In the end, the quest for the Holy Grail was a success—at least, if one were to judge solely by the outcome. Galahad, the most peerless and noble of all the Round Table, had finally laid hands upon the sacred vessel.
Yet, the purpose for which we sought the Grail remained unfulfilled. Upon reaching it, Galahad did not return; instead, he ascended to the heavens alongside the relic, leaving this mortal realm behind.
Furthermore, Sir Percival, who had journeyed with him, perished in the arduous process of reaching the Grail. Thus, the quest concluded with the tragic loss of two of our finest knights.
In the days that followed, Lancelot seemed shrouded in a profound gloom. It was only natural; his own flesh and blood had vanished into the light of the heavens, never to return. Such a loss would weigh heavily on any father's soul.
Seeing Lancelot in such a state brought Artoria to the forefront of my mind. That foolish King of ours—she was far too kind for her own good. She was undoubtedly sequestered away somewhere, even now, whispering to herself that their deaths were the heavy price of her own failure.
I resolved to finish my duties early this day. I would go to Artoria and offer what comfort I could. Should I bring wine? There is no balm for forgetting quite like a deep draught of spirits.
Yes, wine and perhaps a bit of food to go with it. With that plan in mind, I cleared the final parchment from my desk and hurried toward the castle kitchens.
Upon entering the larder to survey our stores, I stopped short. Here were potatoes. And there… more potatoes. Everywhere I looked, I saw only the same starchy tubers.
The entire storehouse was filled with nothing but potatoes. I blinked, momentarily stunned. How had this happened?
Only weeks ago, our stores had been overflowing with variety. Why had the diversity of our ingredients withered away to this? The one responsible for the logistics was surely—
"—Ah."
It was Percival. A pang of guilt struck me. It was his absence, his departure on the quest and subsequent death, that had left the kitchen in this state. He was the pillar that held our logistics together.
As for why the kitchen was specifically filled with *potatoes*... the blame surely lay with a certain knight whose name began with 'G' and ended in 'awain.'
I let out a short, weary sigh. I would have to make do. But I refused to prepare that monotonous mashed potato dish the potato-obsessed knight served daily. I would try something different. Fried potatoes, perhaps?
In English, they were called French fries. In the tongue of my past life, *gamja-twigim*. Those thin, crispy strips one would usually find paired with a burger.
They might appear difficult to master, but the fundamental process was quite simple. I cleaned the tubers, sliced them into thin reeds, and soaked them in water to draw out the starch. Once prepared, I submerged them in oil heated to a shimmering temperature, letting them sizzle and gold until they reached perfection.
Finally, I seasoned them with a generous dusting of salt. I sampled one as a trial; it was savory, crisp, and salty—the exact flavor of the modern comfort food I remembered.
Satisfied, I prepared a bountiful portion. Knowing both Artoria's appetite and my own, I made enough for fifteen men. It was a shame we lacked ketchup, but without the ingredients or the knowledge of its refinement, this would have to suffice.
Gathering the warm food and several bottles of wine into a basket, I made my way to the King's private study.
I knocked, and hearing a soft invitation to enter, I pushed open the door. Artoria sat at her table, her eyes weary as she looked up to greet me.
"Is that you, Eli? What brings you here at this hour?"
"I suspected you were sitting here alone, drowning in self-blame," I replied. "I came to offer a little comfort."
Artoria's expression curdled into a bitter smile at my words.
"—Is that so? But... what is that you carry?"
She gestured toward the baskets in my hands. I chuckled and produced a bottle of wine.
"Wine?" she asked.
"Indeed. Even if I tell you that this was not your fault, I know you cannot simply put it from your mind. Alcohol is the finest tool for easing the burden of memory. And as for this... hup!"
I brought out the fried potatoes. They were still radiant with heat, and a savory, irresistible aroma quickly filled the stone room. Artoria instinctively swallowed her saliva as she gazed at them. Despite her grief, her legendary appetite remained as formidable as ever.
She took a single trial bite. Immediately, her eyes sparkled with life, and she began to devour the fries with renewed vigor.
Wait... the wine was supposed to be the main focus and the potatoes the accompaniment, yet the order seemed to have been reversed. Still, seeing her look happy as she ate brought me a sense of peace.
It reminded me of a similar time—perhaps when she was still a girl learning swordsmanship from Sir Ector? I had prepared buttered potatoes for her then, as well.
"—*Cough, hack!*"
"Steady now. Eat slowly."
I poured her a goblet of wine to help her clear her throat. She took it from me and drank deeply. I followed suit, taking a cup for myself. Fried potatoes and wine... it was not a poor pairing at all.
I am not sure how much time passed, but before long, the portion meant for fifteen was gone, and the wine bottles were nearly empty. Looking over at Artoria, I saw her head beginning to loll; her eyes were spinning, and her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson.
She was well and truly intoxicated. I stood up to assist her to the small daybed in the study, supporting her swaying form as she struggled to keep her footing.
She looked up at me with hazy, unfocused eyes. I wondered for a moment if I had something on my face. Shaking off the thought, I guided her toward the bed. But as I leaned in to help her lie down, everything changed.
With sudden, unexpected strength, Artoria shoved me. Taken off guard, I fell backward onto the bed. Before I could even register what was happening, Artoria had straddled me, pinning my wrists to the mattress as she loomed over me.
Her eyes were shimmering with a strange intensity. I... what was the meaning of this!?
She lowered her head, leaning her face close to the crook of my neck. I could feel the heat of her breath against my skin. The sensation sent a shiver racing through my entire body, making me tremble.
"A-Artoria...?"
"—Eli. Until a moment ago, I was so terribly sad. I felt so wretched. I was certain that the deaths of Sir Galahad and Sir Percival were my own sins to bear."
I remained silent, listening. It seemed the walls she usually kept high were crumbling under the influence of the alcohol, allowing her true heart to spill forth.
"But right now, I am not sad. Because you are here, Eli... because you are the one who supports me, who smiles by my side. You have always been this way. Every time I was drowning in grief or hardship, you were there to consider me, to uphold me, and to console me."
She leaned closer still.
"When I am with you, it feels as though all my worries and agonies simply vanish. That is why... I wish to be by your side forever."
My eyes widened. I couldn't stop the frantic movement of my pupils as I processed her words. Artoria lifted her face to look into mine and smiled. It was a smile more alluring than anything I had ever seen, and my heart hammered against my ribs.
"Every time you smile at me, I feel as if my entire world grows bright. I feel as though my mind and my soul are being filled with you. When I look at you, my heart beats so fiercely I think it might burst. But it does not feel bad. In fact, I love it. I... this Artoria... truly loves you."
Then, she kissed me. The moment I realized what was happening, my mind ground to a total halt. Had she just...? The King? To me? Panic flared, and I instinctively tried to pull away.
However, my resistance was futile. Artoria refused to let go, tightening her grip on my wrists and pressing her body more firmly against mine. My first kiss—both in this life and the one before—had been stolen by an intoxicated King.
When she finally broke the kiss, she looked down at me, tracing her lips with her tongue. My heart began to pulse at a dangerous, frenzied rhythm. This was perilous. Truly perilous. My instincts were screaming at me. If this continued any further, my reason would surely snap. The pounding of my chest was proof of my own unraveling composure.
As she began to lean down toward my face once more, I squeezed my eyes shut tight, bracing for whatever was to come.
...........
Time passed, but nothing happened. When the expected contact didn't come, I slowly pried my eyes open.
"...Zzz..."
"......"
Artoria had fallen fast asleep, her head resting peacefully on my chest. I stared at her, a chaotic storm of emotions swirling within me. I carefully sat up, lifted her into a comfortable position on the bed, and pulled the covers over her. Then, I fled the study as if my life depended on it.
The moment I reached the corridor, my legs gave out. I sank to the floor, my face burning so hot it surely must have been glowing red. Since when? When had she started looking at me this way?
But that wasn't the real problem. I placed a palm over my own heart. It was still thumping with terrifying force. It was more than just shock; the intensity of the beat was on a level I had never experienced. I buried my face in my hands.
I had always told myself I viewed her as a sister. Yes, that's what I believed. Then what was this heartbeat? Was I, too, seeing her as a woman this entire time? Since when?
Knowing I couldn't stay slumped outside her door forever, I forced my trembling legs to move and retreated to my own chambers. I collapsed onto my bed and buried my head in my pillow. My heart refused to quiet.
I tried deep breaths. I tried thinking of the most mundane things imaginable. Nothing worked. The sun had already begun to peek over the horizon by the time I finally gave up on the prospect of sleep.
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*(Rest easy, dear reader, for the more intimate details of this encounter have been handled with the utmost discretion by the chronicler.)*