Fate-in time

44

Steel met steel in a shower of sparks as a hammer struck down from an anvil in a remote smithy at the edge of the town of Exeter. Beyond the smithy was a large forest the inhabitants entered just before every fall to harvest wood for the winter season. It was there that he was found and rescued by the owner of the smithery.

A hammer descended down on impure ore, hammering away to later break the material down into ingots for later use.
The hammer was in the hands of a man roughly twenty to twenty-two years old in appearance with toned muscles and skin matted with black soot. He was the man the owner of the smithery had found unconscious in the woods one fall season several years prior.
His hair was kept short, the auburn strands somewhat singed from working by a forge for too long, but the man had talent that the deceased owner of the smithery had never seen before. The way his bronze-coloured eyes could concentrate so deeply on the metal being hammered and forged was a quality rare even amongst blacksmiths.
The man stood up from where he was working to grab a towel on the counter which he used to wipe the sweat from his brow.
The man's name was Shirou, and that was just about all that he could remember.
At the back of his neck was a faint seal that was unable to be seen without thorough scrutiny, a property of shadows imbued within the runes that denoted Agatha's strenuous efforts over the years. It was she who had saved him in his time of his past crisis, but it unfortunately came at a cost.
Morgan's magic was unable to damage Shirou's brain or physical body due to his fortune of bathing in Fafnir's blood, but it didn't matter. It was a magic that sought to destroy the memories of a person instead, rendering them vegetively dead. The only method Agatha had at the time to protect Shirou was ironically to seal those very same memories away.
Leading to his current situation.
The life Shirou was living now was truly idyllic. He would forge in the day, sleep in the evening, and maintain the smithery to his full capabilities. Recently, due to the mobilization of Knights to the front lines in West and South Saxons, business had picked up considerably. Coin was no longer a problem for him, but it meant that he had less time to work on his ambition.
His current goal was to master his smithing and create a sword unparalleled throughout history. It had been the dream of the blacksmith who took him in, and he was determined to achieve it. With his natural talent in blacksmithing and the resilience of his body, he knew that he alone could brave the heat required to forge the toughest of metals. The only problem though was acquiring the metals themselves.
He didn't want to make a weapon out of ordinary steel, it needed to be unique.
Lamentations aside, his gaze shifted to his unfinished products lined at the far wall. The Knight garrison that had visited him a day prior required him to repair and help maintain the garrison's equipment for it next military campaign. In the broader picture, Exeter was just a small stop for the Knights before they would later move on. As such, he wanted to do the best he could for the men fighting for the country.
Speaking of which, he recalled the townsfolk in Exeter up in commotion about the latest news. Word was that a Knight of the Round Table, a recently created Order of Knights founded by a young King Arthur, would soon arrive in town.
Truth be told, he wasn't as exited as everyone else. He was a blacksmith. All he cared about was the perfection of his craft and besides, he didn't have much hopes of meeting such a famed individual with how isolated his location was from the town.
Fate however would play out differently.
Even though he lived in a remote location of town, he had no idea how much praise the people of Exeter had for his metallurgy. From pots, pans, knives, swords, and armours, he was undoubtably the best. Some even comparing his craftsmanship to the famed metalworks of the Iron Forge which equipped King Arthur's Order of the Wolf unit.
It was almost certain that when a particular Knight of the Round heard such talks that she decided to make her way to his residence.
In the same moment he decided to return to his smithing, a knock resounded at the entrance of his smithy before an armoured Knight walked in.
The Knight had a horned helm and donned a full suit of armour lined with red engravings that ran throughout the body. A regal waist cloth hung from the hips made of a black fabric that resembled silk.
What caught his immediate attention though, was the damaged sword in the Knight's hand. It was so thoroughly used that nicks and cracks were visible throughout its shaft and fuller.
"I heard you make good blades?" The Knight's tone was gruff, yet effeminate. "Make me one."
He raised a brow before ignoring the Knight and moving on to work back over the anvil where he was forging steel. With how busy he was, he couldn't just shift his priorities just because he was asked to. It wasn't part of his policy.
"Hey! I was talking to you!" The Knight stepped forward in displeasure.
He simply shrugged, before gesturing to a display wall. "Test them for yourself."
He watched as the Knight glared at him before moving towards the display of swords he had put out near the front of the smithy. The Knight seemed to be contemplating before picking up a sharpened Bastard Sword nearly longer than the Knight was tall and began swinging it around.
"Not bad," he heard the Knight say while developing a feel for the blade and chopping into a nearby tree. The blade cut in so deeply that half of the tree's trunk was severed through. The Knight's eyes shone. "Not bad at all."
Seeing that the Knight was appeased, he grabbed his hammer, heated up his ore, and began the process of forging. Using the heat generated from the furnace, he slowly melted the metal until it was a fiery orange in colour before placing the substance over the anvil to shape it. Based on how hard he hit, the angle he struck, the quality of the finished product would be completely different. This was why it was imperative that he concentrate.
One strike.
Then two.
Then three.
A twitch was steadily beginning to form over his mouth as he felt a gaze watching him intently. Subtly, he glanced over with his eyes.
Too close, was the first thought in his mind. The Knight was peering intently at him at a distance where he could accidently hit the Knight with his hammer. It didn't help that the Knight was leaning her face closer in, seemingly mesmerized by the glowing ore.
"Do you mind?" He said evenly.
The Knight didn't understand his intentions, more likely, probably didn't even care.
"You're pretty good at this aren't you?" The Knight said. He could imagine a grin on the other side of the helm. "How about making me that custom sword now? The other sword was good, but it's not my size."
This time, his brow really did twitch no matter how much he tried to suppress the action. "And if I said later?"
"I have all day, and tomorrow, and the next day after." The Knight spoke smugly in response. "Watching you just may prove entertaining anyway."
He felt a headache coming from the interaction he was having. The one thing all craftsman hated as a whole were forceful commissioners. The personality of the Knight in front of him was already hard to deal with. Having the Knight stay and watch him work would be a detriment he couldn't afford if he wanted to maintain the quota he needed for his most recent order.
"Look," he said, turning his head to face his newest customer. "You're not my friend, you're not my acquaintance. Think about it clearly. I don't even know you so what makes you think that I should prioritize a sword for you over the others who came first?"
"Is that all it takes?" The Knight said in surprise. Thereafter, the Knight moved to take off her helmet in one motion. Blond hair the colour of wheat fell out in a tangled mess of bangs and unkempt strands followed by teal eyes filled with a radiance and ambition that struck at something from deep within him.
"I'm Mordred, Knight of the Round. And now we're acquaintances," she said with a laugh. "So, about that sword- Hey, are you even listening?"
He froze, rooted in place.
That face.
That expression.
The hammer in his hands dropped, clattering to the ground in a loud bang that toppled the sword he was working on over the anvil.
Mordred rose a brow, but he hardly noticed.
He called her a stranger, someone he couldn't possibly have had known.
Then why was it so familiar?
He stared into her eyes, captivated yet lost, a desire to protect welling up from within him so strongly that it threatened to overwhelm him.
It was a feeling that he just simply could not explain nor ignore,
And before he knew it.
He had stepped right in front of her, head lowering to capture her lips in his with a gentleness that even he did not know he possessed. Stunned as she was with his sudden action, he ended up kissing her again deeply before she reacted and pushed off of him, the taste of wild berries lingering in his mouth.
By the time he regained clarity of his mind, it was to the sight of a flustered Knight with her face so red that it resembled a tomato, her mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. Smug and brash as she had been before, at least he won a victory.
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