering was believed to accompany the departed into the next world, a final gift from those left behind.
Fire would purify the body, returning it to the earth, and when the flames had finished their work, the ashes would be gathered and laid within a stone tomb where future generations could remember the fallen.
Agravain stepped forward first.
Without speaking, he laid the bent halberd Godrick had ruined years earlier during one of their brutal training matches at the young knight’s side.
The weapon had never been repaired.
Agravain had kept it all those years as a reminder of the day the stubborn young boy had first shown strength worthy of becoming a knight.
He rested a gauntleted hand upon Godrick’s shoulder for only a moment before quietly stepping back into line.
Galahad approached next.
He carefully placed the shattered remains of the old training shield he had used while teaching Godrick the fundamentals of swordsmanship beside the halberd.
Countless dents and cuts covered its battered surface, each one earned during long afternoons spent correcting the reckless swings of an eager child.
Galahad smiled sadly as memories of those simpler days filled his mind before he lowered his head in silent prayer and stepped away.
Lancelot was the third to approach.
For several long moments he simply stood there, looking down at the boy who had once followed him everywhere.
He still remembered Godrick struggling to lift a practice sword larger than himself, remembered the scraped knees, the stubborn determination, and the endless questions that never seemed to stop.
Somewhere along the years, that child had become a warrior worthy of standing among legends, and Lancelot had never truly noticed when the change had happened.
Slowly, he knelt beside the pyre.
Leaning forward, he gently kissed Godrick’s forehead as only a father could before reaching into his pouch and producing the frayed length of rope used to drag Marquess Grasso behind his horse.
“I thought you’d appreciate one last joke,” he murmured with the faintest smile.
“Try not to torment the saints too much.”
He laid the rope beside him before rising once more, his smile fading as he returned to the others. The source of this chapter is g.com.
Morgan stepped forward next, carrying Godrick’s helmet in both hands.
She carefully placed it upon his chest, positioning it between his folded arms before reaching down to brush a few loose strands of hair from his forehead.
For a long moment she simply stared at him, her expression unreadable, until she finally leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against his brow as well.
So much had changed.
Years ago she had cared for little beyond her hatred of Artoria and her desire for the throne.
Then the Warlord had appeared, plunging Camelot into chaos and forcing the two sisters who had spent years opposing one another into an uneasy alliance.
Somewhere along that long and bloody road, Morgan herself had changed.
Her resentment had slowly withered beneath the weight of greater responsibilities, until one day she realized she no longer desired Artoria’s crown, nor even her death.
All she truly wished now was to continue her research…
and to bring Mordred home.
Well.
The Warlord was dead, and their their truce had ended.
Yet Morgan felt no desire to raise her hand against her sister ever again.
Shaking herself free of those thoughts, she looked down at Godrick one final time before quietly stepping away.
At last, Artoria approached.
She stood beside her son for what felt like an eternity, unable to convince herself to speak.
His face looked so peaceful that she almost expected him to open his eyes, smile sheepishly, and apologize for making everyone worry.
How desperately she wished that fantasy could become reality.
“I promise,” she whispered, her trembling hand brushing gently across his hair.
“I will bring Mordred home.”
Her voice caught in her throat.
“She will know what you gave for her. She will know of your sacrifice.”
From beneath her cloak she produced the upper half of Godrick’s broken halberd.
Carefully placing it against his chest, she gently folded his remaining right hand over the weapon before stepping back.
It looked as though he still stood ready to defend Camelot, even in death.
Lancelot silently handed her a burning torch.
Turning toward the gathered knights, Artoria lifted the flame high before speaking.
“This night… we remember those who gave their lives for their people.”
She slowly approached the pyre.
“This night… we remember the terrible price that victory demands.”
The torch descended until its flame kissed the dry wood beneath Godrick’s body.
The fire eagerly caught, slowly spreading through the carefully stacked logs.
“This night…” she whispered, “…we remember.”
“A soldier,” Lancelot said quietly.
“A friend,” Galahad followed.
“A brother,” Morgan said.
Artoria closed her eyes.
“A son.”
For several moments, only the crackling of fire answered them.
Then Artoria spoke once more.
“He brought ruin upon every enemy who threatened those he loved. Let history remember him not only for the battles he fought, but for the family he died protecting.”
She looked into the growing flames.
“This night, we remember… Godrick, the Knight of Ruin.”
The fire surged higher, swallowing the pyre in brilliant orange and gold.
Across the valley, hundreds of other torches touched waiting wood as well.
One after another, funeral pyres burst into flame until the entire countryside shimmered beneath a sea of fire.
From a distance it looked as though the valley itself were aflame
For more than an hour, no one spoke.
The only sounds were the endless crackle of burning timber, the whispering wind, and the occasional cry of a grieving mother or widow somewhere among the countless pyres.
One by one, families finally began to depart, leaving their loved ones to complete their final journey.
Eventually only the castle guards remained, watching over the valley to ensure the flames burned until dawn and that no wandering soul disturbed the sacred rite.
Only Artoria, Morgan, and Lancelot remained at Godrick’s pyre.
Morgan turned toward Lancelot.
“You may go,” she said quietly.
“We will remain here tonight.”
She looked back at the fire.
“We’ll make sure he’s safe.”
Lancelot studied her for a long moment before giving a respectful bow.
“Lady Morgan. My King.”
He understood there was nothing more to say.
As his footsteps faded into the night, the two sisters found a small stone near the burning pyre and sat alone beneath the stars.
They said nothing as they watched the flames dance across the stacked wood in complete silence, lost within their own memories they would never share with another soul.
After a time, something caught Morgan’s eye.
Tiny blue motes shimmered within the orange flames, drifting upward like glowing fireflies before vanishing into the night sky.
They seemed strangely out of place amid the ordinary fire, but Morgan merely frowned in quiet curiosity and continued watching, unaware that the impossible had already begun.
===Godrick===
“Godrick.”
The voice echoed through an endless silence, calm and absolute, carrying with it a strange authority that allowed no room for disobedience.
It stirred him from the darkness, and slowly he opened his eyes.
He found himself standing within a colossal library unlike anything he had ever imagined.
Towering marble pillars disappeared into a ceiling so high it faded into shadow, while countless shelves stretched beyond the limits of his vision, each one overflowing with books, scrolls, and records that seemed as ancient as time itself.
Soft blue light drifted lazily through the vast hall like floating stars, illuminating polished marble floors that reflected the endless sea of knowledge surrounding him.
The place felt impossibly still, as though time itself had ceased to exist.
Hovering before him was a brilliant blue sphere encircled by several slowly rotating halos.
It possessed no face or body, yet Godrick could feel an overwhelming intelligence studying him.
“Follow.” The orb said before floating away.
hesitatantly, he obeyed.
His armored footsteps echoed softly across the marble floor as the orb drifted ahead, his eyes wandered across the endless rows of books.
No matter how far he looked, the library continued without end.
“You stand within the Throne of Heroes,” the orb said, its voice devoid of warmth or malice.
“My designation is Alaya. I oversee the Heroic Spirits that dwell here.”
The words meant nothing to him.
“You are deceased.” It said simply.
“You have been recorded upon the Throne. Your life, deeds, and sacrifice have qualified you for preservation as a Heroic Spirit.”
Before he could even begin to process those words, an overwhelming torrent of knowledge flooded into his mind.
It was as though entire lifetimes were being forced into his consciousness in the span of a heartbeat.
He learned of the Holy Grail Wars, Masters and Servants, Noble Phantasms, Mana, Heroic Spirits, and the seven standard classes.
None of it was explained.
He simply knew it, as if the knowledge had always existed within him.
When the torrent finally subsided, he stood silently, allowing the impossible amount of information to settle in his mind.
“You possess compatibility with several established classes. Your greatest compatibility is Berserker. However, your Spirit Origin is unsuitable for that designation.”
The halos surrounding the blue sphere brightened as they spun faster.
“A new class has been authorized.”
The library itself seemed to vibrate.
“Juggernaut.”
The single word echoed endlessly through the halls.
“The Juggernaut exists for one purpose. To protect a Ruler class Servant. Parameters exceeding conventional Heroic Spirit limitations have been assigned to your Saint Graph. Your strength, endurance, and combat capability have been elevated beyond the limits of standard Servants. You will stand beside a Ruler-class Servant and eliminate every threat to her person.”
As Alaya spoke, Godrick felt his very existence changing.
Every battle he had fought, every scar he had earned, every ounce of hatred, determination, and sacrifice that had defined his life seemed to be compressed and reforged into something greater.
His Spirit Origin grew heavier, denser, and stronger, until he instinctively understood that the man called Godrick had become something else.
“The Juggernaut exists to advance. The Juggernaut exists to endure. The Juggernaut exists to protect.”
“Deployment commencing.”
Before Godrick could react, the marble beneath his feet dissolved into brilliant blue light.
His body broke apart into countless glowing particles as the endless library vanished around him, leaving only the emotionless voice of Alaya lingering in the void.
The sensation of falling lasted only an instant.
Godrick opened his eyes to find himself kneeling within a barren wasteland beneath a lifeless gray sky.
A cold wind swept across the plain, carrying dust that whispered against the plates of his armor.
His knelt in his armor, and his massive halberd rested firmly in his right hand with its iron butt planted into the earth beside him.
His gaze drifted to his left arm, where fourteen crimson Command Seals crawled from the back of his hand to his shoulder in jagged patterns.
They pulsed faintly beneath his gauntlet, radiating immense magical authority.
“Hello, Juggernaut.”
The gentle voice drew his attention forward.
He saw a young woman dressed in this area’s casual clothing.
She offered him a warm smile.
“My name is Jeanne d’Arc. I am the Ruler of this Holy Grail War.”