He ate simple fare. Miso soup with either dried fish or pickled vegetables. The only other thing he could ask for would be a bowl of rice or some rice balls. To Miyamoto Iori, these were the sorts of things that constituted a meal. Although nothing would seem amiss at first glance, these ingredients were actually the embodiment of insipidity. A good meal should provide sufficient nourishment for a set period of activity. Food was a resource necessary to power him through a battle, so there was no use being sentimental about it. Delicious food tasted good, and awful food tasted bad, but there was no need to assess meals by their flavor. Simple food was meant purely for consumption, and that compromised Miyamoto Iori's usual diet. Iori had never said as much, but this was the conclusion Saber had drawn after observing him over a number of days. Even if the notion wasn't entirely accurate, it was somewhere in the region of veracity. This morning was no different. Dispassionately, Iori placed the food in his mouth, chewed, and then swallowed. He neither savored the taste nor showed any reaction. If someone else praised the food, he would agree with a terse response, but that was all. As if in a reverie, he sometimes mumbled about how people must not be killed even if they were the enemy. Drastic measures might be needed to combat desperate soldiers or skilled assassins, but killing was otherwise to be avoided. However many of those perfectly seasoned rice balls he bit into, Iori failed to show even the faintest hint of a smile. In Yamato Takeru's view, a carved wooden statue was more animated than him.
"What's wrong, Saber?" "Hm..." "What?" he pressed. "You know, I think you're living a dull life." The words were spoken without guile or malice, but the statement had apparently not been received with the intended nuance. "...What brought this on? Do you not like your breakfast? It's the same food you had yesterday." "I do. It's as good as always," Saber said. "Then where's this criticism coming from all of a sudden?" "Well..." Alas, the concept had not been conveyed correctly. Although Iori's circumstances afforded him such delicious foods every morning, his blessings were squandered because he neglected to value them. He probably didn't even realize what he was missing. That must be why his life seemed so dull... Such was Saber's reasoning, but it came across more bluntly than intended, for the speaker had never been an eloquent individual. And this had happened many times before—Saber often stated conclusions without preamble. Perhaps a difference in upbringing was responsible. There had never been a need to explain thought processes leading to certain conclusions. The orders issued by the emperor and prince of that time—Saber's father and brother respectively—required only acknowledgement and action. There were no other boys or girls to play with, and the sword was soon Saber's only friend. Plainspoken tools of slaughter must be handled with care, so Saber was usually left alone. It mattered not whether they were at war or at peace. Meals like this, eaten slowly over pleasant conversation, were almost nonexistent. That routine only changed once the love of Saber's life appeared. How a sword was swung, how each breath was taken, how the sky was surveyed, how the ground was trod... Everything. It all changed. Even the taste of food, which Saber had eaten only to sustain the vitality needed to fight, changed dramatically.
"...One moment you fall dead silent, and the next you've got a stupid grin on your face. I don't understand you, Saber." "Hehe. I was just remembering something quite wonderful." "While eating?" Saber smiled softly. "It's because I'm eating, Iori."
For Saber, meals were something to be felt. The creamy luster of freshly cooked rice, the subtle sweetness in each bite...there were so many sensations to experience. It was more than just the flavor of food that touched Saber's heart. There was the warmth of the radiant midday sun, the virtue of people living in accord with the earth... Thinking on these things that should be revered and protected, Saber would always cherish the gentle smile of the one who explained what goodness truly was. However distant time might separate them, those feelings would never change. That was why Saber, a Servant with no physical need to eat or drink, yearned always for rice. By no means was any nutrition acquired from the food, but with every meal, the love Saber felt that day would flood in, refreshing mind and body. It was in every single grain of rice... ...every delectable bite... It was for this love that Saber fought.
"Mm. Tastes like home." Nodding to himself, Zheng Chenggong raised another morsel to his mouth. His Servant, Archer, simply watched as the man enjoyed his meal. "That reminds me, Archer." "Yes?" "What food did people eat back in your day? How would you evaluate it?" Zheng asked. "Cuisine is an art form established over many eras. A thousand years ago, even the techniques of our homeland would be a fair sight less developed than they are now." "Well now. For Zhou Yu, the commandery administrator of Eastern Yu himself, to say such a thing. I doubt even Cao Cao or Liu Bei would beg to differ." "That said, primitive though they may have been, the rudiments would have existed. A handful of dishes eaten today would be familiar to those in my lifetime."
As they went on with their conversation, each appraised the other with mildly guarded distrust. It hadn't been long since the summoning, and Master and Servant were only just beginning to familiarize with one another. Even during this peculiar Holy Grail War known as the Waxing Moon Ritual, the relationship between Master and Servant remained the same. Still, time and circumstance had fostered a mutual suspicion. These doubts came about precisely because Zheng Chenggong and Zhou Yu were both superb generals. Master and Servant alike wondered whether the other would make a fitting comrade in battle. A Master's power could be determined by measuring the magical energy one supplied, while a Servant's strength could be understood by observing one's aptitude. But a relationship between Master and Servant could not be maintained by these concepts alone—even if each developed confidence in the other's effectiveness, it would be difficult to trust one another outright. Zheng and Archer were both wise enough to know things could not continue as they were. To win the Waxing Moon Ritual, they would need to earn each other's trust. After a moment's contemplation, Zheng hit upon an idea. "I've a request for you, Archer. Will you hear me out?" "Hm? Are you issuing me an order as my Master?" "No, not exactly... This is something only you can do, as someone from the distant past of the same nation I hail from." "Oh?" Zheng lifted a bottle of alcohol from the desk and held it out. "Have a drink, my Servant." "Hm... Understood, my Master." Sitting opposite his Master, Archer gazed at the drink that had been poured into his cup. "This is not the liquor of our homeland; it's Japanese." Archer examined his cup closely. "There's no sediment. It seems that even spirits change with the times." "Ah, the cloudy stuff was popular in your time, wasn't it?" "Yes. Even a man of my rank would drink like any other soldier when it came time to take to the battlefield." Recalling the histories, Zheng asked, "Was it Zhang Fei of Shu who was known for his love of liquor?" "Well, that was something of a tall tale. Still, in my day, soldiers wouldn't have much time for anyone who couldn't hold their drink." "Fair enough." Archer took a sip of his drink, and his eyes narrowed in surprise. "This is excellent." "It certainly is. Isn't it fascinating how different the drink and delicacies are across one small strip of sea? The world really is full of surprises." "Indeed. It is one thing to hear it, but quite another to experience it in person..." Done with his drink, Archer looked up at the night sky and sighed. It was an expression of wonder at the mysterious beauty of this world and the remarkable sensation of being alive in it. For Archer was Zhou Yu, one of the greatest heroes to emerge from the Three Kingdoms period of yore. That single breath was sufficient to convince his Master, Zheng Chenggong, that Archer existed in this place and time in a real, physical form. Something then occurred to Zheng; he realized that ever since Archer had been summoned, he had considered the Heroic Spirit akin to a ghost. Of course, this was partially correct. Servants were records of historical figures, concepts from the past. But this Servant could enjoy a good drink and wonder at the mysteries of the world. There was no mistake that some part of him was alive. The man before him was a legendary hero, but not a god. "All right, no more standing on ceremony. Let us speak our minds!" If they could reach an understanding, Zheng would let go of his fears. He set his mind to trying to charm the clever and courageous general. After all, if he couldn't manage that much, how could he ever hope to restore his nation? "Well, I'm not certain that I have much to say..." Archer could see Zheng's efforts to break the ice. If this had been some conceited lord, like that Yuan Shu who declared himself emperor, he would have immediately distanced himself. "...But I must say, the drink isn't bad at all." Archer liked the drink, and he liked the food...and he even found himself liking this young hero before him who sought to restore a nation.
Ever since being summoned, Archer had kept his distance. But as Zheng Chenggong spoke openly before him, he felt his reservations fading, and a smile graced his lips for his Master.
For Chiemon, meals were a form of torture. The gnawing hunger that came of starvation had made Chiemon what he was. The very act of eating was repugnant to him. Still, he had to eat all the same. If one did not eat, one would cease to be human. Perhaps an accomplished mage could find a means to live without meals. With Chiemon's lack of talent, however, such feats were out of the question. He was a spellcaster with only one obsessive specialization. So he ate, his face revealing nothing of his disgust. Perhaps the man himself wasn't aware of his own revulsion. But at least, the Lancer that had been summoned, Jeanne d'Arc...she understood. She knew torture when she saw it. Food was ashes in his mouth. Every rice ball he ate dredged up unwanted memories of starvation. Even when he managed to push those thoughts aside, visions of that painful need still haunted him. Why? Why do you get to eat? Why are you still alive? Plagued by dreadful sights and spiteful whispers that would easily shatter the mind of an ordinary man, or even one of extraordinary mettle, he did not waver. It was less eating than it was stuffing food into his maw. He shoveled it in with single-minded intent. But what he was gulping down was pain and despair, rage and hatred. "What're you gawking at?" "A meal..." mumbled Lancer, but her words were interrupted by her Master's irritated voice. "What?" "A meal," she began again, this time without being interrupted, "should be a somewhat more peaceful affair, if I may say so." "Hah. You think so, do you? Well, I'm afraid I've never had a 'meal' in my entire life." The words hung in the air. Chiemon spoke the truth. He had starved from the moment he was born. So malnourished that it was a miracle he grew at all, he huddled with his family as they pleaded to be saved...as they starved...as they died. In the depths of that despair, a bitter rancor was carved into his mind. Those hunched and desperate family gatherings were not meals. Something so cruel and excruciating could never be considered such. And so, to this day, he remained confident that he would never have a "meal" for as long as he lived. He had no need for heartfelt home cooking, no concern for nutrition. They were little more than obstacles to his goals. "Don't you pray for me, Lancer. Pray for yourself all you want, but not for me." "...I know." And with that, Chiemon turned away from his Servant. He needed to recover his strength now that they were out of combat and in hiding. In other words, he had no business with her at the moment. It was up to her whether she would keep an eye out for him in her Spirit Form. "Get lost." "As you wish." Lancer vanished, quietly obeying the order. In the ruins of the Great Buddha Hall, Chiemon slumped onto his side. His hunger wasn't sated, though—the gnawing in his belly would never be satisfied. But the notion that this should feel unpleasant did not even occur to him. For him, this inherent need found in all living things was fundamentally absent.
Lying on his side, Chiemon consumed a rice ball with no inkling of its flavor. Watching over him in her Spirit Form, Lancer understood where this battle would lead. The outcome would not change. Whether Chiemon would go on to win or lose, all that awaited him was ruin. And it was his Servant's place to walk beside him on that road to destruction. Even if their efforts were seen as wrong or depraved... ...Chiemon and Lancer could conceive of no other way to live.
Chiemon had never had a meal. Not before, not now, and not ever.
"Thank you. Breakfast was delicious as always." In the cool morning light, Yui Shousetsu appeared to be enveloped in brilliance. It wasn't hard to imagine why the housemaid froze for a moment while clearing the table. She was entranced. That unblemished, alabaster skin... Those wistful eyes, glistening as if damp with the morning dew... And those ethereal lips... Shousetsu had always had pale skin, but the otherworldly beauty that radiated from it in the early morning light was known only to the housemaids and a select few disciples. Although that heavenly glamor had briefly intoxicated the housemaid, a look of dejection crossed her face next. This morning was the same. Shousetsu had hardly touched her food again. Aside from the smallest sip of soup, nothing else had been eaten. Not the rice, not the pickled vegetables, not even the lavish salted salmon. "Please forgive me. The food obviously wasn't to your liking—" "You misunderstand. I enjoyed it very much." Shousetsu's earnest eyes regarded the housemaid. "It has always been my nature to consume a modest diet. Please forgive my discourtesy every morning. I am eternally grateful to you all." The words almost sounded like the truth.
"...What a wicked Master you are." Shedding the Spirit Form, Shousetsu's Servant, Minamoto-no-Raikou, shrugged. As if observing some pathetic, shambling beast, the masked Rider watched the tearful housemaid hurry away and addressed Shousetsu. "Her love is unrequited, I expect. How cruel." Rider did have a good point. Shousetsu felt a degree of guilt over these humans, maids and students both, whose furtive glances conveyed a passion beyond friendship or allegiance. Firstly, she had not been born in a natural way. Hers was an artificial life; in the nomenclature of Western magecraft, she belonged to a subcategory of homunculus. Unbeknownst to the ones who gazed at her, she shared neither their race nor even their species. Secondly, her life... "Your time is limited more than most. If you mean to set the world aright..." "You need not remind me, Rider. I will obtain the Waxing Moon and right the wrongs of this world. That is the sole purpose of my existence." ...would be fleeting. Yui Shousetsu's body was approaching the limit of its operational lifespan. Her alleged inclination for a modest diet was a lie. It was simply that a body awaiting death had no need for food any longer. As the food could obviously not be absorbed as nourishment, she could do little but refrain from eating and hope that the leftovers would feed another.
Yui Shousetsu did not eat. For her wish to be fulfilled, she had no choice but to commit every fiber of her being to the Ritual.
Dorothea Coyett bore a strong sense of nobility. This was more than the pride of Swedish aristocrat, though. Rather, hers was the nobility claimed by a great many mages. Possessing abundant assets and vast domains, as well as wielding Mystics so powerful that no ordinary person could even fathom them, mages such as her were effectively superior beings. Perhaps for them, the title of "noble" was right on the mark. And those in superior positions must partake in suitably superior fare. Take breakfast, for example. Even while in a foreign nation of the Orient, freshly baked bread was a must. Ham, cheese, and a butter spread went without saying. "I'll have a nice gouda to go with fresh bread. Ham and butter too, of course. And I'll leave how to prepare the eggs up to you." These were the instructions she was said to have given regarding her breakfast menu the morning she decided to accompany her father, Fredrik Coyett, on his voyage to Japan. Her requests were completely unreasonable.
Bread—not an especially difficult order. Needless to say, it had to be made with pure wheat flour. This much was ordained by the house retainer, Giovanni. Bread made from rye or maize may have been a choice, with the rye variety being especially popular in the Netherlands. Dorothea, however, preferred the softness of wheat bread. And though the scale of production was less than that of rice, wheat was readily found in Japan. Compared to making castella, the ingredients for this bread were probably still easy enough to find. On the other hand, baking bread required a stove, which needed to be assembled on-site with all haste.
Cheese and butter—these presented a challenge, as dairy products were still uncommon in Japan at this time. Dairy products had come over long ago during the Asuka period of the seventh century, but the Japanese would have to wait until decades after the Keian era before dairy farming would become more popular. Considering the lengthy voyages needed to import gouda and other hard cheeses that kept well, finding even a sliver of cheese in Japan was no mean feat. As such, there was no choice but to start from scratch with milk from draft cattle.
Ham—Dorothea was especially fond of the pork variety. With the decrease in meat consumption brought about by the arrival of Buddhism, pig farming had dwindled in Japan to the point that pork had become an even rarer commodity than cow's milk. Mercifully, there was still some in the Satsuma domain. When the Satsuma invaded the Ryukyu Kingdom at the beginning of the century, they brought home many meat swine. From that point on, their culture adopted pork into the local cuisine. It was possible to make ham by importing pork from Satsuma. Knowing that the alternative would require sailing to Formosa, Dorothea's retainer was allegedly quite relived.
Eggs—the easiest to obtain of the listed ingredients. Chickens were commonly kept in Japan as an excellent means to tell the time. Because of this, eggs were easy to come by.
Thankfully, that was everything. What was little more than a single part of Dorothea Coyett's daily routine proved to be a toilsome task for many of her underlings. In the end, however, her precious, hand-crafted breakfast was complete.
"How have this morning's eggs been prepared?" "Poached, my lady." "I see." Just another morning. Following this casual exchange with the retainer, Dorothea Coyett set about gracefully eating her breakfast. After a time, she turned to address Kouga Saburou, the imposing Assassin standing nearby. "I want you to patrol a bit further afield today. We must ready ourselves for battle." She had no qualms about giving orders to a supernatural entity that could very well be considered an embodiment of Mystics. This was Dorothea Coyett's nature—a born ruler with a regal air who commanded others to fulfill her obligations to her domain and people. Such impeccable conduct, her Servant thought. If only my descendants could see this fine figure of majesty... "Was there something else, Assassin?" "No. I was simply lost in thought." "I see." Dorothea pondered for a moment and added, "I don't mean to belittle the might of a divinely endowed Heroic Spirit, but you would do well to remember that if you ever hide something from me, my magecraft will lay it bare." Assassin tittered and said, "You have such a way with words, Princess." "And stop calling me 'princess.'" She sighed and raised another bite of poached egg to her lips. "Goodness. Today's eggs are delectable."
Later, when Giovanni the retainer passed this compliment on to the chef, he was moved to tears. His children and their children would cherish this momentous day for generations to come.
"You're absolutely devouring that, Musashi," remarked Takao Dayu. From the open paper doors of the brothel's second floor, she watched the swordswoman slurp her piping-hot soba noodles with gusto atop the first-story roof. Again and again, she slurped and murmured her delight. "Soba are meant to be molded into round shapes, but you prefer to have them cut thin, don't you?" continued the courtesan with a long sigh. "...To be honest, I was planning on having udon. But I already had udon yesterday, so I changed to soba at the last minute." The swordswoman took another sip of broth, beaming. "Mm-mmm! So good!" Her name was Miyamoto Musashi, the Berserker with whom Takao Dayu had formed a fellowship. "Bet I could pass for an Edo girl now," quipped Musashi. "Eh, I would've pegged you for a Shinshu native. Thin noodles are more popular up there." "Is that so?" Berserker cocked her head pensively. It was hard to say if she'd taken the joke as intended, or if she'd simply accepted it at face value. Puffing smoke from her bamboo pipe, Takao Dayu looked into Berserker's clear eyes.
It was said that Heroic Spirits who materialized as Servants had no need for food or drink, at least according to someone Takao Dayu had spoken to shortly after encountering Berserker. That person had seemed to envy Servants' freedom from the hardships of the living, but Takao could not bring herself to agree. Food was one of life's great pleasures, after all. Just imagine: Pickled vegetables and freshly steamed rice, with miso soup on the side. What a heavenly accompaniment! With some fish—cooked or raw—to go with it, the meal would be even more delightful. And one mustn't forget to pair it all with the right liquor, of course. On nights such as these, Takao liked to enjoy a tipple of clear, refined sake between pulls on her pipe, as she watched the smoke drift lazily on the evening breeze. Denied these delights entirely, these so-called Heroic Spirits from beyond the grave seemed pitiable indeed. Mark my words, dearie. If the day comes that you take no pleasure from the foods you eat, then you've lost what makes you human. The courtesans that had come before her had drummed that notion into Takao's head. Perhaps that was why her companion felt so human even though she was a Heroic Spirit. At any rate, Berserker certainly held cuisine in high esteem. Befitting her claims of having traveled to a myriad of times and places, however, her tastes were peculiar. On a whim, she would suddenly ask permission to go as far as Ryogoku to buy meat. Or she might ask for rice balls, requesting that they be wrapped in seaweed, of all things. Once, she even wanted to drink cow's milk chilled with well water. But all in all, meals meant a great deal to Berserker.
"Even that melancholy expression can't mar your beauty, Dayu." Berserker teased, empty bowl in hand. She was probably about to head back to the stall or shop she had ordered from to return the bowl. Takao Dayu made a languid gesture with her pipe. "Don't flirt unless you're willing to back it up. What a naughty Servant you are." "I'm not a Berserker for nothing." "Is that supposed to be a joke?" Even with Berserker's humor lost on her, Takao smiled back. "Did I seem melancholy? Actually, I was thinking about you, Musashi." "...Now who's flirting?" "Hehe. Good question."
"Awful." Sighing, Tsuchimikado Yasuhiro extended his chopsticks. "Awful, awful, awful..." Miso soup, pickled vegetables, white rice, and sashimi made from seasonal fish. All of these dishes were regularly enjoyed in Edo households. And these were of a far higher quality than the food eaten by commoners. Even though they had fallen on hard times, a member of the prestigious Tsuchimikado family should never have reason to complain about either the quality or volume of his food. Had he lost his sense of taste then? ...No, he had not. There was another reason, another emotion, that explained why Yasuhiro found his meal unsatisfactory.
Basically, Tsuchimikado Yasuhiro found everything unsatisfactory. His current situation, the blockaded Edo, his poverty-stricken family... absolutely everything. However delicious the cuisine may be, if one hasn't the notion to savor the food, it means nothing. As such, to Yasuhiro, the fresh ingredients and the excellent techniques used to prepare this meal were all "awful". Still, he had to eat—less for sustenance than because eating was simply what prestigious families did. But it wouldn't do for his gripes to reach anyone else's ears. "...My Master he may be, but what a pathetic wretch." With that, Caster further detached himself from Yasuhiro. Caster's—or more precisely, Hieda-no-Are's—keen mind had plumbed the furthest recesses of Yasuhiro's heart and exposed what lay within. He was small and weak. But his pride was at least somewhat warranted. His hopes and the distaste he harbored for his current situation were undeniably heartfelt. He genuinely felt that his first-rate cuisine, the likes of which commoners could never hope to enjoy, tasted awful. The only way he could enjoy food again would be to fulfill the wish he made with the Waxing Moon Ritual. Until the Tsuchimikado clan was restored to glory and received its due adulation, he would continue thinking that everything was awful.
That was how far Yasuhiro had been driven. No matter how poised he appeared to the shogunate, no matter how much contempt he showed his enemies, there was nothing that could soothe his heart. Like a rat pursued by a tenacious cat, he was inconsolably restless and agitated. But that's how it should be, Caster thought. That sense of inferiority is precisely what is needed to seize victory in the Ritual. Caster chuckled as he analyzed Yasuhiro's inferiority complex, his arrogance, and above all, his magnificent cowardice. For in this Waxing Moon Ritual—a mortal melee of supernatural beings—victory and survival were one and the same.
Still bemoaning the awful state of things, Tsuchimikado Yasuhiro continued scheming. Deep down, he prayed that food might someday become pleasing again.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
of miyamoto iori & saber.
Miso soup with either dried fish or pickled vegetables. The only other thing he could ask for would be a bowl of rice or some rice balls.
To Miyamoto Iori, these were the sorts of things that constituted a meal. Although nothing would seem amiss at first glance, these ingredients were actually the embodiment of insipidity.
A good meal should provide sufficient nourishment for a set period of activity. Food was a resource necessary to power him through a battle, so there was no use being sentimental about it. Delicious food tasted good, and awful food tasted bad, but there was no need to assess meals by their flavor. Simple food was meant purely for consumption, and that compromised Miyamoto Iori's usual diet.
Iori had never said as much, but this was the conclusion Saber had drawn after observing him over a number of days. Even if the notion wasn't entirely accurate, it was somewhere in the region of veracity.
This morning was no different.
Dispassionately, Iori placed the food in his mouth, chewed, and then swallowed. He neither savored the taste nor showed any reaction. If someone else praised the food, he would agree with a terse response, but that was all.
As if in a reverie, he sometimes mumbled about how people must not be killed even if they were the enemy. Drastic measures might be needed to combat desperate soldiers or skilled assassins, but killing was otherwise to be avoided.
However many of those perfectly seasoned rice balls he bit into, Iori failed to show even the faintest hint of a smile. In Yamato Takeru's view, a carved wooden statue was more animated than him.
"What's wrong, Saber?"
"Hm..."
"What?" he pressed.
"You know, I think you're living a dull life."
The words were spoken without guile or malice, but the statement had apparently not been received with the intended nuance.
"...What brought this on? Do you not like your breakfast? It's the same food you had yesterday."
"I do. It's as good as always," Saber said.
"Then where's this criticism coming from all of a sudden?"
"Well..."
Alas, the concept had not been conveyed correctly.
Although Iori's circumstances afforded him such delicious foods every morning, his blessings were squandered because he neglected to value them. He probably didn't even realize what he was missing. That must be why his life seemed so dull...
Such was Saber's reasoning, but it came across more bluntly than intended, for the speaker had never been an eloquent individual. And this had happened many times before—Saber often stated conclusions without preamble.
Perhaps a difference in upbringing was responsible. There had never been a need to explain thought processes leading to certain conclusions. The orders issued by the emperor and prince of that time—Saber's father and brother respectively—required only acknowledgement and action.
There were no other boys or girls to play with, and the sword was soon Saber's only friend. Plainspoken tools of slaughter must be handled with care, so Saber was usually left alone. It mattered not whether they were at war or at peace. Meals like this, eaten slowly over pleasant conversation, were almost nonexistent.
That routine only changed once the love of Saber's life appeared.
How a sword was swung, how each breath was taken, how the sky was surveyed, how the ground was trod... Everything. It all changed. Even the taste of food, which Saber had eaten only to sustain the vitality needed to fight, changed dramatically.
"...One moment you fall dead silent, and the next you've got a stupid grin on your face. I don't understand you, Saber."
"Hehe. I was just remembering something quite wonderful."
"While eating?"
Saber smiled softly. "It's because I'm eating, Iori."
For Saber, meals were something to be felt.
The creamy luster of freshly cooked rice, the subtle sweetness in each bite...there were so many sensations to experience. It was more than just the flavor of food that touched Saber's heart. There was the warmth of the radiant midday sun, the virtue of people living in accord with the earth...
Thinking on these things that should be revered and protected, Saber would always cherish the gentle smile of the one who explained what goodness truly was. However distant time might separate them, those feelings would never change.
That was why Saber, a Servant with no physical need to eat or drink, yearned always for rice. By no means was any nutrition acquired from the food, but with every meal, the love Saber felt that day would flood in, refreshing mind and body.
It was in every single grain of rice...
...every delectable bite...
It was for this love that Saber fought.
of zheng chenggong & archer.
Nodding to himself, Zheng Chenggong raised another morsel to his mouth. His Servant, Archer, simply watched as the man enjoyed his meal.
"That reminds me, Archer."
"Yes?"
"What food did people eat back in your day? How would you evaluate it?" Zheng asked.
"Cuisine is an art form established over many eras. A thousand years ago, even the techniques of our homeland would be a fair sight less developed than they are now."
"Well now. For Zhou Yu, the commandery administrator of Eastern Yu himself, to say such a thing. I doubt even Cao Cao or Liu Bei would beg to differ."
"That said, primitive though they may have been, the rudiments would have existed. A handful of dishes eaten today would be familiar to those in my lifetime."
As they went on with their conversation, each appraised the other with mildly guarded distrust. It hadn't been long since the summoning, and Master and Servant were only just beginning to familiarize with one another.
Even during this peculiar Holy Grail War known as the Waxing Moon Ritual, the relationship between Master and Servant remained the same. Still, time and circumstance had fostered a mutual suspicion.
These doubts came about precisely because Zheng Chenggong and Zhou Yu were both superb generals. Master and Servant alike wondered whether the other would make a fitting comrade in battle. A Master's power could be determined by measuring the magical energy one supplied, while a Servant's strength could be understood by observing one's aptitude. But a relationship between Master and Servant could not be maintained by these concepts alone—even if each developed confidence in the other's effectiveness, it would be difficult to trust one another outright.
Zheng and Archer were both wise enough to know things could not continue as they were. To win the Waxing Moon Ritual, they would need to earn each other's trust.
After a moment's contemplation, Zheng hit upon an idea. "I've a request for you, Archer. Will you hear me out?"
"Hm? Are you issuing me an order as my Master?"
"No, not exactly... This is something only you can do, as someone from the distant past of the same nation I hail from."
"Oh?"
Zheng lifted a bottle of alcohol from the desk and held it out. "Have a drink, my Servant."
"Hm... Understood, my Master." Sitting opposite his Master, Archer gazed at the drink that had been poured into his cup.
"This is not the liquor of our homeland; it's Japanese."
Archer examined his cup closely. "There's no sediment. It seems that even spirits change with the times."
"Ah, the cloudy stuff was popular in your time, wasn't it?"
"Yes. Even a man of my rank would drink like any other soldier when it came time to take to the battlefield."
Recalling the histories, Zheng asked, "Was it Zhang Fei of Shu who was known for his love of liquor?"
"Well, that was something of a tall tale. Still, in my day, soldiers wouldn't have much time for anyone who couldn't hold their drink."
"Fair enough."
Archer took a sip of his drink, and his eyes narrowed in surprise. "This is excellent."
"It certainly is. Isn't it fascinating how different the drink and delicacies are across one small strip of sea? The world really is full of surprises."
"Indeed. It is one thing to hear it, but quite another to experience it in person..."
Done with his drink, Archer looked up at the night sky and sighed.
It was an expression of wonder at the mysterious beauty of this world and the remarkable sensation of being alive in it. For Archer was Zhou Yu, one of the greatest heroes to emerge from the Three Kingdoms period of yore.
That single breath was sufficient to convince his Master, Zheng Chenggong, that Archer existed in this place and time in a real, physical form.
Something then occurred to Zheng; he realized that ever since Archer had been summoned, he had considered the Heroic Spirit akin to a ghost. Of course, this was partially correct. Servants were records of historical figures, concepts from the past. But this Servant could enjoy a good drink and wonder at the mysteries of the world. There was no mistake that some part of him was alive. The man before him was a legendary hero, but not a god.
"All right, no more standing on ceremony. Let us speak our minds!"
If they could reach an understanding, Zheng would let go of his fears. He set his mind to trying to charm the clever and courageous general.
After all, if he couldn't manage that much, how could he ever hope to restore his nation?
"Well, I'm not certain that I have much to say..."
Archer could see Zheng's efforts to break the ice. If this had been some conceited lord, like that Yuan Shu who declared himself emperor, he would have immediately distanced himself.
"...But I must say, the drink isn't bad at all."
Archer liked the drink, and he liked the food...and he even found himself liking this young hero before him who sought to restore a nation.
Ever since being summoned, Archer had kept his distance. But as Zheng Chenggong spoke openly before him, he felt his reservations fading, and a smile graced his lips for his Master.
of chiemon & lancer.
The gnawing hunger that came of starvation had made Chiemon what he was. The very act of eating was repugnant to him.
Still, he had to eat all the same. If one did not eat, one would cease to be human. Perhaps an accomplished mage could find a means to live without meals. With Chiemon's lack of talent, however, such feats were out of the question. He was a spellcaster with only one obsessive specialization.
So he ate, his face revealing nothing of his disgust. Perhaps the man himself wasn't aware of his own revulsion.
But at least, the Lancer that had been summoned, Jeanne d'Arc...she understood.
She knew torture when she saw it.
Food was ashes in his mouth. Every rice ball he ate dredged up unwanted memories of starvation. Even when he managed to push those thoughts aside, visions of that painful need still haunted him.
Why? Why do you get to eat?
Why are you still alive?
Plagued by dreadful sights and spiteful whispers that would easily shatter the mind of an ordinary man, or even one of extraordinary mettle, he did not waver.
It was less eating than it was stuffing food into his maw. He shoveled it in with single-minded intent. But what he was gulping down was pain and despair, rage and hatred.
"What're you gawking at?"
"A meal..." mumbled Lancer, but her words were interrupted by her Master's irritated voice.
"What?"
"A meal," she began again, this time without being interrupted, "should be a somewhat more peaceful affair, if I may say so."
"Hah. You think so, do you? Well, I'm afraid I've never had a 'meal' in my entire life."
The words hung in the air.
Chiemon spoke the truth. He had starved from the moment he was born. So malnourished that it was a miracle he grew at all, he huddled with his family as they pleaded to be saved...as they starved...as they died. In the depths of that despair, a bitter rancor was carved into his mind.
Those hunched and desperate family gatherings were not meals. Something so cruel and excruciating could never be considered such.
And so, to this day, he remained confident that he would never have a "meal" for as long as he lived. He had no need for heartfelt home cooking, no concern for nutrition. They were little more than obstacles to his goals.
"Don't you pray for me, Lancer. Pray for yourself all you want, but not for me."
"...I know."
And with that, Chiemon turned away from his Servant. He needed to recover his strength now that they were out of combat and in hiding. In other words, he had no business with her at the moment. It was up to her whether she would keep an eye out for him in her Spirit Form.
"Get lost."
"As you wish."
Lancer vanished, quietly obeying the order. In the ruins of the Great Buddha Hall, Chiemon slumped onto his side. His hunger wasn't sated, though—the gnawing in his belly would never be satisfied.
But the notion that this should feel unpleasant did not even occur to him. For him, this inherent need found in all living things was fundamentally absent.
Lying on his side, Chiemon consumed a rice ball with no inkling of its flavor. Watching over him in her Spirit Form, Lancer understood where this battle would lead.
The outcome would not change. Whether Chiemon would go on to win or lose, all that awaited him was ruin.
And it was his Servant's place to walk beside him on that road to destruction. Even if their efforts were seen as wrong or depraved...
...Chiemon and Lancer could conceive of no other way to live.
Chiemon had never had a meal. Not before, not now, and not ever.
of yui shousetsu & rider.
In the cool morning light, Yui Shousetsu appeared to be enveloped in brilliance. It wasn't hard to imagine why the housemaid froze for a moment while clearing the table.
She was entranced.
That unblemished, alabaster skin... Those wistful eyes, glistening as if damp with the morning dew... And those ethereal lips...
Shousetsu had always had pale skin, but the otherworldly beauty that radiated from it in the early morning light was known only to the housemaids and a select few disciples.
Although that heavenly glamor had briefly intoxicated the housemaid, a look of dejection crossed her face next.
This morning was the same. Shousetsu had hardly touched her food again. Aside from the smallest sip of soup, nothing else had been eaten. Not the rice, not the pickled vegetables, not even the lavish salted salmon.
"Please forgive me. The food obviously wasn't to your liking—"
"You misunderstand. I enjoyed it very much." Shousetsu's earnest eyes regarded the housemaid. "It has always been my nature to consume a modest diet. Please forgive my discourtesy every morning. I am eternally grateful to you all."
The words almost sounded like the truth.
"...What a wicked Master you are."
Shedding the Spirit Form, Shousetsu's Servant, Minamoto-no-Raikou, shrugged. As if observing some pathetic, shambling beast, the masked Rider watched the tearful housemaid hurry away and addressed Shousetsu. "Her love is unrequited, I expect. How cruel."
Rider did have a good point.
Shousetsu felt a degree of guilt over these humans, maids and students both, whose furtive glances conveyed a passion beyond friendship or allegiance.
Firstly, she had not been born in a natural way. Hers was an artificial life; in the nomenclature of Western magecraft, she belonged to a subcategory of homunculus. Unbeknownst to the ones who gazed at her, she shared neither their race nor even their species.
Secondly, her life...
"Your time is limited more than most. If you mean to set the world aright..."
"You need not remind me, Rider. I will obtain the Waxing Moon and right the wrongs of this world. That is the sole purpose of my existence."
...would be fleeting.
Yui Shousetsu's body was approaching the limit of its operational lifespan.
Her alleged inclination for a modest diet was a lie. It was simply that a body awaiting death had no need for food any longer. As the food could obviously not be absorbed as nourishment, she could do little but refrain from eating and hope that the leftovers would feed another.
Yui Shousetsu did not eat. For her wish to be fulfilled, she had no choice but to commit every fiber of her being to the Ritual.
of dorothea coyett & assassin.
This was more than the pride of Swedish aristocrat, though. Rather, hers was the nobility claimed by a great many mages.
Possessing abundant assets and vast domains, as well as wielding Mystics so powerful that no ordinary person could even fathom them, mages such as her were effectively superior beings. Perhaps for them, the title of "noble" was right on the mark.
And those in superior positions must partake in suitably superior fare.
Take breakfast, for example. Even while in a foreign nation of the Orient, freshly baked bread was a must. Ham, cheese, and a butter spread went without saying.
"I'll have a nice gouda to go with fresh bread. Ham and butter too, of course. And I'll leave how to prepare the eggs up to you."
These were the instructions she was said to have given regarding her breakfast menu the morning she decided to accompany her father, Fredrik Coyett, on his voyage to Japan.
Her requests were completely unreasonable.
Bread—not an especially difficult order.
Needless to say, it had to be made with pure wheat flour. This much was ordained by the house retainer, Giovanni.
Bread made from rye or maize may have been a choice, with the rye variety being especially popular in the Netherlands. Dorothea, however, preferred the softness of wheat bread. And though the scale of production was less than that of rice, wheat was readily found in Japan. Compared to making castella, the ingredients for this bread were probably still easy enough to find.
On the other hand, baking bread required a stove, which needed to be assembled on-site with all haste.
Cheese and butter—these presented a challenge, as dairy products were still uncommon in Japan at this time.
Dairy products had come over long ago during the Asuka period of the seventh century, but the Japanese would have to wait until decades after the Keian era before dairy farming would become more popular.
Considering the lengthy voyages needed to import gouda and other hard cheeses that kept well, finding even a sliver of cheese in Japan was no mean feat.
As such, there was no choice but to start from scratch with milk from draft cattle.
Ham—Dorothea was especially fond of the pork variety.
With the decrease in meat consumption brought about by the arrival of Buddhism, pig farming had dwindled in Japan to the point that pork had become an even rarer commodity than cow's milk. Mercifully, there was still some in the Satsuma domain. When the Satsuma invaded the Ryukyu Kingdom at the beginning of the century, they brought home many meat swine. From that point on, their culture adopted pork into the local cuisine.
It was possible to make ham by importing pork from Satsuma. Knowing that the alternative would require sailing to Formosa, Dorothea's retainer was allegedly quite relived.
Eggs—the easiest to obtain of the listed ingredients.
Chickens were commonly kept in Japan as an excellent means to tell the time. Because of this, eggs were easy to come by.
Thankfully, that was everything.
What was little more than a single part of Dorothea Coyett's daily routine proved to be a toilsome task for many of her underlings. In the end, however, her precious, hand-crafted breakfast was complete.
"How have this morning's eggs been prepared?"
"Poached, my lady."
"I see."
Just another morning.
Following this casual exchange with the retainer, Dorothea Coyett set about gracefully eating her breakfast. After a time, she turned to address Kouga Saburou, the imposing Assassin standing nearby.
"I want you to patrol a bit further afield today. We must ready ourselves for battle."
She had no qualms about giving orders to a supernatural entity that could very well be considered an embodiment of Mystics. This was Dorothea Coyett's nature—a born ruler with a regal air who commanded others to fulfill her obligations to her domain and people.
Such impeccable conduct, her Servant thought. If only my descendants could see this fine figure of majesty...
"Was there something else, Assassin?"
"No. I was simply lost in thought."
"I see." Dorothea pondered for a moment and added, "I don't mean to belittle the might of a divinely endowed Heroic Spirit, but you would do well to remember that if you ever hide something from me, my magecraft will lay it bare."
Assassin tittered and said, "You have such a way with words, Princess."
"And stop calling me 'princess.'" She sighed and raised another bite of poached egg to her lips. "Goodness. Today's eggs are delectable."
Later, when Giovanni the retainer passed this compliment on to the chef, he was moved to tears. His children and their children would cherish this momentous day for generations to come.
of takao dayu & berserker.
From the open paper doors of the brothel's second floor, she watched the swordswoman slurp her piping-hot soba noodles with gusto atop the first-story roof. Again and again, she slurped and murmured her delight.
"Soba are meant to be molded into round shapes, but you prefer to have them cut thin, don't you?" continued the courtesan with a long sigh.
"...To be honest, I was planning on having udon. But I already had udon yesterday, so I changed to soba at the last minute." The swordswoman took another sip of broth, beaming. "Mm-mmm! So good!"
Her name was Miyamoto Musashi, the Berserker with whom Takao Dayu had formed a fellowship.
"Bet I could pass for an Edo girl now," quipped Musashi.
"Eh, I would've pegged you for a Shinshu native. Thin noodles are more popular up there."
"Is that so?" Berserker cocked her head pensively. It was hard to say if she'd taken the joke as intended, or if she'd simply accepted it at face value.
Puffing smoke from her bamboo pipe, Takao Dayu looked into Berserker's clear eyes.
It was said that Heroic Spirits who materialized as Servants had no need for food or drink, at least according to someone Takao Dayu had spoken to shortly after encountering Berserker. That person had seemed to envy Servants' freedom from the hardships of the living, but Takao could not bring herself to agree. Food was one of life's great pleasures, after all. Just imagine:
Pickled vegetables and freshly steamed rice, with miso soup on the side. What a heavenly accompaniment! With some fish—cooked or raw—to go with it, the meal would be even more delightful. And one mustn't forget to pair it all with the right liquor, of course.
On nights such as these, Takao liked to enjoy a tipple of clear, refined sake between pulls on her pipe, as she watched the smoke drift lazily on the evening breeze. Denied these delights entirely, these so-called Heroic Spirits from beyond the grave seemed pitiable indeed.
Mark my words, dearie. If the day comes that you take no pleasure from the foods you eat, then you've lost what makes you human.
The courtesans that had come before her had drummed that notion into Takao's head.
Perhaps that was why her companion felt so human even though she was a Heroic Spirit. At any rate, Berserker certainly held cuisine in high esteem. Befitting her claims of having traveled to a myriad of times and places, however, her tastes were peculiar.
On a whim, she would suddenly ask permission to go as far as Ryogoku to buy meat. Or she might ask for rice balls, requesting that they be wrapped in seaweed, of all things. Once, she even wanted to drink cow's milk chilled with well water.
But all in all, meals meant a great deal to Berserker.
"Even that melancholy expression can't mar your beauty, Dayu." Berserker teased, empty bowl in hand. She was probably about to head back to the stall or shop she had ordered from to return the bowl.
Takao Dayu made a languid gesture with her pipe. "Don't flirt unless you're willing to back it up. What a naughty Servant you are."
"I'm not a Berserker for nothing."
"Is that supposed to be a joke?" Even with Berserker's humor lost on her, Takao smiled back. "Did I seem melancholy? Actually, I was thinking about you, Musashi."
"...Now who's flirting?"
"Hehe. Good question."
of tsuchimikado yasuhiro & caster.
Sighing, Tsuchimikado Yasuhiro extended his chopsticks. "Awful, awful, awful..."
Miso soup, pickled vegetables, white rice, and sashimi made from seasonal fish. All of these dishes were regularly enjoyed in Edo households. And these were of a far higher quality than the food eaten by commoners.
Even though they had fallen on hard times, a member of the prestigious Tsuchimikado family should never have reason to complain about either the quality or volume of his food. Had he lost his sense of taste then? ...No, he had not.
There was another reason, another emotion, that explained why Yasuhiro found his meal unsatisfactory.
Basically, Tsuchimikado Yasuhiro found everything unsatisfactory.
His current situation, the blockaded Edo, his poverty-stricken family... absolutely everything. However delicious the cuisine may be, if one hasn't the notion to savor the food, it means nothing.
As such, to Yasuhiro, the fresh ingredients and the excellent techniques used to prepare this meal were all "awful".
Still, he had to eat—less for sustenance than because eating was simply what prestigious families did. But it wouldn't do for his gripes to reach anyone else's ears.
"...My Master he may be, but what a pathetic wretch."
With that, Caster further detached himself from Yasuhiro. Caster's—or more precisely, Hieda-no-Are's—keen mind had plumbed the furthest recesses of Yasuhiro's heart and exposed what lay within.
He was small and weak. But his pride was at least somewhat warranted. His hopes and the distaste he harbored for his current situation were undeniably heartfelt. He genuinely felt that his first-rate cuisine, the likes of which commoners could never hope to enjoy, tasted awful.
The only way he could enjoy food again would be to fulfill the wish he made with the Waxing Moon Ritual. Until the Tsuchimikado clan was restored to glory and received its due adulation, he would continue thinking that everything was awful.
That was how far Yasuhiro had been driven.
No matter how poised he appeared to the shogunate, no matter how much contempt he showed his enemies, there was nothing that could soothe his heart. Like a rat pursued by a tenacious cat, he was inconsolably restless and agitated.
But that's how it should be, Caster thought. That sense of inferiority is precisely what is needed to seize victory in the Ritual.
Caster chuckled as he analyzed Yasuhiro's inferiority complex, his arrogance, and above all, his magnificent cowardice.
For in this Waxing Moon Ritual—a mortal melee of supernatural beings—victory and survival were one and the same.
Still bemoaning the awful state of things, Tsuchimikado Yasuhiro continued scheming. Deep down, he prayed that food might someday become pleasing again.