Fate-in time

40

It was the scent of fire and ash, a smoke that billowed upon turbulent winds like the heralding of a summer storm, wretched and violent. Plumes gathered in the air, creating a thick smog that soon descended upon the ground where it obscured visibility. Pained screams and anguished cries resonated within the smoke, accompanied by the ominous clashing of steel and flesh.

None in the area could move, they were petrified, none more so than Norvel who swallowed nervously upon sighting the figure upon the bird's back while at the same time, realizing an awful truth.
Nothing of what had been said once before had been a lie.
Yet in the face of an earnest warning, he had only shown contempt.
While he and his men were trapped and cowering within the town's keep, leaving the commoners to death, only one had stepped forward.
Norvel was a leader by blood and merit, a commander that had been tasked with leading his people towards a new life in a land more hospitable than the last. Every battle, every conflict, it was to secure the future, and yet lost in the idyllic lifestyle he had adopted ever since coming into power, much of what he once was had stagnated. It was to the point where he could hardly recognize himself.
He shuddered, fear replacing itself with the hope and courage born from watching the only one who would fight when no one else would.
Man fears not any monster but only themselves.
"Ageroth, sound the horns of Saxonia!" Norvel's eyes narrowed. "Now the lot of you, break down the doors ya trembling bastards, y'all rest only when yer dead. May the Goddess Freya bless our fortunes, and Woden welcome us to Valhalla!"
The Saxons had originally been ruled individually by a number of different tribal chiefs that banded together in times of war, drawing lots to decide on the main leader. This method of governance was vastly different from the other confederal tribes around them at the time who were ruled by Kings. As such, each tribal chief was experienced in command.
Norvel was once such a tribal chief who had carried with him the honours of such a title. He had left along with the Angles of Schleswig to accommodate land in Britain, and he wouldn't allow himself to stagnate any further.
Amidst the screaming and bloodshed of the plains, a war horn sounded from the keep that caused the people of Colchester to freeze.
A low whistle, followed by a steady pitch repeated again and again.
It was a sharp baritone that passed through all in the area, igniting the blood of a people whose culture had been based on war. The believers of the Germanic Gods, the pantheon of the World Tree known as the Aesir, the Norse Gods of Asgard.
The noise carried throughout, striking the very core of the people who knew its significance. It was the rallying call, the call to arms in preparation for a bitter war that caused the Saxons of Colchester to pick up the weapons at their feet and stand at the ready. Woman clutched onto their knives, others reaching out for splintered pieces of wood and debris still damaged from the broken buildings and homes.
Pale faced, yet firm, standing up for the future that they would create with their own hands. This was the only method they knew of to make up for the sin of killing those before them to lead a better life. Otherwise, the past deaths would have had no meaning.
Therefore, all understood that they had to fight. To follow the call of the very horn that had begun it all.
Gale was no different. Initially, he had no such thoughts of facing any sort of beast or monster, not after what he had experienced in the battle of the river Gleinn. However, now was different. His people needed him, someone with the experience of commanding armies and utilizing war tactics. Although it was true that his current skills may not prove too useful in this type of battle, it was also true that it was a better alternative than charging in blindly and dying.
Like many children, since young he had always heard of the monsters of myth and folklore from his mother and sometimes his father, and inside it had always frightened him as a child. Monsters that would take him away without a second thought, eat him whole and cast aside his remains in some god-be-damned hell hole. Yet, throughout all the gruesome tales and horror stories, one thing had always stood out.
The Songs, and the Sagas.
Those that slayed the monsters.
Heroes.
It was the same for the orally passed legend of the Song of Beowulf in his homeland, or the hero of Völsunga. It wasn't only monsters who slew man, but man who slew monsters too.
It was time to begin a new Song, a new Saga.
One about the men who fought beasts, and the Hero who led them atop a flaming bird.
"For Saxonia!" Gale yelled out, charging forward to rally the others within Colchester, leaving behind the other two who had stood near him.
Hearing the sound of the horns and seeing Gale run off in front of her, Arturia felt for the first time in a long time what it meant to lead and motivate others. She could feel and see the tenacity of the people she called her enemies; they all stopped panicking and the terror in their eyes shifted into courage.
Gale was yelling in the distance, his voice carrying a weight to it that was magnetizing. Warriors, flocked to him in waves, the disorganized lines quickly straightening out to form a defensive formation to protect the women in children from the monsters that had already breached Colchester's walls. Elsewhere, she could see it as a shower of wood erupted into splinters, Norvel and his guard charging forth with warriors that had once kept the wall's gates closed, now opened.
Through it all, there was only one constant in the fighting before her.
Shirou.
He had been fighting since the start, a black bow in his hands firing off twisted sword after twisted sword as the enemies beneath him writhed in Erfet's flames. The monsters were in disarray. For one reason or another, they were staring blankly at Shirou as he attacked them, tinges of fear and apprehension in their eyes causing them to falter. Admittedly, a part of herself enabled her to understand why. She possessed what was known as a magic core, and at the same time had the lineage of a Noble Phantasmal Species, the Dragons.
She could feel it. Something that was instinctual and causing shivers to travel down her back from the aura Shirou was releasing. It was violent, like the seal over a boiling pot threatening to explode and release what was within. For a moment even, it was as if she couldn't recognize him anymore in the fluctuating energies that surrounded him, yet that gave her all the more reason to act because Shirou was still Shirou no matter what power he may use.
After all, only one thing mattered to her over the course of her current journey and adventure.
She didn't want to lose him. No, such thoughts were already too difficult for her to bear. As such, she could only grit her teeth and push on forward.
For the one who said that he loved her.
For the one who meant far more to her than any Knight.
An ideal King must lead his people and set an example for all others to follow, but young Arturia, King's too can be the most selfish of people.
Merlin's words echoed into her mind as she watched on, her hands balling into fists. As a King she understood that her life was priceless, she alone had the ability to lead her people towards a brighter future. Therefore, she wasn't supposed to take any risks, her life too great a thing to lose before the unification of the land and peace restored. However, just as Merlin had spoken of King's being selfish, he still made one valid point.
To act out on emotion is only Human, and King's too are human.
A breath escaped her lips, a resolve entering her eyes along with a realization that perhaps not everything that she had believed a King to be may have had been true. It was with this thought, that the reserved expression on her face that she generally maintained for her image, vanished to reveal the actual concern she was feeling.
She knew that the current state of the enemy wouldn't last forever before a counter attack would soon rear its head, and by then, what was Shirou to do alone against an army. There was a reason why quantity could defeat quality, and she knew from Merlin that magic wasn't unlimited.
Her lips pursed, wanting nothing more than to charge forward, but remembering that she couldn't just leave Lancelot behind either. In the end though, her enemies decided her decision for her when they began hurling stones, objects, and magical blasts into the sky, forcing Shirou and Efret to deftly maneuver around, but even then, it was too late. After a magical blast nearly struck Shirou in the chest, he was forced to jump off of Efret's back and down into the ground to dodge.
She charged forth without thinking any further, Caliburn drawn in her hands and leaving a stunned Lancelot behind, dazed by the sheer emotion that had been on her face.
It was one of her goals, a dream that she had harboured time after time as he had protected her again and again.
Caliburn struck forth, plunging into the flesh of bipedal monster before twisting itself free in a single motion.
It was to fight by his side, and not the way she had done so in the past. Back then it had always been him leading and she following. In fact, it was even her who had always insisted that she shouldn't be left out, that she was already good enough.
Her body shifted to the left, the clang of a claw scrapping against her armour creating sparks that lit up like tiny fire-flies in the night.
The girl who stood protected at the back, and the boy who had always shielded her from harm.
No longer.
"Pierce forward and cleave the wicked,"
The Golden Sword of the Victorious, selector of Kings, shone once more with a radiance like none other.
"Caliburn!"
The light that shot forward wasn't truly comparable to Excalibur, but the two swords represented two things entirely. One was meant to choose a worthy King, the other to bring about certain Victory.
Light like glittering dust descended down before erupting into a fiery explosion that paved a way forward, bridging a path from her to him; the emotions that were driving her actions causing her face to flush from her exertion.
It was a scene completely different from the image Shirou had of the Saber he had known. In fact, the sight caused him to pause as Kanshou deflected a clawed hand.
In a way, Saber's transition from Caliburn to Excalibur in another history may have had been the turning point for the King who had no emotions. For Kings represented the foremost emotions of humanity. Arrogancy, greed, ambition, a King embodied them all, and for Saber what she had embodied was a trait known as selflessness, a King for the people that Caliburn had responded to. Yet Excalibur didn't require one to possess the worthiness of a King. It was why Shirou understood that Excalibur could one day be tarnished and blackened under the wrong hands.
Looking at Arturia now, he reaffirmed with himself that this new perspective of her personality was something that he had to protect. No matter the cost.
Power welled within him, the energy funneling in from the Ashton magic crest and towards his magic circuits. Each breath he took released a cloud of steam, the internal temperature of his body increasing with the prolonged use of his magecraft.
He pulled back Kanshou from the sinew of the monster's bones and felt Arturia's presence position itself at his back, the scent of lavender and berries entering his nose.
It was a familiar feeling, bringing back the memories of all those nights ago.
The dangers that they had faced together, and the parting that had left him far more broken than he could have had ever imagined; the only thing left, an ideal that was simply impossible to achieve.
When he moved, she followed, and when she attacked, he made sure to stay by her side.
It was the two of them fighting together amidst a flurry of claws and teeth, burst of magical blasts occasionally firing on them and forcing them to dodge.
He grabbed Arturia from behind and pulled her out of the way just as the attack neared, the explosion sending the two flying out. Eyes scanning around him in a hurry, his body instinctively pressed Arturia towards his chest, his arms wrapping around her as his back met contact with the hard earth and they began to tumble.
A muffled groan escaped his lips, but it didn't matter to him the kind of pain he had suffered as he noticed the relatively uninjured person in his arms.
"…"
Only Arturia was staring at him with a grief that caused him to falter. She didn't say anything, merely swallowed before standing up and glaring at the monsters around. Although she didn't say anything, no words could describe the type of pain she was enduring, watching someone she cared for getting injured on her behalf.
Yet no matter what Arturia may think, she would never have had been able to understand just how much more he valued her life and well being when compared to his own.
He stood up, once again taking a position to guard Arturia's back and she his own.
The monsters around were numerous. In fact, from the moment he had fallen off of Efret's back, the majority of them that had initially rushed into Colchester were called back by Gogmagog to kill him with sheer numbers. Of course, Efret would never stand by and just watch. Instead, the constant torrents and flames incinerating the enemies from the sky were all to do with Efret.
It was because of Efret that he and Arturia hadn't gotten instantly swarmed. It was also because of Efret that Gale and the others fighting desperately in Colchester were given a temporary respite; a wall of flames preventing the other Phantasmal Species form drawing nearer erected just outside the town's perimeter.
However, no matter what Efret did and how many Phantasmal Species Efret reduced to ashes, there were just too many to contend with.
It was inevitable that eventually, he and Arturia were surrounded completely.
And yet, it was in this dangerous environment that he felt a calling from within him, born from his desire to protect the woman behind him at all costs. Even if it meant one day turning his back on his own beliefs.
Ba-Bump.
The Ashton Crest glowed with a dull light before delivering with it a burst of power that thrummed from within him.
To protect something because it was more precious than anything else.
A noble sentiment that represented fully the chivalry of a Knight, and something that could be accepted.
Blue lights began dancing around him, tiny mots that resembled droplets of water with their brilliance. They coalesced in the air, hovering while the ancient aura of the Fae permeated around, causing Gogmagog and the others to stiffen.
The Fae were a race that were literal extension of the planet, the foundations of which could not even be traced by any sort of magecraft. As extensions of the planet, Phantasmal Species had never once bothered with them due to apprehension of the power and abilities they wielded.
For Lancelot however, the feeling he sensed was different. It was almost like he was in the presence of Lady Vivian once again, sitting idly by a moon-lit lake. He was captivated.
Regardless of what others were thinking or doing, Shirou himself was more focused on the sword willing itself to materialize from within him.
One that shone with the splendor of a tranquil lake, its unfading light matched only by its counter part, Excalibur.
He couldn't understand what had drawn it out, or why it was compelling him to materialize it, but he understood moments later. It was to be given only to one who could be exalted as the 'perfect' Knight. One who could put his values aside for the sake of another, just as that famed Knight had once done.
A sword appeared in his hands, and with it, the mots of blue light gathered and dispersed in a shower of dust, heralding the arrival of a weapon made by the Fae; Lady Vivian herself monitoring the situation through long-distance scrying stood up in shock, neutrality unable to be maintained while the crows in Colchester cawed in unease.
It was a sword of resplendent blue with a narrowed blade and markings etched along its shaft.
Arondight, the Unfading Light of the Lake, sword of the First and peerless Knight of the Round.
Its hilt held firmly in hand, the very demeanor Shirou had carried changed immediately. It was a disposition of a swordsman unparalleled in his time, and a cold gaze that was unforgiving towards enemies and oath breakers.
Arturia took a step back in shock, but for Lancelot, it was the turning point that solidified a desire that had birthed itself from within him. The desire to be a Knight that would set him on a long road of bitter struggle and training.
Wherever Shirou's gaze moved, Gogmagog and the others nearby couldn't help but nervously take a step back. It was as if they were on a blade's edge, any random movement enough for the reaper to take their lives.
It was an ability that Shirou alone possessed unique to his Tracing. The ability to inherit and embody the skill of a weapon's wielder down to the last detail and habit. In all manners of speaking, what Arturia and the others were seeing wasn't just Shirou himself, but a representation of Lancelot, Knight of the Lake.
The Peerless Knight of Arthurian Legend.
The sword in his hand was held in a loose grip, the sword's tip pointed towards the ground, and none dared approach.
It was only after a moment that Gogmagog collected himself that he realized that just one man was intimidating an entire army alone. Of course, Gogmagog was quick to attribute this fact to the distinct ability and oppressive aura of the Ashton line, but he refused to believe that Shirou himself was anyone capable. If not for Efret still attacking from the air and supplying constant pressure, Gogmagog was certain that Shirou and the other ants that opposed him would be dead by now.
"Go, attack!" Gogmagog bellowed, pointing forward, certain that its troubles would end the very moment the Ashton died and Efret lost its source of power.
However, things weren't going to go as Gogmagog expected.
The Phantasmal Beast that had stepped forward, strangely paused in its steps, its eyes bulging before it toppled over, blood spraying in an arc.
In the next moment, a blade was once again held leisurely in a hand.
Arturia and Lancelot stared stupefied.
Neither of the two could believe what had just happened. One moment Shirou had just been standing there, and in the next, a phantasmal beast had fallen. The swordsmanship displayed was such that the two had trouble even trying to keep up with it. Only Lancelot seemed to understand the concept of how the technique was done because it felt oddly familiar to him.
"Y-You, how?" Gogmagog muttered, seeing that the other phantasmal species around it were now even more unwilling to approach.
Shirou said nothing, expression vacant as he immersed himself in the techniques Lancelot had honed throughout his life and until his eventual fall. Arondight was telling him something. Rather than the fact that Arondight had insisted to materialize just because of a desire to protect Arturia, it was more likely that it had to do with the young Lancelot behind him. Unlike in history where Lancelot's desire to become a Knight was fostered through a chance encounter near the lake where he was raised, in the current timeline, everything had inadvertently changed.
Of course, he wasn't the one that had gotten Lancelot to accompany them, but Lady Vivian had instead, but all the same. All that mattered was that because he ended up changing things, there was the possibility that Lancelot wouldn't end up becoming a Knight; prompting the stored memory of Arondight in his armory to intervene on behalf of its previous wielder.
From the look in Lancelot's eyes, it seemed that his conjecture may hold some truth. Yet in the mean time, he didn't want Arturia to remain where she was surrounded by the enemies along with him. Furthermore, to defeat this entire army with just Arondight alone, it was too unrealistic. As such, he already had an idea of what to do after he had engaged the enemy and adjusted to the amount of magical energy available to him through the Ashton Magic Crest.
There was no longer a need to stay where he was.
He turned towards Arturia.
"Follow me," he said simply before taking a step back towards where Gale and the others had set up a defensive perimeter. Lancelot just so happened to be in that very same area, so at least it saved some further time. With what he had gleamed from taking on the Ashton Crest, time was the commodity he needed the most.
Walking with Arturia anxiously following behind him, any Phantasmal Beast that got in his way was instantly cut down as if cutting paper. The majority of them were unable to comprehend the sheer complexity of Lancelot's future sword skills and ended up dead within seconds. By that point, none dared block his path much to the incredulity of Arturia and the others who were marveling at his feat of strength.
Possessing a Holy Sword or not, all he had been using was sheer skill alone to carve a path out of the enemy encirclement, and Gogmagog could do nothing but watch. It itself was unwilling to intervene just as much as those it commanded. After all, from Shirou it could sense not only the aura of an Ashton but something more. Something all famous Phantasmal Species were exceedingly weary of.
The bearings of a Hero, the ones that slew monsters.
Recalling of the very same hero that had once slayed it centuries back and forced it to have no choice but to enter the Reverse Side of the World, a bitter taste appeared in its mouth. The experience wasn't something it wanted to endure again, not after it had just regained its freedom.
"Regroup!" Gogmagog called.
It was never a Phantasmal Species known for its intelligence, but it understood that strength existed in numbers. Even Heroes died when besieged by many.
Answering Gogmagog's call, the phantasmal species that had been attacking Gale and the others past Colchester's walls receded back in a wave. Yet none dared approach anywhere near Shirou's sword range, making him stand out that much more as he walked.
Norvel and the others didn't know what to think of such a sight when they recalled their previous display, yet Gale was different. Shirou was the man Gale had placed a bet on that could salvage the situation, and Gale's bet turned out to be a winner.
Reaching the defensive perimeter Gale and Norvel had set up, he gestured for Arturia to wait alongside Lancelot before turning to face Gogmagog and the army of Phantasmals.
Under everyone's attention, he raised Arondight up, and in the next moment, dismissed it, the sword fading away into particles.
"Will you not just return the piece of the slate and return back to the Reverse Side?" He asked once, the aura exuding from him increasing while he drew upon the Ashton Crest's power.
He got no answer in reply. Gogmagog and the other Phantasmal Species were still desperately holding onto the dying era of the Age of Gods. It was there choice, but the thing was, even if they didn't possess a piece of the Ashton slate, he couldn't let them free. For they were monsters that feasted on man.
Monsters known for their Evil, the legend of Gogmagog itself was attributed to the Giant that hunted humans in the plains and woods.
"Speak what you will Ashton, you can't do anything in the face of our numbers," Gogmagog growled, its lumbering body sending tremors through the earth.
He only shook his head.
He already knew what he had to do.
The hand that had dismissed Arondight suddenly clasped at the air, a new sword forming.
"The Evil Dragon will fall, yet you all are no Dragons, but all the same."
The particular weapon he was drawing now was one of many he could have had used with an Anti-Army designation, however, he glanced subtly at Gale and resolved himself. This weapon, and who it represented for Gale and the others was what they needed to recover from this dark time of facing monsters.
His hands grasped tightly onto a steel hilt, the blue jewel imbedded at the center radiating a blinding light.
It was a sword that was either Demonic or Holy based on the property of its user.
"All will be separated into light and shadow."
Unexpectedly, Gale, Norvel, and the others froze upon sighting the sword. In fact, they had frozen ever since the Evil Dragon was mentioned and the elusive figure of man wreathed in armour seared itself into their eyes. It was an armour that represented the foremost craftsmanship of their tribes, woven steel plate.
Oral traditions were the main method of passing down legends and myths, but even then, only one was well known throughout the Germanic Tribes.
"The world will now reach the Twilight."
Despite never having seen the sword before, they knew its name.
For it represented a Legendary Hero of Saxonia, and the other Germanic Tribes in the modern area known as Holstein.
The sword of the Hero sung in the Nibelungenlied and the Völsunga saga.
The Sword of the Hero Siegfried.
"Balmung!"
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