Fate-in time

47

The stillness of the air.
T

he rising heat of tension.
And the howling of the wind.
It was a tempest, gales of wandering zephyrs encroaching upon the darkening clouds above. Thunder and lightning, the hands of nature struck down with a fury, basking the violent plains in a torrential shower.
The bringer of storms.
Neither wearing armour nor fanciful dress, merely topless with forge-tempered muscles rippling with each minute movement. A Norse warrior God seemed to descend upon the mortal realm.
Silence descended, accompanied only by the crackle of electricity and a heavy breath.
Death in battle was the road to Valhalla, to the great hall of plentiful ale and mead reserved for the finest of warriors. Therefore, death was no curse but only the beginning, and all Saxons warriors believed in this philosophy.
Which was why it was all too stunning for Palamid and the others to see the Saxons frozen in place. Where were the fierce warriors that sounded the horns of Saxonia? The men and women who spat in the face of defeat and laughed as their souls ventured to the after life?
Mordred for her part sucked in a breath, her gaze riveted not on the Saxons, but on Shirou. Was this really the blacksmith she remembered? Recalling Palamid's previous actions in the army camp, Mordred was no longer sure. Just who was Shirou, really?
Her hands balled into fists, but moments later, she cleared her thoughts. It didn't matter who he was, just that he was someone important to her. The man that reached out to her when no one else did and let herself feel for the first time what it meant to have someone to rely on.
Her self-proclaimed shield.
Amidst the pitter patter of the rain, arcs of electricity steadily made their way up Shirou's arm holding his hammer.
It didn't have a name, but instead it embodied a legend extracted from the belief of the Saxons around. Different from common war hammers whose hilts were extended for two-handed use, Shirou's forging hammer was short in length and meant to be wielded with one hand.
The Mjolnir, the hammer crafted by the dwarves Brokkr and Sindri of Norse mythology was said to carry the defect of a small hilt. Coupled with the fact that each swing of Shirou's hammer sent grown men flying into the distance, each blow drove the Saxons further and further into disbelief. The final turning point was the fact that no Saxon was able to lift the hammer despite their efforts.
A weapon worthy of only the strongest of warriors.
The leveler of mountains and one of the most fearsome weapons of Nordic belief. A holy relic of worship that should not have been in the hands of the enemy.
Many of the Saxons present saw red, their fury mounting and steadily whittling away at their fear and indecision.
"Accursed thief!"
"Give it back!"
"You are not worthy!"
Like a sea of hot-blooded bulls, the Saxons charged all at once. It didn't matter to them if they died or sustained heavy casualties, only the fact that they would die for a just cause on the road to the Great Hall of the Forefather.
Horns blared as even the surviving lieutenants and commanders lost sight of their reason at the emergence of what was akin to a Saxon national treasure appearing in the enemy's hands.
The ground shuddered with the roar of heavy-footed steps, the rough squelching noise of the mud underfoot accompanied by loud war bellows creating an eerie ambiance.
It was a mad dash, weapons held overhead and dead bodies trampled in disregard.
Mordred's breath hitched seeing thousands of men converge on a single location. She wanted to help, to move forward, but the path Shirou had once opened for her had long since vanished like water filling up a crevice.
Her anxiety mounted the moment she realized that Shirou hadn't even taken a single defensive action. "Hurry and move you fool!"
Her scream burst out louder than she had expected, traces of panic, guilt, and urgency in her tone that raised her pitch upwards. It was perhaps the first time she had ever yelled so loudly but she hardly noticed as the pallor of her complexion fell.
Not again. Not again.
The words flashed in Mordred's psyche as the image of her returning to camp alone caused her to purse her lips, a shudder travelling down her body.
The Knight of One.
As Mordred's voice travelled in the wind and the Saxons closed in on Shirou at all sides, it was like something clicked in Shirou's head. What was he, a blacksmith, doing on the battlefield? Memories of his present life came to the forefront of his mind. From his carefree days of forging steel and iron, to the face that changed it all. It wasn't just the sentiments of endearment, fondness, and affections he felt that drove him to make his choice, but because of a simple desire.
To protect.
As a woman in blue had once done for him.
Parts of his skin were charred from the sheer heat of the lightning coursing over him, but it didn't matter.
A Dragon's roar sounded from within him, the magic core that formed at his center igniting into a blazing ethereal inferno of potent magical power.
The lightning writhing around Shirou suddenly condensed at the base of his hammer, forming a pillar that extended towards the heavens.
It wasn't a Noble Phantasm; at most, it was an early emergence of an object that could becomeone from the gathered thoughts and beliefs of the masses, and yet it was enough to overstep the bound of mortals.
Gods were beings born from the thoughts of humans and influenced by the will of the people. The Age of the Gods was on the verge of utter decline, but they lingered still in the pagan beliefs of the masses. Omniscient but each only able to acquire a single personality. At the present moment, divinity was stirred by a catalyst.
A connection formed from a trail of divine sense.
Gods were no longer meant to interfere in the affairs of mortals, their duty to advance civilization relieved from their hands and retiring them to the past. However, exceptions could be made when mortals attempted to imitate that which they are not, stepping into certain bounds and jurisdictions not of their own.
Myth and Legend were simply made of overlapping folklore, and the hammer in Shirou's hands was a Key that tied him to a certain mythos.
The sky darkened, mid-day becoming night as the storm overhead intensified.
None noticed the change, only Shirou himself could feel it.
A type of conscience making contact with him.
Mortal, do you have the right to wield mine 'Authority?' The voice was weak, but held a boundless depth. The Authority of Gods that allowed for world construction, making things happen because one has the right.
Shirou couldn't even answer as a flood of foreign energy suffused his body. Instead, his actions spoke for him, his gaze unwavering with a single-minded determination. It almost seemed as if he wasn't human and when the divine sense looked deeper into the psyche of the human before it. What it saw, was Fire and Steel. An armory filled with armaments of war.
Finally, when the foreign energy within Shirou was threatening to burst him apart, a voice resounded once more.
It is permitted just this once.
All the foreign power that Shirou had been enduring within his body suddenly shifted into the hammer in his hands.
A deathly silence emerged despite the charging Saxons.
It was as if time had drawn to a still, the droplets all around appearing motionless in the downpour.
Come Wind.
A burst of air shot outwards with Shirou's hammer at the epicenter.
Bodies flew through the air, many Saxons flailing as they plummeted back to the ground.
Come Rain.
A mist like shroud of water began to exude, forming miniature clouds over the hammer's surface. Bright tendrils of electricity crackling amidst the vapour, causing the surrounding Saxons skins to crawl.
Mighty Mjolnir, let loose the storms, the battle cry of Valhalla!
Lightning struck from the heavens as thunder roared with the furor of an enraged beast.
Shirou's head snapped upwards, his arms already a blur.
Like forging steel upon a forge, the hammer fell in a practiced motion.
Combining strength and fluidity. Draconic might with divine providence. Myth and Legend.
This single strike- Was of the Heavens.
It smashed into the ground with the clang of a meteor.
The earth ruptured, cracking before breaking into segments of upturned gravel and dirt. In the bellowing din, arc lights exploded into writhing chains of electricity, sparking as they came in contact with water.
They spread uncontrollably, the damp environment and the metal armours worn conducting exceedingly well and effecting hundreds at a time. The Saxons nearby convulsed, collapsing to the ground as their bodies twitched, froth forming over their mouths as the rest watched on in horrid silence.
Phantom images of charging bucks emerged from the destruction, their horns raised to ram across any obstacles, belated bleating noises echoing through the air.
Goats of blue lightning, the spirit beast of Thor, God of Thunder.
In a single attack, over half of the Saxon army was defeated, none knowing if they were dead or alive.
His chest heaving, Shirou panted for breath.
Using the hammer in his hands was exceedingly draining. It wasn't a full-fledged Noble Phantasm, but an object imbued with divinity. The energies were too different to handle and Shirou didn't possess Divine blood in his body. All he had was the durability of a Dragon which was quickly growing exhausted as the magic core within him dimmed. Patches of red formed on his body, the blood vessels beneath his skin rupturing from the exertion.
But no matter how exhausted Shirou became, he couldn't stop now.
He could retreat, to rally back with Mordred and Palamid, but it wouldn't stop the course of the battle.
Palamid would still have to shoulder the lives of those under him.
Mordred would still be sent out to fight.
Their lives would remain in danger, and Shirou didn't want to take that risk.
He didn't want to participate in the war any longer. What he wanted was to end it.
Strength converging to his hands he tossed his hammer outwards as his bones groaned in protest.
A streak of blinding light traversed the scorched plains, smashing into the fortified gate of the Saxon fort and obliterating it in a deafening bang. When finally the light died, it was to the sight of a hammer lodged firmly into the ruins, tendrils of lightning running across its surface. All around the hammer was a massive crater filled with several hundred motionless bodies stationed near the area.
With the deaths of over half of the Saxon forces, the power of belief surrounding Shirou's hammer faltered. Gradually, the temporary divinity imbued in the hammer dissipated until it was the same as it had been before: An exceedingly heavy and dense hammer.
Left weaponless, the remaining Saxons didn't approach Shirou. Instead, as they looked across at his bloodied and haggard form, they couldn't muster the ability to retaliate.
How could they?
What they saw was a proud warrior that if on the Saxon's side would have been hailed as the incarnation of one of their Gods of War.
Killing an unarmed warrior was not the path to Valhalla, but the road to Helheim. It was a dishonour.
Not only that, but the nearest Saxons had already lost the will to fight.
Gasping for breath, Shirou staggered as he walked. It was the first time he could ever recall feeling so injured in his life as a blacksmith, but he welcomed the pain so long as it meant the woman before him could remain safe.
He trudged forward as Palmid continued routing the Saxons at the west front.
Shirou's feet dragged behind him until he reached the frozen figure of the person he wanted to presently protect the most.
Mordred.
She stood in a daze, staring at him and his current state with mixed emotions. The grip she had on her sword was weak, and she seemed to be wavering on what to do. To Shirou however, the answer was simple.
As Mordred opened her mouth to speak, Shirou simply shook his head.
It was better for Mordred not to dwell on his current state, but to act as herself. The brash Knight who decided to camp directly outside of a smithy. One with the dream to one day be acknowledged.
"Let's go," he reached his hand forward and pulled Mordred along towards the direction of the ruined fort, his sentiments conveyed by his actions.
It nearly overwhelmed Mordred who was neither used to interacting with others nor sorting the emotions in her mind. Only that the feeling was somehow comforting.
None of the Saxons barred Shirou or Mordred's path. Instead, as if they had legs of jelly, they crumpled to the ground, the traces of lightning in the area sapping away at their strength.
Reaching the gate of the fort, Shirou paused before slowly picking up his hammer that cratered the ground. The expressions of the remaining Saxons within the fort who hadn't yet given up instantly paled.
Shirou however didn't pay them any attention.
He turned towards Mordred at his side, his expression exhausted but his eyes determined. Unfortunately, he didn't realize what sort of effect it would have.
Staring at Shirou up close, Mordred noticed just how drained he appeared. His eyes were somewhat sunken in, his steps were unsteady, and parts of his lips were turning blue. As Mordred took note of everything, she realized that she couldn't take it anymore.
"Let's go back," she said softly, placing a hand in front of Shirou to stop him. "Palamid and the others should be enough to raid the fort. You've done enough."
Hearing Mordred's words, Shirou was caught off guard for a moment before chuckling, much to Mordred's ire and concern. She bit down on her lips and quelled the urge to knock Shirou out and forcibly take him away.
"As bad as I look now, I can still hold on," Shirou insisted, an earnest expression on his face. "You have a dream Mordred, and you will always have my support. Besides, there's an even larger merit waiting for you ahead. It would be a shame for someone else to take it away."
Saying that, Shirou shrugged passed Mordred and continued forward, not knowing the impact his words had on her.
Staring at Shirou's back, Mordred pressed a hand lightly to her chest before swallowing. When had she ever met someone who would do so much for her? She made a silent oath at that moment.
A Knight's vow.
Shirou's enemies were her enemies, and if anyone dared to harm him in her presence, then she would clobber them to the brink of death. And if anyone dared kill him, then they would face the entirety of her wrath to the ends of the world.
She swore it.
Alger slammed his fists down over the table of the strategic meeting room set up near the high-wall of the fort now left in shambles. The table shattered into splinters beneath his blow.
"This isn't possible!"
His below was so infuriated that the attendants nearby visibly recoiled, but their reactions weren't without reason.
Morale was dropping fast. Loud bangs were continuously echoing within the air, and the entire fort was compromised. It wouldn't be long before the enemy leader Palamid stormed through the wreckage of the fort's front gate.
The situation was bleak no matter how one looked at it, and it was even more unbearable for Alger when he considered his earlier position of power. The entire reversal of the battlefield was too much for any commander to stomach let alone Alger who commanded a force four times the size of Palamids. With roughly half of his forces either dead or incapacitated, it was impossible for Alger to remain calm.
Of the sixteen-thousand warriors he had initially, roughly eight-thousand remained. Alger still possessed the advantage of numbers, Palamid's army consisting of four-thousand, but what did it matter with the sheer power of the Mjolnir in the enemy's hands!
"Go, hurry!" Alger urged one of the messengers nearby. "The situation here may be lost entirely. Send word to the rest of West Saxons. The Mjolnir has been found and it's in the accursed possession of the enemy!"
The messenger nodded at Alger's words, her countenances becoming exceedingly solemn. The matter of the Mjolnir wasn't to be taken lightly and it could perhaps blow up to the point of declaring a holy war to reclaim the weapon of the Saxon God. Moreover, should the Saxons re-acquire it and a worthy Saxon warrior is able to wield it, what did it matter if King Arthur had a legendary sword in hand? The Mjolnir could fell the very mountains with a simple swing as depicted in the legends.
It was imperative that Alger disseminate this piece of news with all due haste.
"May Goddess Freya grant her blessing and be with you. Go, ride like the wind!" Alger shouted while drawing his spear from a shelf behind him. "I will hold the fort and prevent any from reaching you."
The messenger nodded her head once more before mounting her horse and kicking with her heels to urge her steed forward. She pulled up the hood of her cloak and swiftly rode in the direction of the fort's south exit as Alger began reorganizing his remaining forces.
Many of the remaining Saxons were in disarray, but with Alger's charisma and battle records, he should be able to beat them back into order given enough time.
The first thing Alger did after sending out the messenger was ordering his remaining commanders to settle the disorder occurring in multiple areas in the fort. Alger himself was getting ready to leave while continuously shouting commands into the sky.
"Break the tables, chairs, and doors! Use them to cover the breach!"
Alger's voice resounded, setting the Saxons into motion. However, it was impossible to fill the damage Shirou had don with his hammer with the few items the Saxons had on hand. The hammer had literally cratered the ground and obliterated the fort's gate. As a result, rather than covering the breach, the Saxons could only settle with piling their tables and chairs to make a temporary wall. Even then, Palamid was leading the army to attack.
"Wretched filth," Alger didn't even put Palamid and the others into his eyes. They simply weren't the problem.
Where is he?
Alger's eyes darted back and forth, looking for the man who ruined everything. Finding nothing, Alger jumped nearly six-feet into the air to get a better vantage point atop a destroyed structure.
Different from humans in the twentieth century, the humans of the past were closer entuned with magic and possessed superior physical capabilities. It was because of these qualities that the best of these past humans were labeled as heroes and glorified in legend.
Alger was already a hero of his people, possessing a strength that couldn't be scoffed at lightly. He was the pillar holding the last bits of morale the Saxons had left.
As Alger surveyed the battlefield and noticed Palamid actually gaining ground, Alger decided that he couldn't remain still any longer. Although he had yet to find his target, he would personally go to command.
Taking a step forward, he suddenly stilled as a silhouette appeared just off the edge of his vision. He was currently on an open area of grass within the fort, and near him, the silhouette drew closer.
Alger turned his head sharply and sucked in a breath.
"Sorry, but you're not going anywhere," Shirou spoke flatly. Tired and bloody, his current state didn't inspire much confidence, but seeing the hammer in his hands, a wave of terror enveloped Algar's mind.
T-The Mjolnir.
Its handle was short, and the head of the hammer was a thick block of silver metal resembling a mallet. It looked plain in all senses of the word, but it was anything but in Alger's eyes.
Held loosely in Shirou's hands, Alger finally took the time to assess Shirou's condition.
Shirou was basically wobbling on his feet, looking like he was seconds away from collapsing. Alger's confidence rose and he could literally feel the beating of his heart threatening to burst out of his chest as he readied his spear. I-If he managed to kill Shirou and return the Mjolnir to its rightful place, his name would resound throughout all of Saxonia.
Unfortunately, things were going to turn out differently from what Alger expected.
Shirou staggered backward, falling to a knee before entering into a fit of coughs.
It was then that Alger noticed the trail of motionless bodies left in Shirou's wake. A path created through brute force alone. It was clear that Shirou had long since over-exerted himself.
Alger was almost unable to contain the glee in his eyes. Without Shirou, Alger was certain that he could salvage the situation.
"You buffoon, you walked into your own death!" Alger immediately charged forward, his spear overbearingly thrusting forward.
As the spear drew close, Shirou didn't so much as blink as the edges of his lips curved up into a faint smile. "Is it really me that you should be concerning yourself with?"
Shirou's words threw Alger into a loop, but it wasn't long before he understood as a sword forcibly altered the trajectory of his spear.
"Touch him, and you die," the voice was accompanied by a cold fury.
Alger was forced to back off as Mordred came within view and gave chase.
Alger slid a hand down the shaft of his spear and rotated his spear in a semi-circle to ward away the incoming strikes.
It was part of a set of techniques he had honed since his youth.
Alger's spearmanship.
Lashing outwards, one spear seemed to become two then four as Alger's attacks blurred.
Mordred pursed her lips and retaliated. Her exhaustion from constantly fighting on the battlefield up to the current point caused her muscles to protest with every movement. However, she was too infuriated to care.
If she had been too late to interfere, then Alger's spear would have had struck Shirou. Although Mordred didn't know the extent of Shirou's durability, a pit formed in her stomach when she considered what could have happened and it enraged her.
Her attacks were almost relentless with even the briefest of pauses between swings supplemented by brute force kicks.
Alger winced as Mordred connected a strong kick to his stomach before he hastily blocked the incoming sword strike with his spear.
What kind of Knight was he currently facing?
It was if Alger was fighting not against a human but a rabid animal. It was truthfully beginning to wear on him.
"Fuck off!" Alger flourished his spear and forced Mordred off of him, keeping her at a distance with his spear's point.
Mordred's breathing was haggard, but the fury in her eyes had yet to subside. She was currently sneering at Alger from beneath her helm, yet she could feel that her strength was dwindling.
Her movements felt sluggish and her head was feeling light as her blood pumped madly within her.
She was tired, and Alger knew it through his experience.
"This all ends here!"
Alger took a stance, both his hands clasped near the base of his spear as he bent his knees for a charge.
Mordred held fast to her sword in a two-handed grip and attempted to strike first. However, the main difference between swords and spears was reach. By the time a swordsman could close in and reach optimal range, a spearman could have had already attacked numerous times. Alger was no exception now that he had forced Mordred a distance away from him.
Mordred's only defense was to block with her sword, but she had already committed to her swing, making it difficult to switch trajectory.
In the previous analogy of sword and spear, there was still one other analogy that tipped the balance between weapons.
A Shield.
A blurred figure suddenly appeared in Alger's peripherals before directly entering the trajectory of his spear.
Both Mordred and Alger's eyes widened as spear met flesh. Mordred was momentarily horrified, her eyes going bloodshot with worry but unable to do anything.
The strength of Alger's spear dug into Shirou's skin and seemed moments away from piercing through before the entire shaft split at the middle.
It was then that Alger knew that he had erred.
Fuck.
Alger cursed, but Mordred wouldn't waste the opportunity.
"TAKE THIS YOU FIEND!"
Mordred stabbed her sword directly through Alger's chest, shoving it in and twisting. Blood gurgled up to Alger's mouth before he spat it out in thick globs over the grass beneath. Alger's body twitched before falling to the ground as Mordred pulled her sword back and the life left Alger's body.
Far from celebrating the victory, Mordred fretted over the state of her companion. She pushed Alger's body away before hastily making a beeline to where Alger's attack had sent Shirou tumbling through the air.
Shirou was sprawled on the ground, and it was only when Mordred noticed the up and down motion of his chest that her tension slowly left her.
"That was reckless you idiot," she rebuked, dropping down to a knee and propping Shirou up.
"We won," was Shirou's only response.
He turned his head to stare at the group of Saxons that had come too late to aid Alger and watched as they lost all morale. With Alger's death, there was no longer a pillar for any of the remaining Saxons to lean on and through Palamid's leadership, more and more Saxons were getting defeated.
So what if they currently won. Mordred didn't presently care about it too much.
"Shut up and rest already, you're injured," she placed her arms under his shoulder and hoisted Shirou up with a small groan. "I'll take you back to camp to get treated."
Standing up, Mordred and Shirou presented a peculiar scene. Shirou was almost an entire head taller than Mordred and for her to support him with her stature was somewhat hard to imagine. She did so anyway, slinging Shirou's arm around her neck and using her back to carry most of the weight.
The tips of Shirou's feet naturally dragged on the ground, causing him to smile wryly.
"Does it matter if we go back to camp now? I still need to be punished for breaking military protocol, don't I? I should at least look the part." Shirou spoke with mirth, but Mordred wasn't laughing.
She glared.
"Just shut up already. I'm the one that gets to decide the penalty so you have to do as I say. Do you hear me?"
Silence.
Shirou didn't answer. Frowning in concern, Mordred glanced beside her to stare at Shirou only to find his eyes peacefully closed and head bobbing.
"Shirou?" She tried calling out again. No answer.
He seemed to have passed out.
Well at least it made things easier on her.
As Mordred continued along, her gaze remained trained on Shirou. From his injuries to his exhaustion, he had worked so hard for her. He didn't have to push himself to seek Alger out and give her the chance to earn her merits, but he did so anyway. And at what cost?
Shirou's current state was evident enough.
Mordred looked left and right, before an exceedingly tender expression made its way onto her face. One that was both grateful and filled with inexplicable emotion.
Slowly, she freed one of her hands and flipped open her visor, turning her face to stare directly at Shirou before leaning her head closer in.
She kissed him softly on the forehead. A quick peck that didn't last more than a second, but it had her blood pumping furiously within her, the tips of her cheeks tinged red.
"That should be enough to count as your punishment," she whispered lightly as if trying to convince herself that her actions had no other meaning. "It's to your misfortune to have persisted with me this far and to be associated with me."
She fell quiet, her bangs shadowing her eyes. "I mean really, I can't understand you," she muttered. "What do you possibly see in me?"
She was a Knight of the Round only in name. Moreover, her reputation was notoriously bad among the other Knights. Therefore, what was good about her? The only thing she had was her persistence and personal motivations.
As Mordred was brooding on the matter, she failed to notice one of Shirou's fingers twitch.
Shirou gradually cracked open a heavy eyelid, the sudden development stunning Mordred into a fluster.
"Was that supposed to be my punishment?" he said wearily before grinning. "Then I guess I'll have to step out of line a few hundred more times."
"..."
"..."
Mordred had nothing she could say to hide her embarrassment, Shirou's words replaying endlessly in her mind. What did he mean a few hundred more times? A-A-As if she would even do such a thing again!
She had only kissed his forehead in the heat of the moment. She hadn't even been thinking, caught up both in her joy of victory and in the fact that Shirou was alive.
What she did, i-it didn't count for anything! But more than that, did he hear her mutterings?
She didn't dare ask.
"A shield shouldn't talk," she said gruffly, the tips of her ears growing red. She could only hope that Shirou wouldn't notice.
She redoubled her efforts to make it back to camp while supporting Shirou, too embarrassed to glance at him.
It was only after ten minutes did she finally compose herself enough to look at him again, and when she did, her expression quickly eased.
After his initial outburst, Shirou had long since passed out again. His head dangled by Mordred's side before she readjusted and allowed his chin to rest over her shoulder.
Mordred's lips curled upwards.
Rest well you stupid fool.
With Alger defeated and the remaining Saxons in disarray, it wasn't long before Palamid and the army seized the fort.
The captured Saxons that surrendered were delegated to Marcus to deal with, but it was unlikely that they would be kept as war prisoners. There were too many mouths to feed and Palamid couldn't just let the Saxons go either. As such, there was only a single option left and Marcus the one to follow through with it.
The pungent scent of iron would waft through the wind for several days to come, but it wouldn't dampen the army's current mood.
With the contributions both Mordred and Shirou had played in the battle, they were praised by all, yet Mordred oddly chased away everyone that came to congratulate them. It was only the Knights assigned under Mordred that knew that the reason was because she wanted to give Shirou a genuine break. She literally stood arms-crossed directly outside of the tent Shirou was resting in and glared at anyone who dared approach lightly. It brought no small amount of amusement to those in the know, but that was before Mordred grew irritable and gave them all black eyes.
Reading through the numerous reports piling up in front of him, Palamid couldn't help but smile. Everyone had earned a temporary respite and he had no intention of stopping the waves of celebration currently working its way through the army.
He himself was no exception to the sheer jubilation spreading in the air.
Unfortunately, all good things eventually come to an end.
"C-Captain it's urgent!" Marcus ran towards Palamid's tent looking frantic. There was an opened letter in his hands and whatever the letter said caused Marcus to constantly tremble in agitation.
Palamid frowned before extending his hand out in front of him. "Give it here," he beckoned.
Markus didn't hesitate in the slightest and immediately offered the parchment for Palamid to read.
The longer Palamid read, the more colour left his face. The hands he was using to hold the letter were soon threatening to tear it apart.
Sir Kay had been captured?
The King recklessly in pursuit with the allied army before getting trapped and besieged in the middle of Saxon territory?
Palamid's countenance darkened. He could well imagine the King's reaction.
If Shirou's death had left the King mentally scarred, then it was entirely possible that Kay's capture could lead the King to irrationality. The King had already lost someone exceedingly close once, it was probably impossible to ask that the King bear with the loss of another.
Regardless of numerous warnings, the King had ignored everything and devoted all resources to Kay's rescue, leading to the current disadvantaged situation.
"Damn it," Palamid cleared the items cluttering his desk with a sweep of his arm.
Marcus watched quietly before deciding that it was best to leave and give Palamid some time to think on his own.
Left alone, Palamid began to brood after forcibly calming himself down. He had to reinforce the King somehow but he couldn't set out with his current army. It was impossible for him to leave the West Saxons border undefended. Therefore, he could only leave with a small group of a couple-hundred at most to aid the King.
Yet what could he do with such a small number of personnel?
The scenario he was facing was impossible to surmount from every angle he could think of. Pacing, Palamid's feet eventually led him outside his commander's tent to peer out across the rest of the army still in celebration. His eyes naturally wandered to the odd sight of a hundred or so Knights with black eyes stationed in the distance. All of them were near a particular and unassuming tent, but the sight of the tent gave Palamid inspiration.
That's right. The man of Miracles was currently residing in his very own army.
Palamid began reconsidering everything.
As Shirou had been resting ever since returning to camp, Palamid had not yet had the chance to congratulate his old friend directly. Moreover, with Mordred barring anyone from seeing Shirou, there was nothing Palamid could actually do but wait.
Returning to his tent, Palamid began to draft out a plan.
Even with Shirou, a few hundred individuals would do little to affect the King's situation. As such, he had to gather more men and form a proper army legion. An elite unit that could pierce its way through enemy lines to directly reach the stronghold the King had barricaded the allied army in.
Such a task wasn't going to be easy, but Palamid had something that no one else in Britain had. A chance to recreate the strongest unit King Arthur had ever employed on the battlefield.
The Unit of the Wolf.
Formerly led by Sir Anders and the other Knights of Wolfred, the unit had garnered too much renown against the Saxons and were heavily targeted at every battle. Despite the defense of their armours and the sharpness of their weapons, over the years their numbers had been effectively reduced. All that was left was a paltry amount with Palamid included. What was worse was the inability for the Wolf unit to make up for its losses as no smithy could recreate the magic enhanced armours and weapons of the past.
Although the Wolf Unit still existed, it did so in separation. Palamid was one such example. With their numbers reduced so heavily, Palamid and the others had no choice but to make better use of their skills elsewhere.
Bors had officially joined the Knights of the Round while Palamid found it more prudent to lead at the front-lines. Sir Anders, blaming himself for the loss of his brothers-in-arms retired into hiding which weighed heavily on Palamid's mind. Sir Anders and Palamid shared a teacher and student relationship and it was even Sir Anders that had once put an end to Palamid's arrogance. Just thinking that his teacher was somewhere blaming himself for something that wasn't his fault caused Palamid to worry ceaselessly.
Regardless, what mattered presently was the formation of a New Wolf unit. Palamid was convinced that when words eventually got out, Sir Anders wouldn't be able to sit still any longer.
Palamid was determined to rebuild the unit, and with Shirou's help it wasn't an impossibility.
But first thing's first.
He'd have to gather a new army.
When Shirou first woke up from his rest, it was to the sound of hurried packing all around him. Word through the camp was that Palamid had called upon a small group of elite Knights to gather for an urgent assignment. Naturally, Mordred was called upon to go, but she had been refusing to leave until Shirou woke up.
It just so happened that the moment Shirou opened his eyes and groggily sat up, Mordred peeked her head in through the flaps of the tent Shirou was in.
"You're awake," she nodded at his direction before completely stepping into the tent. She was dressed lightly in soft red fabrics with her helmet placed off to the side. Currently, she seemed to be busying herself by fumbling with things in the room, but it wasn't difficult for him to notice the way she was constantly glancing at him.
"So," she tried to act nonchalant but failed when hints of concerns flashed across her eyes. "How are you feeling?"
Her concern was enough to lift Shirou's mood.
"Stiff," was his immediate reply, stretching his arms up into a stretch. "But I should be fine."
Saying that, Shirou began looking around him, his gaze falling over his hammer which was kept adorned to the side and oddly bound by a chain.
Noticing the direction of his stare, Mordred smiled wryly.
"It was a precaution," she explained. "The captured Saxons were going crazy saying that it was sacrilegious for it to remain in your possession. Of course, their opinions don't matter as much as making sure that no one stole it."
Mordred shrugged before making her way to the hammer and trying to lift it. Her face turned red form the exertion and she soon gave up. "Not like any thief could lift this shitty thing anyway. The chains are pretty much just for display."
Shirou's brows twitched. It was likely impossible for him to explain to anyone that his hammer really was just an ordinary forging tool made a little differently from the rest. Even Mordred looked skeptically at him when he brought the matter up.
Shirou sighed, before standing up and getting dressed. Even from where he was inside the tent, it was possible for him to hear the shouts of Knights calling out to him and Mordred to assemble at Palamid's prompting.
"How long did you keep them waiting?" Shirou asked as he adjusted his clothing. The voices outside were growing impatient.
Mordred scoffed. "Give or take an hour," she said.
Shirou didn't bother replying at this point. Finishing his preparations, Shirou was the first to step out.
It was the first time the Knights in the camp had seen him awake since Mordred had dragged his unconscious body at the end of the battle earlier to a resting tent. They cheered loudly as soon as they saw him and all Shirou could do was blink in response.
Why did they all have black eyes?
The question lingered in Shirou's mind but he thought better of asking. It was then that Mordred stepped out of the tent with her helmet over her head. Almost immediately she was met with silence.
She frowned. "What the hell do you all want? I'm already on my way to the summons," she said irritably.
Despite hearing Mordred's words, none of the black-eyed Knights gave a response, but rather they circled closer to Mordred.
As Shirou took a closer look at the Knights present, he realized that they were all the Knights that had once been assigned under Mordred's command. He could even spot a few that he had carried armours for.
Recalling how she abandoned the Knights under her in the middle of the earlier battle, Mordred became guarded. "Got a problem with me?" She leered.
The Knights looked at each other in mirth before bursting out into laughter, taking Mordred by surprise when a few of them clapped her on the back.
"Nothing of the sort," they said in good nature. "Rather, we've all decided on something after witnessing first-hand the type of person you are."
One by one, the black-Eyed Knights took to a knee, their arms held against their chests.
"Mordred, Knight of One, we pledge our loyalty to serve under you," the Knights bowed their heads. "Please accept our oaths."
The sound of armours clinking resounded for all to hear as over a hundred Kngihts formerly bowed for Mordred's recognition.
Mordred for her part was stunned. From a Knight that was shunned by all, to a Knight that suddenly had hundreds of people willing to follow her, it was too much of a change for her to react.
More than that, she had to use all of her self-control to restrain the feelings threatening to gush from out of her chest.
Watching Mordred hesitate, Shirou cleared his throat before he nudged her with his elbow and nodded at her. To be a renowned Knight, the first thing all Knights needed was respect, and Mordred had already earned the respect of the Knights around her.
The current results were the fruits of her labour.
"Go on," he whispered into her ear. "You shouldn't keep them waiting for too long or others will start to notice."
"Ah, uhm, yes, yeah that's right," Mordred fumbled with her words, trying her best to maintain her bearing but failing miserably. "Hurry and stand up all of you. D-Don't even think that any of this makes me happy!"
Roars of laughter were Mordred's only response and by then she had somehow ended up behind Shirou's tall body. And NO. She was not hiding out of embarrassment. Feeling Shirou's stare on her, Mordred hastily retreated to the gathering location specified by Palamid while Shirou followed along.
Unfortunately, as the black-eyed Knights had given their loyalty to Mordred, it was their duty to follow her into battle. Therefore, no matter what Mordred did, there was no getting away from their mirth-filled gazes. The constant attention caused Mordred to feel so self-conscious that it almost drove her to the point of giving the Knights a second black eye.
If not for Shirou shaking his head at the black-eyed Knights to reel back their amusement, then it was quite likely that Mordred would have already started a brawl.
Luckily, it was then that Palamid cleared his throat and demanded silence.
Looking around the area, there were around five-hundred men, a full eighth of the total number of Palamid's army. All present could be considered as elites and it didn't take long for Mordred to realise this.
She immediately put on a serious demeanor and waited for Palamid to explain the reason for his summons.
"I know that this may come out as a shock for many of you, but the King has fallen under siege."
Palamid's words were like an explosion that killed all the excitement everyone had about their recent victory. Mordred in particular instantly bristled.
"W-What the hell do you think you're saying!? The King under siege? That's not possible!" Mordred was quick to deny everything.
The King she knew and respected wasn't as rash as herself. There was no way the King could be foolish enough to get himself cornered by the enemies.
Mordred's opinion was shared by many of those present, but one sentence shut everyone up.
"Sir Kay was captured."
Palamid didn't have to explain anything further. Everyone trusted the intelligence of the King, but they also understood how the King treated his closest followers. Immediately following the death of Lord Ashton, the King had recklessly charged into Saxon lines again and again without restraint, putting his life constantly in danger. It was if the King were drowning his sorrows away through the clamor of steel and the pungent scent of iron.
There was once a time where Merlin had no choice but to restrain the King and have Sir Ector give a firm lecturing until the King's suicidal actions finally subsided. If the King would act so recklessly at Lord Ashton's death, then it wasn't hard to imagine the King's reaction to Sir Kay's capture.
"Do you all finally understand?" Palamid said flatly. "What I have gathered all of you here for is to form a new army to aid the King. Time is urgent so pack your things and get ready to march."
As Palamid was talking, it wasn't difficult to see the way his eyes were trained on Shirou. Shirou was Palamid's hope, and memories or not, with Shirou, Palamid could have confidence.
Palamid shifted his attention away and waited for everyone to pack their things and gather once more.
In the meantime, a flood of emotions caused Palamid to sigh as he thought of the first destination he was planning on bringing everyone.
A place of fond memories and bitter experiences. The only place where the chance existed for Palamid to recruit old soldiers and friends before marching to the King's aid.
Bristol, the town where it all began.
Thanks for Reading! And thanks to my newest patrons: Awareness bringer, Nat U, Benjamin N, Jacob F, and Drake
Note: And now starts the coming Reunion Arc
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